{"bid": "28054", "title": "The Brothers Karamazov", "text": "PART I Book I. The History Of A Family Chapter I. Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov\n\n\nAlexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch\nKaramazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and\nstill remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which\nhappened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper\nplace. For the present I will only say that this \"landowner\"--for so we\nused to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own\nestate--was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a\ntype abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of\nthose senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after their\nworldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Fyodor Pavlovitch,\nfor instance, began with next to nothing; his estate was of the smallest;\nhe ran to dine at other men's tables, and fastened on them as a toady, yet\nat his death it appeared that he had a hundred thousand roubles in hard\ncash. At the same time, he was all his life one of the most senseless,\nfantastical fellows in the whole district. I repeat, it was not\nstupidity--the majority of these fantastical fellows are shrewd and\nintelligent enough--but just senselessness, and a peculiar national form of\nit.\n\nHe was married twice, and had three sons, the eldest, Dmitri, by his first\nwife, and two, Ivan and Alexey, by his second. Fyodor Pavlovitch's first\nwife, Adelaida Ivanovna, belonged to a fairly rich and distinguished noble\nfamily, also landowners in our district, the Miuesovs. How it came to pass\nthat an heiress, who was also a beauty, and moreover one of those\nvigorous, intelligent girls, so common in this generation, but sometimes\nalso to be found in the last, could have married such a worthless, puny\nweakling, as we all called him, I won't attempt to explain. I knew a young\nlady of the last \"romantic\" generation who after some years of an\nenigmatic passion for a gentleman, whom she might quite easily have\nmarried at any moment, invented insuperable obstacles to their union, and\nended by throwing herself one stormy night into a rather deep and rapid\nriver from a high bank, almost a precipice, and so perished, entirely to\nsatisfy her own caprice, and to be like Shakespeare's Ophelia. Indeed, if\nthis precipice, a chosen and favorite spot of hers, had been less\npicturesque, if there had been a prosaic flat bank in its place, most\nlikely the suicide would never have taken place. This is a fact, and\nprobably there have been not a few similar instances in the last two or\nthree generations. Adelaida Ivanovna Miuesov's action was similarly, no\ndoubt, an echo of other people's ideas, and was due to the irritation\ncaused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her\nfeminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism of\nher family. And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must suppose, for\na brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his parasitic\nposition, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that progressive\nepoch, though he was, in fact, an ill-natured buffoon and nothing more.\nWhat gave the marriage piquancy was that it was preceded by an elopement,\nand this greatly captivated Adelaida Ivanovna's fancy. Fyodor Pavlovitch's\nposition at the time made him specially eager for any such enterprise, for\nhe was passionately anxious to make a career in one way or another. To\nattach himself to a good family and obtain a dowry was an alluring\nprospect. As for mutual love it did not exist apparently, either in the\nbride or in him, in spite of Adelaida Ivanovna's beauty. This was,\nperhaps, a unique case of the kind in the life of Fyodor Pavlovitch, who\nwas always of a voluptuous temper, and ready to run after any petticoat on\nthe slightest encouragement. She seems to have been the only woman who\nmade no particular appeal to his senses.\n\nImmediately after the elopement Adelaida Ivanovna discerned in a flash\nthat she had no feeling for her husband but contempt. The marriage\naccordingly showed itself in its true colors with extraordinary rapidity.\nAlthough the family accepted the event pretty quickly and apportioned the\nrunaway bride her dowry, the husband and wife began to lead a most\ndisorderly life, and there were everlasting scenes between them. It was\nsaid that the young wife showed incomparably more generosity and dignity\nthan Fyodor Pavlovitch, who, as is now known, got hold of all her money up\nto twenty-five thousand roubles as soon as she received it, so that those\nthousands were lost to her for ever. The little village and the rather\nfine town house which formed part of her dowry he did his utmost for a\nlong time to transfer to his name, by means of some deed of conveyance. He\nwould probably have succeeded, merely from her moral fatigue and desire to\nget rid of him, and from the contempt and loathing he aroused by his\npersistent and shameless importunity. But, fortunately, Adelaida\nIvanovna's family intervened and circumvented his greediness. It is known\nfor a fact that frequent fights took place between the husband and wife,\nbut rumor had it that Fyodor Pavlovitch did not beat his wife but was\nbeaten by her, for she was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-browed, impatient\nwoman, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the\nhouse and ran away from Fyodor Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity\nstudent, leaving Mitya, a child of three years old, in her husband's\nhands. Immediately Fyodor Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the\nhouse, and abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals he\nused to drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all\nof Adelaida Ivanovna's having left him, going into details too disgraceful\nfor a husband to mention in regard to his own married life. What seemed to\ngratify him and flatter his self-love most was to play the ridiculous part\nof the injured husband, and to parade his woes with embellishments.\n\n\"One would think that you'd got a promotion, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you seem\nso pleased in spite of your sorrow,\" scoffers said to him. Many even added\nthat he was glad of a new comic part in which to play the buffoon, and\nthat it was simply to make it funnier that he pretended to be unaware of\nhis ludicrous position. But, who knows, it may have been simplicity. At\nlast he succeeded in getting on the track of his runaway wife. The poor\nwoman turned out to be in Petersburg, where she had gone with her divinity\nstudent, and where she had thrown herself into a life of complete\nemancipation. Fyodor Pavlovitch at once began bustling about, making\npreparations to go to Petersburg, with what object he could not himself\nhave said. He would perhaps have really gone; but having determined to do\nso he felt at once entitled to fortify himself for the journey by another\nbout of reckless drinking. And just at that time his wife's family\nreceived the news of her death in Petersburg. She had died quite suddenly\nin a garret, according to one story, of typhus, or as another version had\nit, of starvation. Fyodor Pavlovitch was drunk when he heard of his wife's\ndeath, and the story is that he ran out into the street and began shouting\nwith joy, raising his hands to Heaven: \"Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant\ndepart in peace,\" but others say he wept without restraint like a little\nchild, so much so that people were sorry for him, in spite of the\nrepulsion he inspired. It is quite possible that both versions were true,\nthat he rejoiced at his release, and at the same time wept for her who\nreleased him. As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more\nnaive and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. He Gets Rid Of His Eldest Son\n\n\nYou can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he would\nbring up his children. His behavior as a father was exactly what might be\nexpected. He completely abandoned the child of his marriage with Adelaida\nIvanovna, not from malice, nor because of his matrimonial grievances, but\nsimply because he forgot him. While he was wearying every one with his\ntears and complaints, and turning his house into a sink of debauchery, a\nfaithful servant of the family, Grigory, took the three-year-old Mitya\ninto his care. If he hadn't looked after him there would have been no one\neven to change the baby's little shirt.\n\nIt happened moreover that the child's relations on his mother's side\nforgot him too at first. His grandfather was no longer living, his widow,\nMitya's grandmother, had moved to Moscow, and was seriously ill, while his\ndaughters were married, so that Mitya remained for almost a whole year in\nold Grigory's charge and lived with him in the servant's cottage. But if\nhis father had remembered him (he could not, indeed, have been altogether\nunaware of his existence) he would have sent him back to the cottage, as\nthe child would only have been in the way of his debaucheries. But a\ncousin of Mitya's mother, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, happened to return\nfrom Paris. He lived for many years afterwards abroad, but was at that\ntime quite a young man, and distinguished among the Miuesovs as a man of\nenlightened ideas and of European culture, who had been in the capitals\nand abroad. Towards the end of his life he became a Liberal of the type\ncommon in the forties and fifties. In the course of his career he had come\ninto contact with many of the most Liberal men of his epoch, both in\nRussia and abroad. He had known Proudhon and Bakunin personally, and in\nhis declining years was very fond of describing the three days of the\nParis Revolution of February 1848, hinting that he himself had almost\ntaken part in the fighting on the barricades. This was one of the most\ngrateful recollections of his youth. He had an independent property of\nabout a thousand souls, to reckon in the old style. His splendid estate\nlay on the outskirts of our little town and bordered on the lands of our\nfamous monastery, with which Pyotr Alexandrovitch began an endless\nlawsuit, almost as soon as he came into the estate, concerning the rights\nof fishing in the river or wood-cutting in the forest, I don't know\nexactly which. He regarded it as his duty as a citizen and a man of\nculture to open an attack upon the \"clericals.\" Hearing all about Adelaida\nIvanovna, whom he, of course, remembered, and in whom he had at one time\nbeen interested, and learning of the existence of Mitya, he intervened, in\nspite of all his youthful indignation and contempt for Fyodor Pavlovitch.\nHe made the latter's acquaintance for the first time, and told him\ndirectly that he wished to undertake the child's education. He used long\nafterwards to tell as a characteristic touch, that when he began to speak\nof Mitya, Fyodor Pavlovitch looked for some time as though he did not\nunderstand what child he was talking about, and even as though he was\nsurprised to hear that he had a little son in the house. The story may\nhave been exaggerated, yet it must have been something like the truth.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing an\nunexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even to\nhis own direct disadvantage, as, for instance, in the present case. This\nhabit, however, is characteristic of a very great number of people, some\nof them very clever ones, not like Fyodor Pavlovitch. Pyotr Alexandrovitch\ncarried the business through vigorously, and was appointed, with Fyodor\nPavlovitch, joint guardian of the child, who had a small property, a house\nand land, left him by his mother. Mitya did, in fact, pass into this\ncousin's keeping, but as the latter had no family of his own, and after\nsecuring the revenues of his estates was in haste to return at once to\nParis, he left the boy in charge of one of his cousins, a lady living in\nMoscow. It came to pass that, settling permanently in Paris he, too,\nforgot the child, especially when the Revolution of February broke out,\nmaking an impression on his mind that he remembered all the rest of his\nlife. The Moscow lady died, and Mitya passed into the care of one of her\nmarried daughters. I believe he changed his home a fourth time later on. I\nwon't enlarge upon that now, as I shall have much to tell later of Fyodor\nPavlovitch's firstborn, and must confine myself now to the most essential\nfacts about him, without which I could not begin my story.\n\nIn the first place, this Mitya, or rather Dmitri Fyodorovitch, was the\nonly one of Fyodor Pavlovitch's three sons who grew up in the belief that\nhe had property, and that he would be independent on coming of age. He\nspent an irregular boyhood and youth. He did not finish his studies at the\ngymnasium, he got into a military school, then went to the Caucasus, was\npromoted, fought a duel, and was degraded to the ranks, earned promotion\nagain, led a wild life, and spent a good deal of money. He did not begin\nto receive any income from Fyodor Pavlovitch until he came of age, and\nuntil then got into debt. He saw and knew his father, Fyodor Pavlovitch,\nfor the first time on coming of age, when he visited our neighborhood on\npurpose to settle with him about his property. He seems not to have liked\nhis father. He did not stay long with him, and made haste to get away,\nhaving only succeeded in obtaining a sum of money, and entering into an\nagreement for future payments from the estate, of the revenues and value\nof which he was unable (a fact worthy of note), upon this occasion, to get\na statement from his father. Fyodor Pavlovitch remarked for the first time\nthen (this, too, should be noted) that Mitya had a vague and exaggerated\nidea of his property. Fyodor Pavlovitch was very well satisfied with this,\nas it fell in with his own designs. He gathered only that the young man\nwas frivolous, unruly, of violent passions, impatient, and dissipated, and\nthat if he could only obtain ready money he would be satisfied, although\nonly, of course, for a short time. So Fyodor Pavlovitch began to take\nadvantage of this fact, sending him from time to time small doles,\ninstallments. In the end, when four years later, Mitya, losing patience,\ncame a second time to our little town to settle up once for all with his\nfather, it turned out to his amazement that he had nothing, that it was\ndifficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of\nhis property in sums of money from Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even\nin debt to him, that by various agreements into which he had, of his own\ndesire, entered at various previous dates, he had no right to expect\nanything more, and so on, and so on. The young man was overwhelmed,\nsuspected deceit and cheating, and was almost beside himself. And, indeed,\nthis circumstance led to the catastrophe, the account of which forms the\nsubject of my first introductory story, or rather the external side of it.\nBut before I pass to that story I must say a little of Fyodor Pavlovitch's\nother two sons, and of their origin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Second Marriage And The Second Family\n\n\nVery shortly after getting his four-year-old Mitya off his hands Fyodor\nPavlovitch married a second time. His second marriage lasted eight years.\nHe took this second wife, Sofya Ivanovna, also a very young girl, from\nanother province, where he had gone upon some small piece of business in\ncompany with a Jew. Though Fyodor Pavlovitch was a drunkard and a vicious\ndebauchee he never neglected investing his capital, and managed his\nbusiness affairs very successfully, though, no doubt, not over-\nscrupulously. Sofya Ivanovna was the daughter of an obscure deacon, and\nwas left from childhood an orphan without relations. She grew up in the\nhouse of a general's widow, a wealthy old lady of good position, who was\nat once her benefactress and tormentor. I do not know the details, but I\nhave only heard that the orphan girl, a meek and gentle creature, was once\ncut down from a halter in which she was hanging from a nail in the loft,\nso terrible were her sufferings from the caprice and everlasting nagging\nof this old woman, who was apparently not bad-hearted but had become an\ninsufferable tyrant through idleness.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch made her an offer; inquiries were made about him and he\nwas refused. But again, as in his first marriage, he proposed an elopement\nto the orphan girl. There is very little doubt that she would not on any\naccount have married him if she had known a little more about him in time.\nBut she lived in another province; besides, what could a little girl of\nsixteen know about it, except that she would be better at the bottom of\nthe river than remaining with her benefactress. So the poor child\nexchanged a benefactress for a benefactor. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not get a\npenny this time, for the general's widow was furious. She gave them\nnothing and cursed them both. But he had not reckoned on a dowry; what\nallured him was the remarkable beauty of the innocent girl, above all her\ninnocent appearance, which had a peculiar attraction for a vicious\nprofligate, who had hitherto admired only the coarser types of feminine\nbeauty.\n\n\"Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor,\" he used to say\nafterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved this might,\nof course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had received no\ndowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her \"from the halter,\" he\ndid not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel that she had \"wronged\"\nhim, he took advantage of her phenomenal meekness and submissiveness to\ntrample on the elementary decencies of marriage. He gathered loose women\ninto his house, and carried on orgies of debauchery in his wife's\npresence. To show what a pass things had come to, I may mention that\nGrigory, the gloomy, stupid, obstinate, argumentative servant, who had\nalways hated his first mistress, Adelaida Ivanovna, took the side of his\nnew mistress. He championed her cause, abusing Fyodor Pavlovitch in a\nmanner little befitting a servant, and on one occasion broke up the revels\nand drove all the disorderly women out of the house. In the end this\nunhappy young woman, kept in terror from her childhood, fell into that\nkind of nervous disease which is most frequently found in peasant women\nwho are said to be \"possessed by devils.\" At times after terrible fits of\nhysterics she even lost her reason. Yet she bore Fyodor Pavlovitch two\nsons, Ivan and Alexey, the eldest in the first year of marriage and the\nsecond three years later. When she died, little Alexey was in his fourth\nyear, and, strange as it seems, I know that he remembered his mother all\nhis life, like a dream, of course. At her death almost exactly the same\nthing happened to the two little boys as to their elder brother, Mitya.\nThey were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father. They were\nlooked after by the same Grigory and lived in his cottage, where they were\nfound by the tyrannical old lady who had brought up their mother. She was\nstill alive, and had not, all those eight years, forgotten the insult done\nher. All that time she was obtaining exact information as to her Sofya's\nmanner of life, and hearing of her illness and hideous surroundings she\ndeclared aloud two or three times to her retainers:\n\n\"It serves her right. God has punished her for her ingratitude.\"\n\nExactly three months after Sofya Ivanovna's death the general's widow\nsuddenly appeared in our town, and went straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's\nhouse. She spent only half an hour in the town but she did a great deal.\nIt was evening. Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom she had not seen for those eight\nyears, came in to her drunk. The story is that instantly upon seeing him,\nwithout any sort of explanation, she gave him two good, resounding slaps\non the face, seized him by a tuft of hair, and shook him three times up\nand down. Then, without a word, she went straight to the cottage to the\ntwo boys. Seeing, at the first glance, that they were unwashed and in\ndirty linen, she promptly gave Grigory, too, a box on the ear, and\nannouncing that she would carry off both the children she wrapped them\njust as they were in a rug, put them in the carriage, and drove off to her\nown town. Grigory accepted the blow like a devoted slave, without a word,\nand when he escorted the old lady to her carriage he made her a low bow\nand pronounced impressively that, \"God would repay her for the orphans.\"\n\"You are a blockhead all the same,\" the old lady shouted to him as she\ndrove away.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch, thinking it over, decided that it was a good thing, and\ndid not refuse the general's widow his formal consent to any proposition\nin regard to his children's education. As for the slaps she had given him,\nhe drove all over the town telling the story.\n\nIt happened that the old lady died soon after this, but she left the boys\nin her will a thousand roubles each \"for their instruction, and so that\nall be spent on them exclusively, with the condition that it be so\nportioned out as to last till they are twenty-one, for it is more than\nadequate provision for such children. If other people think fit to throw\naway their money, let them.\" I have not read the will myself, but I heard\nthere was something queer of the sort, very whimsically expressed. The\nprincipal heir, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, the Marshal of Nobility of the\nprovince, turned out, however, to be an honest man. Writing to Fyodor\nPavlovitch, and discerning at once that he could extract nothing from him\nfor his children's education (though the latter never directly refused but\nonly procrastinated as he always did in such cases, and was, indeed, at\ntimes effusively sentimental), Yefim Petrovitch took a personal interest\nin the orphans. He became especially fond of the younger, Alexey, who\nlived for a long while as one of his family. I beg the reader to note this\nfrom the beginning. And to Yefim Petrovitch, a man of a generosity and\nhumanity rarely to be met with, the young people were more indebted for\ntheir education and bringing up than to any one. He kept the two thousand\nroubles left to them by the general's widow intact, so that by the time\nthey came of age their portions had been doubled by the accumulation of\ninterest. He educated them both at his own expense, and certainly spent\nfar more than a thousand roubles upon each of them. I won't enter into a\ndetailed account of their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a few\nof the most important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say that he\ngrew into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid boy. At\nten years old he had realized that they were living not in their own home\nbut on other people's charity, and that their father was a man of whom it\nwas disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early, almost in his infancy\n(so they say at least), to show a brilliant and unusual aptitude for\nlearning. I don't know precisely why, but he left the family of Yefim\nPetrovitch when he was hardly thirteen, entering a Moscow gymnasium, and\nboarding with an experienced and celebrated teacher, an old friend of\nYefim Petrovitch. Ivan used to declare afterwards that this was all due to\nthe \"ardor for good works\" of Yefim Petrovitch, who was captivated by the\nidea that the boy's genius should be trained by a teacher of genius. But\nneither Yefim Petrovitch nor this teacher was living when the young man\nfinished at the gymnasium and entered the university. As Yefim Petrovitch\nhad made no provision for the payment of the tyrannical old lady's legacy,\nwhich had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to\nformalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits\nfor the first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep\nhimself all the time he was studying. It must be noted that he did not\neven attempt to communicate with his father, perhaps from pride, from\ncontempt for him, or perhaps from his cool common sense, which told him\nthat from such a father he would get no real assistance. However that may\nhave been, the young man was by no means despondent and succeeded in\ngetting work, at first giving sixpenny lessons and afterwards getting\nparagraphs on street incidents into the newspapers under the signature of\n\"Eye-Witness.\" These paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting and\npiquant that they were soon taken. This alone showed the young man's\npractical and intellectual superiority over the masses of needy and\nunfortunate students of both sexes who hang about the offices of the\nnewspapers and journals, unable to think of anything better than\neverlasting entreaties for copying and translations from the French.\nHaving once got into touch with the editors Ivan Fyodorovitch always kept\nup his connection with them, and in his latter years at the university he\npublished brilliant reviews of books upon various special subjects, so\nthat he became well known in literary circles. But only in his last year\nhe suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a far wider circle of\nreaders, so that a great many people noticed and remembered him. It was\nrather a curious incident. When he had just left the university and was\npreparing to go abroad upon his two thousand roubles, Ivan Fyodorovitch\npublished in one of the more important journals a strange article, which\nattracted general notice, on a subject of which he might have been\nsupposed to know nothing, as he was a student of natural science. The\narticle dealt with a subject which was being debated everywhere at the\ntime--the position of the ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several\nopinions on the subject he went on to explain his own view. What was most\nstriking about the article was its tone, and its unexpected conclusion.\nMany of the Church party regarded him unquestioningly as on their side.\nAnd yet not only the secularists but even atheists joined them in their\napplause. Finally some sagacious persons opined that the article was\nnothing but an impudent satirical burlesque. I mention this incident\nparticularly because this article penetrated into the famous monastery in\nour neighborhood, where the inmates, being particularly interested in the\nquestion of the ecclesiastical courts, were completely bewildered by it.\nLearning the author's name, they were interested in his being a native of\nthe town and the son of \"that Fyodor Pavlovitch.\" And just then it was\nthat the author himself made his appearance among us.\n\nWhy Ivan Fyodorovitch had come amongst us I remember asking myself at the\ntime with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was the first\nstep leading to so many consequences, I never fully explained to myself.\nIt seemed strange on the face of it that a young man so learned, so proud,\nand apparently so cautious, should suddenly visit such an infamous house\nand a father who had ignored him all his life, hardly knew him, never\nthought of him, and would not under any circumstances have given him\nmoney, though he was always afraid that his sons Ivan and Alexey would\nalso come to ask him for it. And here the young man was staying in the\nhouse of such a father, had been living with him for two months, and they\nwere on the best possible terms. This last fact was a special cause of\nwonder to many others as well as to me. Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, of\nwhom we have spoken already, the cousin of Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife,\nhappened to be in the neighborhood again on a visit to his estate. He had\ncome from Paris, which was his permanent home. I remember that he was more\nsurprised than any one when he made the acquaintance of the young man, who\ninterested him extremely, and with whom he sometimes argued and not\nwithout an inner pang compared himself in acquirements.\n\n\"He is proud,\" he used to say, \"he will never be in want of pence; he has\ngot money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here? Every one can\nsee that he hasn't come for money, for his father would never give him\nany. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet his father can't\ndo without him. They get on so well together!\"\n\nThat was the truth; the young man had an unmistakable influence over his\nfather, who positively appeared to be behaving more decently and even\nseemed at times ready to obey his son, though often extremely and even\nspitefully perverse.\n\nIt was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the request\nof, and in the interests of, his elder brother, Dmitri, whom he saw for\nthe first time on this very visit, though he had before leaving Moscow\nbeen in correspondence with him about an important matter of more concern\nto Dmitri than himself. What that business was the reader will learn fully\nin due time. Yet even when I did know of this special circumstance I still\nfelt Ivan Fyodorovitch to be an enigmatic figure, and thought his visit\nrather mysterious.\n\nI may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a mediator\nbetween his father and his elder brother Dmitri, who was in open quarrel\nwith his father and even planning to bring an action against him.\n\nThe family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and some of its\nmembers met for the first time in their lives. The younger brother,\nAlexey, had been a year already among us, having been the first of the\nthree to arrive. It is of that brother Alexey I find it most difficult to\nspeak in this introduction. Yet I must give some preliminary account of\nhim, if only to explain one queer fact, which is that I have to introduce\nmy hero to the reader wearing the cassock of a novice. Yes, he had been\nfor the last year in our monastery, and seemed willing to be cloistered\nthere for the rest of his life.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. The Third Son, Alyosha\n\n\nHe was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year at the\ntime, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven. First of all, I\nmust explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a fanatic, and, in my\nopinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give my full\nopinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of humanity, and\nthat he adopted the monastic life was simply because at that time it\nstruck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from\nthe darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of love. And the reason\nthis life struck him in this way was that he found in it at that time, as\nhe thought, an extraordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom\nhe became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I\ndo not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been so\nindeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way, that though\nhe lost his mother in his fourth year he remembered her all his life--her\nface, her caresses, \"as though she stood living before me.\" Such memories\nmay persist, as every one knows, from an even earlier age, even from two\nyears old, but scarcely standing out through a whole lifetime like spots\nof light out of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which\nhas all faded and disappeared except that fragment. That is how it was\nwith him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the\nslanting rays of the setting sun (that he recalled most vividly of all);\nin a corner of the room the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on\nher knees before the image his mother, sobbing hysterically with cries and\nmoans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt,\nand praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out in both arms to\nthe image as though to put him under the Mother's protection ... and\nsuddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. That was the\npicture! And Alyosha remembered his mother's face at that minute. He used\nto say that it was frenzied but beautiful as he remembered. But he rarely\ncared to speak of this memory to any one. In his childhood and youth he\nwas by no means expansive, and talked little indeed, but not from shyness\nor a sullen unsociability; quite the contrary, from something different,\nfrom a sort of inner preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with\nother people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to\nforget others on account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed\nthroughout his life to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever\nlooked on him as a simpleton or naive person. There was something about\nhim which made one feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards)\nthat he did not care to be a judge of others--that he would never take it\nupon himself to criticize and would never condemn any one for anything. He\nseemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation though\noften grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one could\nsurprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty to\nhis father's house, which was a very sink of filthy debauchery, he, chaste\nand pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence when to look on was\nunbearable, but without the slightest sign of contempt or condemnation.\nHis father, who had once been in a dependent position, and so was\nsensitive and ready to take offense, met him at first with distrust and\nsullenness. \"He does not say much,\" he used to say, \"and thinks the more.\"\nBut soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to embracing him and kissing\nhim terribly often, with drunken tears, with sottish sentimentality, yet\nhe evidently felt a real and deep affection for him, such as he had never\nbeen capable of feeling for any one before.\n\nEvery one, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was so\nfrom his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his patron\nand benefactor, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts of all the\nfamily, so that they looked on him quite as their own child. Yet he\nentered the house at such a tender age that he could not have acted from\ndesign nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift of making\nhimself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him, in his very\nnature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he seemed to be\njust one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes ridiculed, and\neven disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for instance, and\nrather solitary. From his earliest childhood he was fond of creeping into\na corner to read, and yet he was a general favorite all the while he was\nat school. He was rarely playful or merry, but any one could see at the\nfirst glance that this was not from any sullenness. On the contrary he was\nbright and good-tempered. He never tried to show off among his\nschoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he was never afraid of any one,\nyet the boys immediately understood that he was not proud of his\nfearlessness and seemed to be unaware that he was bold and courageous. He\nnever resented an insult. It would happen that an hour after the offense\nhe would address the offender or answer some question with as trustful and\ncandid an expression as though nothing had happened between them. And it\nwas not that he seemed to have forgotten or intentionally forgiven the\naffront, but simply that he did not regard it as an affront, and this\ncompletely conquered and captivated the boys. He had one characteristic\nwhich made all his schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to\nmock at him, not from malice but because it amused them. This\ncharacteristic was a wild fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not\nbear to hear certain words and certain conversations about women. There\nare \"certain\" words and conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate in\nschools. Boys pure in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking\nin school among themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and\nimages of which even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than\nthat, much that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to\nquite young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no\nmoral depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the\nappearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something\nrefined, subtle, daring, and worthy of imitation. Seeing that Alyosha\nKaramazov put his fingers in his ears when they talked of \"that,\" they\nused sometimes to crowd round him, pull his hands away, and shout\nnastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor, tried\nto hide himself without uttering one word of abuse, enduring their insults\nin silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up taunting him with\nbeing a \"regular girl,\" and what's more they looked upon it with\ncompassion as a weakness. He was always one of the best in the class but\nwas never first.\n\nAt the time of Yefim Petrovitch's death Alyosha had two more years to\ncomplete at the provincial gymnasium. The inconsolable widow went almost\nimmediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her whole\nfamily, which consisted only of women and girls. Alyosha went to live in\nthe house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovitch, ladies whom he had\nnever seen before. On what terms he lived with them he did not know\nhimself. It was very characteristic of him, indeed, that he never cared at\nwhose expense he was living. In that respect he was a striking contrast to\nhis elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his first two years\nin the university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from\nchildhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his\nbenefactor. But this strange trait in Alyosha's character must not, I\nthink, be criticized too severely, for at the slightest acquaintance with\nhim any one would have perceived that Alyosha was one of those youths,\nalmost of the type of religious enthusiast, who, if they were suddenly to\ncome into possession of a large fortune, would not hesitate to give it\naway for the asking, either for good works or perhaps to a clever rogue.\nIn general he seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course,\nin a literal sense. When he was given pocket-money, which he never asked\nfor, he was either terribly careless of it so that it was gone in a\nmoment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it.\n\nIn later years Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, a man very sensitive on the\nscore of money and bourgeois honesty, pronounced the following judgment,\nafter getting to know Alyosha:\n\n\"Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone\nwithout a penny, in the center of an unknown town of a million\ninhabitants, and he would not come to harm, he would not die of cold and\nhunger, for he would be fed and sheltered at once; and if he were not, he\nwould find a shelter for himself, and it would cost him no effort or\nhumiliation. And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on the contrary,\nwould probably be looked on as a pleasure.\"\n\nHe did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. A year before the end of\nthe course he suddenly announced to the ladies that he was going to see\nhis father about a plan which had occurred to him. They were sorry and\nunwilling to let him go. The journey was not an expensive one, and the\nladies would not let him pawn his watch, a parting present from his\nbenefactor's family. They provided him liberally with money and even\nfitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he returned half the money\nthey gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his arrival\nin the town he made no answer to his father's first inquiry why he had\ncome before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say, unusually\nthoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for his mother's\ntomb. He practically acknowledged at the time that that was the only\nobject of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it.\nIt is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not\nexplain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn him irresistibly\ninto a new, unknown, but inevitable path. Fyodor Pavlovitch could not show\nhim where his second wife was buried, for he had never visited her grave\nsince he had thrown earth upon her coffin, and in the course of years had\nentirely forgotten where she was buried.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch, by the way, had for some time previously not been\nliving in our town. Three or four years after his wife's death he had gone\nto the south of Russia and finally turned up in Odessa, where he spent\nseveral years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own words, \"of a\nlot of low Jews, Jewesses, and Jewkins,\" and ended by being received by\n\"Jews high and low alike.\" It may be presumed that at this period he\ndeveloped a peculiar faculty for making and hoarding money. He finally\nreturned to our town only three years before Alyosha's arrival. His former\nacquaintances found him looking terribly aged, although he was by no means\nan old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity but with more\neffrontery. The former buffoon showed an insolent propensity for making\nbuffoons of others. His depravity with women was not simply what it used\nto be, but even more revolting. In a short time he opened a great number\nof new taverns in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a\nhundred thousand roubles or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the\ntown and district were soon in his debt, and, of course, had given good\nsecurity. Of late, too, he looked somehow bloated and seemed more\nirresponsible, more uneven, had sunk into a sort of incoherence, used to\nbegin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself\ngo altogether. He was more and more frequently drunk. And, if it had not\nbeen for the same servant Grigory, who by that time had aged considerably\ntoo, and used to look after him sometimes almost like a tutor, Fyodor\nPavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes. Alyosha's arrival seemed\nto affect even his moral side, as though something had awakened in this\nprematurely old man which had long been dead in his soul.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he used often to say, looking at Alyosha, \"that you are\nlike her, 'the crazy woman' \"--that was what he used to call his dead wife,\nAlyosha's mother. Grigory it was who pointed out the \"crazy woman's\" grave\nto Alyosha. He took him to our town cemetery and showed him in a remote\ncorner a cast-iron tombstone, cheap but decently kept, on which were\ninscribed the name and age of the deceased and the date of her death, and\nbelow a four-lined verse, such as are commonly used on old-fashioned\nmiddle-class tombs. To Alyosha's amazement this tomb turned out to be\nGrigory's doing. He had put it up on the poor \"crazy woman's\" grave at his\nown expense, after Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom he had often pestered about the\ngrave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the grave and all his memories.\nAlyosha showed no particular emotion at the sight of his mother's grave.\nHe only listened to Grigory's minute and solemn account of the erection of\nthe tomb; he stood with bowed head and walked away without uttering a\nword. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this\nlittle episode was not without an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch--and a\nvery original one. He suddenly took a thousand roubles to our monastery to\npay for requiems for the soul of his wife; but not for the second,\nAlyosha's mother, the \"crazy woman,\" but for the first, Adelaida Ivanovna,\nwho used to thrash him. In the evening of the same day he got drunk and\nabused the monks to Alyosha. He himself was far from being religious; he\nhad probably never put a penny candle before the image of a saint. Strange\nimpulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types.\n\nI have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance at this\ntime bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he\nhad led. Besides the long fleshy bags under his little, always insolent,\nsuspicious, and ironical eyes; besides the multitude of deep wrinkles in\nhis little fat face, the Adam's apple hung below his sharp chin like a\ngreat, fleshy goiter, which gave him a peculiar, repulsive, sensual\nappearance; add to that a long rapacious mouth with full lips, between\nwhich could be seen little stumps of black decayed teeth. He slobbered\nevery time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own\nface, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used\nparticularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very\ndelicate and conspicuously aquiline. \"A regular Roman nose,\" he used to\nsay, \"with my goiter I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman\npatrician of the decadent period.\" He seemed proud of it.\n\nNot long after visiting his mother's grave Alyosha suddenly announced that\nhe wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing to\nreceive him as a novice. He explained that this was his strong desire, and\nthat he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The old man knew\nthat the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery hermitage, had\nmade a special impression upon his \"gentle boy.\"\n\n\"That is the most honest monk among them, of course,\" he observed, after\nlistening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely surprised\nat his request. \"H'm!... So that's where you want to be, my gentle boy?\"\n\nHe was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow half-drunken grin,\nwhich was not without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. \"H'm!... I had\na presentiment that you would end in something like this. Would you\nbelieve it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have\nyour own two thousand. That's a dowry for you. And I'll never desert you,\nmy angel. And I'll pay what's wanted for you there, if they ask for it.\nBut, of course, if they don't ask, why should we worry them? What do you\nsay? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a week. H'm!...\nDo you know that near one monastery there's a place outside the town where\nevery baby knows there are none but 'the monks' wives' living, as they are\ncalled. Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. You know, it's\ninteresting in its own way, of course, as a variety. The worst of it is\nit's awfully Russian. There are no French women there. Of course they\ncould get them fast enough, they have plenty of money. If they get to hear\nof it they'll come along. Well, there's nothing of that sort here, no\n'monks' wives,' and two hundred monks. They're honest. They keep the\nfasts. I admit it.... H'm.... So you want to be a monk? And do you know\nI'm sorry to lose you, Alyosha; would you believe it, I've really grown\nfond of you? Well, it's a good opportunity. You'll pray for us sinners; we\nhave sinned too much here. I've always been thinking who would pray for\nme, and whether there's any one in the world to do it. My dear boy, I'm\nawfully stupid about that. You wouldn't believe it. Awfully. You see,\nhowever stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking--from time\nto time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the\ndevils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then\nI wonder--hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do\nthey forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? The monks in the\nmonastery probably believe that there's a ceiling in hell, for instance.\nNow I'm ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more\nrefined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And, after all, what\ndoes it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn't? But, do you know,\nthere's a damnable question involved in it? If there's no ceiling there\ncan be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks down, which is\nunlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me down to hell, and\nif they don't drag me down what justice is there in the world? _Il\nfaudrait les inventer_, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for, if you\nonly knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am.\"\n\n\"But there are no hooks there,\" said Alyosha, looking gently and seriously\nat his father.\n\n\"Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks, I know, I know. That's how a\nFrenchman described hell: '_J'ai bu l'ombre d'un cocher qui avec l'ombre\nd'une brosse frottait l'ombre d'une carrosse._' How do you know there are\nno hooks, darling? When you've lived with the monks you'll sing a\ndifferent tune. But go and get at the truth there, and then come and tell\nme. Anyway it's easier going to the other world if one knows what there is\nthere. Besides, it will be more seemly for you with the monks than here\nwith me, with a drunken old man and young harlots ... though you're like\nan angel, nothing touches you. And I dare say nothing will touch you\nthere. That's why I let you go, because I hope for that. You've got all\nyour wits about you. You will burn and you will burn out; you will be\nhealed and come back again. And I will wait for you. I feel that you're\nthe only creature in the world who has not condemned me. My dear boy, I\nfeel it, you know. I can't help feeling it.\"\n\nAnd he even began blubbering. He was sentimental. He was wicked and\nsentimental.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. Elders\n\n\nSome of my readers may imagine that my young man was a sickly, ecstatic,\npoorly developed creature, a pale, consumptive dreamer. On the contrary,\nAlyosha was at this time a well-grown, red-cheeked, clear-eyed lad of\nnineteen, radiant with health. He was very handsome, too, graceful,\nmoderately tall, with hair of a dark brown, with a regular, rather long,\noval-shaped face, and wide-set dark gray, shining eyes; he was very\nthoughtful, and apparently very serene. I shall be told, perhaps, that red\ncheeks are not incompatible with fanaticism and mysticism; but I fancy\nthat Alyosha was more of a realist than any one. Oh! no doubt, in the\nmonastery he fully believed in miracles, but, to my thinking, miracles are\nnever a stumbling-block to the realist. It is not miracles that dispose\nrealists to belief. The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will\nalways find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if\nhe is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather\ndisbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he\nadmits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does\nnot, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith.\nIf the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to\nadmit the miraculous also. The Apostle Thomas said that he would not\nbelieve till he saw, but when he did see he said, \"My Lord and my God!\"\nWas it the miracle forced him to believe? Most likely not, but he believed\nsolely because he desired to believe and possibly he fully believed in his\nsecret heart even when he said, \"I do not believe till I see.\"\n\nI shall be told, perhaps, that Alyosha was stupid, undeveloped, had not\nfinished his studies, and so on. That he did not finish his studies is\ntrue, but to say that he was stupid or dull would be a great injustice.\nI'll simply repeat what I have said above. He entered upon this path only\nbecause, at that time, it alone struck his imagination and presented\nitself to him as offering an ideal means of escape for his soul from\ndarkness to light. Add to that that he was to some extent a youth of our\nlast epoch--that is, honest in nature, desiring the truth, seeking for it\nand believing in it, and seeking to serve it at once with all the strength\nof his soul, seeking for immediate action, and ready to sacrifice\neverything, life itself, for it. Though these young men unhappily fail to\nunderstand that the sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of\nall sacrifices, and that to sacrifice, for instance, five or six years of\ntheir seething youth to hard and tedious study, if only to multiply\ntenfold their powers of serving the truth and the cause they have set\nbefore them as their goal--such a sacrifice is utterly beyond the strength\nof many of them. The path Alyosha chose was a path going in the opposite\ndirection, but he chose it with the same thirst for swift achievement. As\nsoon as he reflected seriously he was convinced of the existence of God\nand immortality, and at once he instinctively said to himself: \"I want to\nlive for immortality, and I will accept no compromise.\" In the same way,\nif he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once\nhave become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the\nlabor question, it is before all things the atheistic question, the\nquestion of the form taken by atheism to-day, the question of the tower of\nBabel built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth but to set up\nheaven on earth. Alyosha would have found it strange and impossible to go\non living as before. It is written: \"Give all that thou hast to the poor\nand follow Me, if thou wouldst be perfect.\"\n\nAlyosha said to himself: \"I can't give two roubles instead of 'all,' and\nonly go to mass instead of 'following Him.' \" Perhaps his memories of\nchildhood brought back our monastery, to which his mother may have taken\nhim to mass. Perhaps the slanting sunlight and the holy image to which his\npoor \"crazy\" mother had held him up still acted upon his imagination.\nBrooding on these things he may have come to us perhaps only to see\nwhether here he could sacrifice all or only \"two roubles,\" and in the\nmonastery he met this elder. I must digress to explain what an \"elder\" is\nin Russian monasteries, and I am sorry that I do not feel very competent\nto do so. I will try, however, to give a superficial account of it in a\nfew words. Authorities on the subject assert that the institution of\n\"elders\" is of recent date, not more than a hundred years old in our\nmonasteries, though in the orthodox East, especially in Sinai and Athos,\nit has existed over a thousand years. It is maintained that it existed in\nancient times in Russia also, but through the calamities which overtook\nRussia--the Tartars, civil war, the interruption of relations with the East\nafter the destruction of Constantinople--this institution fell into\noblivion. It was revived among us towards the end of last century by one\nof the great \"ascetics,\" as they called him, Paissy Velitchkovsky, and his\ndisciples. But to this day it exists in few monasteries only, and has\nsometimes been almost persecuted as an innovation in Russia. It flourished\nespecially in the celebrated Kozelski Optin Monastery. When and how it was\nintroduced into our monastery I cannot say. There had already been three\nsuch elders and Zossima was the last of them. But he was almost dying of\nweakness and disease, and they had no one to take his place. The question\nfor our monastery was an important one, for it had not been distinguished\nby anything in particular till then: they had neither relics of saints,\nnor wonder-working ikons, nor glorious traditions, nor historical\nexploits. It had flourished and been glorious all over Russia through its\nelders, to see and hear whom pilgrims had flocked for thousands of miles\nfrom all parts.\n\nWhat was such an elder? An elder was one who took your soul, your will,\ninto his soul and his will. When you choose an elder, you renounce your\nown will and yield it to him in complete submission, complete self-\nabnegation. This novitiate, this terrible school of abnegation, is\nundertaken voluntarily, in the hope of self-conquest, of self-mastery, in\norder, after a life of obedience, to attain perfect freedom, that is, from\nself; to escape the lot of those who have lived their whole life without\nfinding their true selves in themselves. This institution of elders is not\nfounded on theory, but was established in the East from the practice of a\nthousand years. The obligations due to an elder are not the ordinary\n\"obedience\" which has always existed in our Russian monasteries. The\nobligation involves confession to the elder by all who have submitted\nthemselves to him, and to the indissoluble bond between him and them.\n\nThe story is told, for instance, that in the early days of Christianity\none such novice, failing to fulfill some command laid upon him by his\nelder, left his monastery in Syria and went to Egypt. There, after great\nexploits, he was found worthy at last to suffer torture and a martyr's\ndeath for the faith. When the Church, regarding him as a saint, was\nburying him, suddenly, at the deacon's exhortation, \"Depart all ye\nunbaptized,\" the coffin containing the martyr's body left its place and\nwas cast forth from the church, and this took place three times. And only\nat last they learnt that this holy man had broken his vow of obedience and\nleft his elder, and, therefore, could not be forgiven without the elder's\nabsolution in spite of his great deeds. Only after this could the funeral\ntake place. This, of course, is only an old legend. But here is a recent\ninstance.\n\nA monk was suddenly commanded by his elder to quit Athos, which he loved\nas a sacred place and a haven of refuge, and to go first to Jerusalem to\ndo homage to the Holy Places and then to go to the north to Siberia:\n\"There is the place for thee and not here.\" The monk, overwhelmed with\nsorrow, went to the OEcumenical Patriarch at Constantinople and besought\nhim to release him from his obedience. But the Patriarch replied that not\nonly was he unable to release him, but there was not and could not be on\nearth a power which could release him except the elder who had himself\nlaid that duty upon him. In this way the elders are endowed in certain\ncases with unbounded and inexplicable authority. That is why in many of\nour monasteries the institution was at first resisted almost to\npersecution. Meantime the elders immediately began to be highly esteemed\namong the people. Masses of the ignorant people as well as men of\ndistinction flocked, for instance, to the elders of our monastery to\nconfess their doubts, their sins, and their sufferings, and ask for\ncounsel and admonition. Seeing this, the opponents of the elders declared\nthat the sacrament of confession was being arbitrarily and frivolously\ndegraded, though the continual opening of the heart to the elder by the\nmonk or the layman had nothing of the character of the sacrament. In the\nend, however, the institution of elders has been retained and is becoming\nestablished in Russian monasteries. It is true, perhaps, that this\ninstrument which had stood the test of a thousand years for the moral\nregeneration of a man from slavery to freedom and to moral perfectibility\nmay be a two-edged weapon and it may lead some not to humility and\ncomplete self-control but to the most Satanic pride, that is, to bondage\nand not to freedom.\n\nThe elder Zossima was sixty-five. He came of a family of landowners, had\nbeen in the army in early youth, and served in the Caucasus as an officer.\nHe had, no doubt, impressed Alyosha by some peculiar quality of his soul.\nAlyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who was very fond of him and let\nhim wait upon him. It must be noted that Alyosha was bound by no\nobligation and could go where he pleased and be absent for whole days.\nThough he wore the monastic dress it was voluntarily, not to be different\nfrom others. No doubt he liked to do so. Possibly his youthful imagination\nwas deeply stirred by the power and fame of his elder. It was said that so\nmany people had for years past come to confess their sins to Father\nZossima and to entreat him for words of advice and healing, that he had\nacquired the keenest intuition and could tell from an unknown face what a\nnew-comer wanted, and what was the suffering on his conscience. He\nsometimes astounded and almost alarmed his visitors by his knowledge of\ntheir secrets before they had spoken a word.\n\nAlyosha noticed that many, almost all, went in to the elder for the first\ntime with apprehension and uneasiness, but came out with bright and happy\nfaces. Alyosha was particularly struck by the fact that Father Zossima was\nnot at all stern. On the contrary, he was always almost gay. The monks\nused to say that he was more drawn to those who were more sinful, and the\ngreater the sinner the more he loved him. There were, no doubt, up to the\nend of his life, among the monks some who hated and envied him, but they\nwere few in number and they were silent, though among them were some of\ngreat dignity in the monastery, one, for instance, of the older monks\ndistinguished for his strict keeping of fasts and vows of silence. But the\nmajority were on Father Zossima's side and very many of them loved him\nwith all their hearts, warmly and sincerely. Some were almost fanatically\ndevoted to him, and declared, though not quite aloud, that he was a saint,\nthat there could be no doubt of it, and, seeing that his end was near,\nthey anticipated miracles and great glory to the monastery in the\nimmediate future from his relics. Alyosha had unquestioning faith in the\nmiraculous power of the elder, just as he had unquestioning faith in the\nstory of the coffin that flew out of the church. He saw many who came with\nsick children or relatives and besought the elder to lay hands on them and\nto pray over them, return shortly after--some the next day--and, falling in\ntears at the elder's feet, thank him for healing their sick.\n\nWhether they had really been healed or were simply better in the natural\ncourse of the disease was a question which did not exist for Alyosha, for\nhe fully believed in the spiritual power of his teacher and rejoiced in\nhis fame, in his glory, as though it were his own triumph. His heart\nthrobbed, and he beamed, as it were, all over when the elder came out to\nthe gates of the hermitage into the waiting crowd of pilgrims of the\nhumbler class who had flocked from all parts of Russia on purpose to see\nthe elder and obtain his blessing. They fell down before him, wept, kissed\nhis feet, kissed the earth on which he stood, and wailed, while the women\nheld up their children to him and brought him the sick \"possessed with\ndevils.\" The elder spoke to them, read a brief prayer over them, blessed\nthem, and dismissed them. Of late he had become so weak through attacks of\nillness that he was sometimes unable to leave his cell, and the pilgrims\nwaited for him to come out for several days. Alyosha did not wonder why\nthey loved him so, why they fell down before him and wept with emotion\nmerely at seeing his face. Oh! he understood that for the humble soul of\nthe Russian peasant, worn out by grief and toil, and still more by the\neverlasting injustice and everlasting sin, his own and the world's, it was\nthe greatest need and comfort to find some one or something holy to fall\ndown before and worship.\n\n\"Among us there is sin, injustice, and temptation, but yet, somewhere on\nearth there is some one holy and exalted. He has the truth; he knows the\ntruth; so it is not dead upon the earth; so it will come one day to us,\ntoo, and rule over all the earth according to the promise.\"\n\nAlyosha knew that this was just how the people felt and even reasoned. He\nunderstood it, but that the elder Zossima was this saint and custodian of\nGod's truth--of that he had no more doubt than the weeping peasants and the\nsick women who held out their children to the elder. The conviction that\nafter his death the elder would bring extraordinary glory to the monastery\nwas even stronger in Alyosha than in any one there, and, of late, a kind\nof deep flame of inner ecstasy burnt more and more strongly in his heart.\nHe was not at all troubled at this elder's standing as a solitary example\nbefore him.\n\n\"No matter. He is holy. He carries in his heart the secret of renewal for\nall: that power which will, at last, establish truth on the earth, and all\nmen will be holy and love one another, and there will be no more rich nor\npoor, no exalted nor humbled, but all will be as the children of God, and\nthe true Kingdom of Christ will come.\" That was the dream in Alyosha's\nheart.\n\nThe arrival of his two brothers, whom he had not known till then, seemed\nto make a great impression on Alyosha. He more quickly made friends with\nhis half-brother Dmitri (though he arrived later) than with his own\nbrother Ivan. He was extremely interested in his brother Ivan, but when\nthe latter had been two months in the town, though they had met fairly\noften, they were still not intimate. Alyosha was naturally silent, and he\nseemed to be expecting something, ashamed about something, while his\nbrother Ivan, though Alyosha noticed at first that he looked long and\ncuriously at him, seemed soon to have left off thinking of him. Alyosha\nnoticed it with some embarrassment. He ascribed his brother's indifference\nat first to the disparity of their age and education. But he also wondered\nwhether the absence of curiosity and sympathy in Ivan might be due to some\nother cause entirely unknown to him. He kept fancying that Ivan was\nabsorbed in something--something inward and important--that he was striving\ntowards some goal, perhaps very hard to attain, and that that was why he\nhad no thought for him. Alyosha wondered, too, whether there was not some\ncontempt on the part of the learned atheist for him--a foolish novice. He\nknew for certain that his brother was an atheist. He could not take\noffense at this contempt, if it existed; yet, with an uneasy embarrassment\nwhich he did not himself understand, he waited for his brother to come\nnearer to him. Dmitri used to speak of Ivan with the deepest respect and\nwith a peculiar earnestness. From him Alyosha learnt all the details of\nthe important affair which had of late formed such a close and remarkable\nbond between the two elder brothers. Dmitri's enthusiastic references to\nIvan were the more striking in Alyosha's eyes since Dmitri was, compared\nwith Ivan, almost uneducated, and the two brothers were such a contrast in\npersonality and character that it would be difficult to find two men more\nunlike.\n\nIt was at this time that the meeting, or, rather gathering of the members\nof this inharmonious family took place in the cell of the elder who had\nsuch an extraordinary influence on Alyosha. The pretext for this gathering\nwas a false one. It was at this time that the discord between Dmitri and\nhis father seemed at its acutest stage and their relations had become\ninsufferably strained. Fyodor Pavlovitch seems to have been the first to\nsuggest, apparently in joke, that they should all meet in Father Zossima's\ncell, and that, without appealing to his direct intervention, they might\nmore decently come to an understanding under the conciliating influence of\nthe elder's presence. Dmitri, who had never seen the elder, naturally\nsupposed that his father was trying to intimidate him, but, as he secretly\nblamed himself for his outbursts of temper with his father on several\nrecent occasions, he accepted the challenge. It must be noted that he was\nnot, like Ivan, staying with his father, but living apart at the other end\nof the town. It happened that Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, who was staying\nin the district at the time, caught eagerly at the idea. A Liberal of the\nforties and fifties, a freethinker and atheist, he may have been led on by\nboredom or the hope of frivolous diversion. He was suddenly seized with\nthe desire to see the monastery and the holy man. As his lawsuit with the\nmonastery still dragged on, he made it the pretext for seeing the\nSuperior, in order to attempt to settle it amicably. A visitor coming with\nsuch laudable intentions might be received with more attention and\nconsideration than if he came from simple curiosity. Influences from\nwithin the monastery were brought to bear on the elder, who of late had\nscarcely left his cell, and had been forced by illness to deny even his\nordinary visitors. In the end he consented to see them, and the day was\nfixed.\n\n\"Who has made me a judge over them?\" was all he said, smilingly, to\nAlyosha.\n\nAlyosha was much perturbed when he heard of the proposed visit. Of all the\nwrangling, quarrelsome party, Dmitri was the only one who could regard the\ninterview seriously. All the others would come from frivolous motives,\nperhaps insulting to the elder. Alyosha was well aware of that. Ivan and\nMiuesov would come from curiosity, perhaps of the coarsest kind, while his\nfather might be contemplating some piece of buffoonery. Though he said\nnothing, Alyosha thoroughly understood his father. The boy, I repeat, was\nfar from being so simple as every one thought him. He awaited the day with\na heavy heart. No doubt he was always pondering in his mind how the family\ndiscord could be ended. But his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He\ntrembled for him, for his glory, and dreaded any affront to him,\nespecially the refined, courteous irony of Miuesov and the supercilious\nhalf-utterances of the highly educated Ivan. He even wanted to venture on\nwarning the elder, telling him something about them, but, on second\nthoughts, said nothing. He only sent word the day before, through a\nfriend, to his brother Dmitri, that he loved him and expected him to keep\nhis promise. Dmitri wondered, for he could not remember what he had\npromised, but he answered by letter that he would do his utmost not to let\nhimself be provoked \"by vileness,\" but that, although he had a deep\nrespect for the elder and for his brother Ivan, he was convinced that the\nmeeting was either a trap for him or an unworthy farce.\n\n\"Nevertheless I would rather bite out my tongue than be lacking in respect\nto the sainted man whom you reverence so highly,\" he wrote in conclusion.\nAlyosha was not greatly cheered by the letter.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook II. An Unfortunate Gathering Chapter I. They Arrive At The Monastery\n\n\nIt was a warm, bright day at the end of August. The interview with the\nelder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after late mass.\nOur visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was\nover. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove\nup with Miuesov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty,\ncalled Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the\nuniversity. Miuesov, with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to\npersuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or Jena. The young\nman was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absent-minded. He was nice-\nlooking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in\nhis gaze at times. Like all very absent-minded people he would sometimes\nstare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward,\nbut sometimes, when he was alone with any one, he became talkative and\neffusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation\nvanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even\nelaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune and\nexpectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha's.\n\nIn an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old\npinkish-gray horses, a long way behind Miuesov's carriage, came Fyodor\nPavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though he had been\ninformed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage\nat the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the\nmonastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, none of the party had ever\nseen the monastery, and Miuesov had probably not even been to church for\nthirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed\nease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too\nwere ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the\nmonastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church,\nbareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of\nhigher rank--two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all\nstaying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but\nnone of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten-\ncopeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed--God knows\nwhy!--hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: \"Divide it equally.\" None\nof his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be\nembarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even more overcome.\n\nIt was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they\nwere not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made\na donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and\nhighly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense\ndependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their\nfishing rights in his hands. Yet no official personage met them.\n\nMiuesov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was\non the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty\npenny for the right of lying in this \"holy place,\" but refrained. His\nliberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger.\n\n\"Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out,\nfor time is passing,\" he observed suddenly, as though speaking to himself.\n\nAll at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with ingratiating\nlittle eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he\nintroduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He\nat once entered into our visitors' difficulty.\n\n\"Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from the\nmonastery, the other side of the copse.\"\n\n\"I know it's the other side of the copse,\" observed Fyodor Pavlovitch,\n\"but we don't remember the way. It is a long time since we've been here.\"\n\n\"This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse ... the copse. Come\nwith me, won't you? I'll show you. I have to go.... I am going myself.\nThis way, this way.\"\n\nThey came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man of\nsixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with\nan incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of\nhis head.\n\n\"You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own,\" observed\nMiuesov severely. \"That personage has granted us an audience, so to speak,\nand so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to\naccompany us.\"\n\n\"I've been there. I've been already; _un chevalier parfait_,\" and Maximov\nsnapped his fingers in the air.\n\n\"Who is a _chevalier_?\" asked Miuesov.\n\n\"The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the\nmonastery, Zossima. Such an elder!\"\n\nBut his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of\nmedium height, wearing a monk's cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch\nand Miuesov stopped.\n\nThe monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced:\n\n\"The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after\nyour visit to the hermitage. At one o'clock, not later. And you also,\" he\nadded, addressing Maximov.\n\n\"That I certainly will, without fail,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely\ndelighted at the invitation. \"And, believe me, we've all given our word to\nbehave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs here?\nThe only obstacle to me is your company....\"\n\n\"Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet.\"\n\n\"It would be a capital thing if he didn't turn up. Do you suppose I like\nall this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner.\nThank the Father Superior,\" he said to the monk.\n\n\"No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder,\" answered the monk.\n\n\"If so I'll go straight to the Father Superior--to the Father Superior,\"\nbabbled Maximov.\n\n\"The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please--\" the monk\nhesitated.\n\n\"Impertinent old man!\" Miuesov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to\nthe monastery.\n\n\"He's like von Sohn,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly.\n\n\"Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have\nyou ever seen von Sohn?\"\n\n\"I've seen his portrait. It's not the features, but something indefinable.\nHe's a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy.\"\n\n\"Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor\nPavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave\nproperly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin\nto play the fool I don't intend to be associated with you here.... You see\nwhat a man he is\"--he turned to the monk--\"I'm afraid to go among decent\npeople with him.\" A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to\nthe pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was\nevidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miuesov frowned more than\never.\n\n\"Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and\nnothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath,\" flashed through\nMiuesov's mind.\n\n\"Here's the hermitage. We've arrived,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. \"The gates\nare shut.\"\n\nAnd he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above\nand on the sides of the gates.\n\n\"When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage\nthere are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one another, and\neat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate. That's what is\nremarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that the elder receives\nladies,\" he remarked suddenly to the monk.\n\n\"Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there waiting.\nBut for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the\nportico, but outside the precincts--you can see the windows--and the elder\ngoes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough. They are\nalways outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov,\nwaiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come\nout to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown\nhimself even to the people.\"\n\n\"So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage to\nthe ladies. Don't suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do you\nknow that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no\ncreature of the female sex--no hens, nor turkey-hens, nor cows.\"\n\n\"Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They'll\nturn you out when I'm gone.\"\n\n\"But I'm not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look,\" he cried\nsuddenly, stepping within the precincts, \"what a vale of roses they live\nin!\"\n\nThough there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful\nautumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and evidently\ntended by a skillful hand; there were flower-beds round the church, and\nbetween the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where the elder lived\nwas also surrounded with flowers.\n\n\"And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He didn't\ncare for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies\nwith a stick,\" observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps.\n\n\"The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal\nthat's told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one,\" answered the monk.\n\"Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you.\"\n\n\"Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave\nproperly or I will pay you out!\" Miuesov had time to mutter again.\n\n\"I can't think why you are so agitated,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch observed\nsarcastically. \"Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by\none's eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their\nopinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I'm surprised at you.\"\n\nBut Miuesov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come\nin. He walked in, somewhat irritated.\n\n\"Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to\nquarrel--and lower myself and my ideas,\" he reflected.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. The Old Buffoon\n\n\nThey entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in\nfrom his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two\nmonks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father\nPaissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not\nold. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty,\nstanding in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh\nface, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary\ndress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the\nmonastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting,\nreverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an\nequality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow.\n\nFather Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks\nrose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their\nfingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as\ndeep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was\nperformed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an\neveryday rite. But Miuesov fancied that it was all done with intentional\nimpressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought--he had\nreflected upon it the evening before--from simple politeness, since it was\nthe custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if\nhe did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on\nthe part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified\ngravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a\nchair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miuesov like an ape. Ivan\nbowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his\nsides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The\nelder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again,\nasked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was\nashamed. His forebodings were coming true.\n\nFather Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered\nwith leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite\nwall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks\nsat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student,\nthe novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and\nhad a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture,\nof coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window,\nand a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon\nof the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in\nshining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic\ncross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign\nengravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these\ncostly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints\nof saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the\nfairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and\npresent.\n\nMiuesov took a cursory glance at all these \"conventional\" surroundings and\nbent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own\ninsight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a\nclever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking\nhimself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima.\nThere was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides\nMiuesov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very\nweak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years\nolder. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles,\nparticularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored,\nquick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray\nhair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his\nlips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was\nnot long, but sharp, like a bird's beak.\n\n\"To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride,\" thought\nMiuesov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.\n\nA cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to\nbegin the conversation.\n\n\"Precisely to our time,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, \"but no sign of my son,\nDmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!\" (Alyosha shuddered all over at\n\"sacred elder.\") \"I am always punctual myself, minute for minute,\nremembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings....\"\n\n\"But you are not a king, anyway,\" Miuesov muttered, losing his self-\nrestraint at once.\n\n\"Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the\nwrong thing. Your reverence,\" he cried, with sudden pathos, \"you behold\nbefore you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old\nhabit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an\nobject, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One\nmust be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town\nwhere I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We\nwent to the captain of police because we had to see him about something,\nand to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the\nmost dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to\nhim, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,'\nsaid I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I\nsaw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so\nglum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as\nMr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we\nneed for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort.' And I\nexplained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he,\n'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He\nturned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an\nIspravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a\nNapravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And\nI'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my\npoliteness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your\nwife is a ticklish lady,' in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities,\nso to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd\nbe polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine\ntickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to\ntell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that.\"\n\n\"You're doing it now,\" muttered Miuesov, with disgust.\n\nFather Zossima scrutinized them both in silence.\n\n\"Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as\nI began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first\nto remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your\nreverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower\njaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young,\nwhen I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an\ninveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as\nthough it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only\na little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But\nnot your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having\neither. But I do believe--I believe in God, though I have had doubts of\nlate. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher,\nDiderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot\nwent to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine?\nHe went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great\nbishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool hath said in his heart\nthere is no God.' And he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,'\nhe cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was\nhis godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather.\"\n\n\"Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and\nthat that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?\" cried\nMiuesov in a shaking voice.\n\n\"I suspected all my life that it wasn't true,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried\nwith conviction. \"But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great\nelder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up\njust now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I\nplay the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I\nreally don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot,\nI heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the\ngentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the\ninfidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan\nPlaton....\"\n\nMiuesov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and\nconscious of being ridiculous.\n\nWhat was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or\nfifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered\nthat cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one\nadmitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many\nremained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been\nmen of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by\ncuriosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence\nand delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the\none side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to\ndecide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed\nand bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with\nunchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the\nelder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miuesov.\nAlyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to\nhim strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had\nrested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he\ncould have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes,\napparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had\nnothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the\ndivinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the\nmonastery knew Rakitin's thoughts.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" began Miuesov, addressing Father Zossima, \"for perhaps I seem\nto be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing\nthat even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a\nvisit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to\napologize simply for having come with him....\"\n\nPyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room,\noverwhelmed with confusion.\n\n\"Don't distress yourself, I beg.\" The elder got on to his feeble legs, and\ntaking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. \"I beg\nyou not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest.\" And\nwith a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa.\n\n\"Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?\" Fyodor Pavlovitch\ncried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though\nready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable.\n\n\"I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy,\"\nthe elder said impressively. \"Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home.\nAnd, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root\nof it all.\"\n\n\"Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I\naccept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you'd better not\ninvite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as\nthat myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged\nin the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to\ndescribe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for\nyou, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy.\"\n\nHe got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, \"Blessed be the womb that\nbare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck--the paps especially. When you\nsaid just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root\nof it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to\nthe core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than\nall, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, 'Let me really\nplay the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one\nof you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame,\ngreat elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me\nrowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the\nkindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been\nthen! Teacher!\" he fell suddenly on his knees, \"what must I do to gain\neternal life?\"\n\nIt was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved.\n\nFather Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:\n\n\"You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough:\ndon't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way\nto sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your\ntaverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above\nall--don't lie.\"\n\n\"You mean about Diderot?\"\n\n\"No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies\nto himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot\ndistinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect\nfor himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and\nin order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to\npassions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all\nfrom continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to\nhimself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes\nvery pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has\ninsulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied\nand exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a\nmountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first\nto take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great\npleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit\ndown, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing....\"\n\n\"Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss.\"\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's\nthin hand. \"It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well,\nas I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense,\nto please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so\nmuch pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted--that you had\nforgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that.\nBut I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and\nhour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I\nbelieve I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say,\nthe son of lies, and that will be enough. Only ... my angel ... I may\nsometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a\nword will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had\nbeen meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to\nfind out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me.\nHere is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told\nsomewhere in the _Lives of the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his\nfaith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his\nhead, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his\nhands. Is that true or not, honored Father?\"\n\n\"No, it is untrue,\" said the elder.\n\n\"There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint\ndo you say the story is told of?\" asked the Father Librarian.\n\n\"I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived.\nI was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch Miuesov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it\nwas who told the story.\"\n\n\"I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all.\"\n\n\"It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It\nwas three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you\nshook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went\nhome with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken\never since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall.\nThat was not a Diderot!\"\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear\nto every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miuesov was stung\nby his words.\n\n\"What nonsense, and it is all nonsense,\" he muttered. \"I may really have\ntold it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it myself. I\nheard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass\nfrom the _Lives of the Saints_ ... he was a very learned man who had made\na special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in\nRussia.... I have not read the _Lives of the Saints_ myself, and I am not\ngoing to read them ... all sorts of things are said at dinner--we were\ndining then.\"\n\n\"Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!\" said Fyodor\nPavlovitch, mimicking him.\n\n\"What do I care for your faith?\" Miuesov was on the point of shouting, but\nhe suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, \"You defile\neverything you touch.\"\n\nThe elder suddenly rose from his seat. \"Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving\nyou a few minutes,\" he said, addressing all his guests. \"I have visitors\nawaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same,\"\nhe added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humored face. He went\nout of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps.\nAlyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too,\nthat the elder was good-humored and not offended. Father Zossima was going\ntowards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor\nPavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell.\n\n\"Blessed man!\" he cried, with feeling. \"Allow me to kiss your hand once\nmore. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think\nI always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting\nlike this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all\nthe time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my\nhumility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one\ncan get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the\ntime. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak,\nPyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now--for ten\nminutes.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. Peasant Women Who Have Faith\n\n\nNear the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct,\nthere was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that\nthe elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in\nanticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come\nout into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it\nset aside for women of rank.\n\nMadame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always\ndressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes. She\nwas not more than thirty-three, and had been five years a widow. Her\ndaughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had\nnot been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a\nlong reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from\nillness, but full of gayety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark\neyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her\nabroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by\nbusiness connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our\ntown, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but\nhad visited Father Zossima once already, three days before. Though they\nknew that the elder scarcely saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up\nagain, and urgently entreated \"the happiness of looking once again on the\ngreat healer.\"\n\nThe mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter's invalid\ncarriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our\nmonastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north.\nHe too sought the elder's blessing.\n\nBut Father Zossima, on entering the portico, went first straight to the\npeasants who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into\nthe portico. Father Zossima stood on the top step, put on his stole, and\nbegan blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led\nup to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elder she began shrieking\nand writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her\nforehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and\nquieted.\n\nI do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened to\nsee and hear these \"possessed\" women in the villages and monasteries. They\nused to be brought to mass; they would squeal and bark like a dog so that\nthey were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in\nand they were led up to it, at once the \"possession\" ceased, and the sick\nwomen were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed\nat this as a child; but then I heard from country neighbors and from my\ntown teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that\nit could always be cured by suitable severity; various anecdotes were told\nto confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical\nspecialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible\nillness to which women are subject, specially prevalent among us in\nRussia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a\ndisease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard,\nabnormal and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery,\nfrom beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like\nothers. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling\nwoman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been\nexplained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the \"clericals,\"\narose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported\nher and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that\nthe evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman\nwere brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with\na nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the\nwhole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the\nmoment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the\nmiracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass; and\nit did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now\nas soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stole.\n\nMany of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the\neffect of the moment: some strove to kiss the hem of his garment, others\ncried out in sing-song voices.\n\nHe blessed them all and talked with some of them. The \"possessed\" woman he\nknew already. She came from a village only six versts from the monastery,\nand had been brought to him before.\n\n\"But here is one from afar.\" He pointed to a woman by no means old but\nvery thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost blackened\nby exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder;\nthere was something almost frenzied in her eyes.\n\n\"From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from here.\nFrom afar off, Father, from afar off!\" the woman began in a sing-song\nvoice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to\nside with her cheek resting in her hand.\n\nThere is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the\npeasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief\nthat breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent\nin wailing. This is particularly common with women. But it is no lighter a\ngrief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart\nstill more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense\nof its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to\nreopen the wound.\n\n\"You are of the tradesman class?\" said Father Zossima, looking curiously\nat her.\n\n\"Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk. Yet we are peasants though we live in\nthe town. I have come to see you, O Father! We heard of you, Father, we\nheard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a\npilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, 'Go,\nNastasya, go to them'--that is to you. I have come; I was yesterday at the\nservice, and to-day I have come to you.\"\n\n\"What are you weeping for?\"\n\n\"It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father. He was three years old--three\nyears all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish, for\nmy little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and\nnow we've no children, our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first\nthree without grieving overmuch, and now I have buried the last I can't\nforget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has\nwithered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his\nlittle boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his\nlittle things. I look at them and wail. I say to Nikita, my husband, 'Let\nme go on a pilgrimage, master.' He is a driver. We're not poor people,\nFather, not poor; he drives our own horse. It's all our own, the horse and\nthe carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun\ndrinking while I am away. He's sure to. It used to be so before. As soon\nas I turn my back he gives way to it. But now I don't think about him.\nIt's three months since I left home. I've forgotten him. I've forgotten\neverything. I don't want to remember. And what would our life be now\ntogether? I've done with him, I've done. I've done with them all. I don't\ncare to look upon my house and my goods. I don't care to see anything at\nall!\"\n\n\"Listen, mother,\" said the elder. \"Once in olden times a holy saint saw in\nthe Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one,\nwhom God had taken. 'Knowest thou not,' said the saint to her, 'how bold\nthese little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none\nbolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven. \"Thou didst give us life, O\nLord,\" they say, \"and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou didst take\nit back again.\" And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them\nat once the rank of angels. Therefore,' said the saint, 'thou, too, O\nmother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the\nfellowship of the angels.' That's what the saint said to the weeping\nmother of old. He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely.\nTherefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the\nthrone of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and\ntherefore weep not, but rejoice.\"\n\nThe woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She\nsighed deeply.\n\n\"My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. 'Foolish one,'\nhe said, 'why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before\nGod.' He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like\nme. 'I know, Nikita,' said I. 'Where could he be if not with the Lord God?\nOnly, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.' And\nif only I could look upon him one little time, if only I could peep at him\none little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be\nhidden in a corner and only see him for one little minute, hear him\nplaying in the yard, calling in his little voice, 'Mammy, where are you?'\nIf only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room\njust once, only once; for so often, so often I remember how he used to run\nto me and shout and laugh, if only I could hear his little feet I should\nknow him! But he's gone, Father, he's gone, and I shall never hear him\nagain. Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now.\"\n\nShe drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon\nas she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her\nfingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream.\n\n\"It is Rachel of old,\" said the elder, \"weeping for her children, and will\nnot be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot set on earth for\nyou mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and\nbe not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to\nremember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks\ndown from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and\npoints at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that\ngreat mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your\nbitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart\nand delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child's\nsoul. What was his name?\"\n\n\"Alexey, Father.\"\n\n\"A sweet name. After Alexey, the man of God?\"\n\n\"Yes, Father.\"\n\n\"What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my\nprayers, and I will pray for your husband's health. It is a sin for you to\nleave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his\nfather, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is\nliving, for the soul lives for ever, and though he is not in the house he\nis near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the\nhouse is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together,\nhis father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But\nthen he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother; go this\nvery day.\"\n\n\"I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You've gone straight to my\nheart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me,\" the woman began in a\nsing-song voice; but the elder had already turned away to a very old\nwoman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes\nshowed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something.\nShe said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer, and lived close\nby in the town. Her son Vasenka was in the commissariat service, and had\ngone to Irkutsk in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a\nyear had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she\ndid not know the proper place to inquire.\n\n\"Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna--she's a rich merchant's wife--said\nto me, 'You go, Prohorovna, and put your son's name down for prayer in the\nchurch, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His\nsoul will be troubled,' she said, 'and he will write you a letter.' And\nStepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a certain thing which had been many\ntimes tried. Only I am in doubt.... Oh, you light of ours! is it true or\nfalse, and would it be right?\"\n\n\"Don't think of it. It's shameful to ask the question. How is it possible\nto pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother too! It's a\ngreat sin, akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven you.\nBetter pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help, for his\ngood health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another\nthing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will soon come back to you,\nyour son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in\npeace. Your son is alive, I tell you.\"\n\n\"Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us and\nfor our sins!\"\n\nBut the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon\nhim. An exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young peasant woman was\ngazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to\napproach.\n\n\"What is it, my child?\"\n\n\"Absolve my soul, Father,\" she articulated softly, and slowly sank on her\nknees and bowed down at his feet. \"I have sinned, Father. I am afraid of\nmy sin.\"\n\nThe elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still\non her knees.\n\n\"I am a widow these three years,\" she began in a half-whisper, with a sort\nof shudder. \"I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used\nto beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he were to\nget well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the thought came\nto me--\"\n\n\"Stay!\" said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips.\n\nThe woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to\ncatch anything. She had soon done.\n\n\"Three years ago?\" asked the elder.\n\n\"Three years. At first I didn't think about it, but now I've begun to be\nill, and the thought never leaves me.\"\n\n\"Have you come from far?\"\n\n\"Over three hundred miles away.\"\n\n\"Have you told it in confession?\"\n\n\"I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it.\"\n\n\"Have you been admitted to Communion?\"\n\n\"Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die.\"\n\n\"Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don't fret. If only your penitence\nfail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin\non all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant!\nMan cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God.\nCan there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of\nrepentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe\nthat God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He loves you with your\nsin, in your sin. It has been said of old that over one repentant sinner\nthere is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not.\nBe not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the\ndead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in\ntruth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All\nthings are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even\nas you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will\nGod. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world\nby it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.\"\n\nHe signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little\nikon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking.\n\nHe got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny\nbaby in her arms.\n\n\"From Vyshegorye, dear Father.\"\n\n\"Five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want?\"\n\n\"I've come to look at you. I have been to you before--or have you\nforgotten? You've no great memory if you've forgotten me. They told us you\nwere ill. Thinks I, I'll go and see him for myself. Now I see you, and\nyou're not ill! You'll live another twenty years. God bless you! There are\nplenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?\"\n\n\"I thank you for all, daughter.\"\n\n\"By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty\ncopecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought as\nI came along, better give through him. He'll know whom to give to.\"\n\n\"Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so\ncertainly. Is that your little girl?\"\n\n\"My little girl, Father, Lizaveta.\"\n\n\"May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have\ngladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones.\"\n\nHe blessed them all and bowed low to them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. A Lady Of Little Faith\n\n\nA visitor looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants and\nhis blessing them shed silent tears and wiped them away with her\nhandkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good\ndisposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her at last she\nmet him enthusiastically.\n\n\"Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on at this touching scene!...\" She\ncould not go on for emotion. \"Oh, I understand the people's love for you.\nI love the people myself. I want to love them. And who could help loving\nthem, our splendid Russian people, so simple in their greatness!\"\n\n\"How is your daughter's health? You wanted to talk to me again?\"\n\n\"Oh, I have been urgently begging for it, I have prayed for it! I was\nready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows until\nyou let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent\ngratitude. You have healed my Lise, healed her completely, merely by\npraying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have\nhastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our\nhomage.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair.\"\n\n\"But her night fevers have entirely ceased ever since Thursday,\" said the\nlady with nervous haste. \"And that's not all. Her legs are stronger. This\nmorning she got up well; she had slept all night. Look at her rosy cheeks,\nher bright eyes! She used to be always crying, but now she laughs and is\ngay and happy. This morning she insisted on my letting her stand up, and\nshe stood up for a whole minute without any support. She wagers that in a\nfortnight she'll be dancing a quadrille. I've called in Doctor\nHerzenstube. He shrugged his shoulders and said, 'I am amazed; I can make\nnothing of it.' And would you have us not come here to disturb you, not\nfly here to thank you? Lise, thank him--thank him!\"\n\nLise's pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in\nher chair as far as she could and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands\nbefore him, but could not restrain herself and broke into laughter.\n\n\"It's at him,\" she said, pointing to Alyosha, with childish vexation at\nherself for not being able to repress her mirth.\n\nIf any one had looked at Alyosha standing a step behind the elder, he\nwould have caught a quick flush crimsoning his cheeks in an instant. His\neyes shone and he looked down.\n\n\"She has a message for you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How are you?\" the mother\nwent on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Alyosha.\n\nThe elder turned round and all at once looked attentively at Alyosha. The\nlatter went nearer to Lise and, smiling in a strangely awkward way, held\nout his hand to her too. Lise assumed an important air.\n\n\"Katerina Ivanovna has sent you this through me.\" She handed him a little\nnote. \"She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as possible;\nthat you will not fail her, but will be sure to come.\"\n\n\"She asks me to go and see her? Me? What for?\" Alyosha muttered in great\nastonishment. His face at once looked anxious. \"Oh, it's all to do with\nDmitri Fyodorovitch and--what has happened lately,\" the mother explained\nhurriedly. \"Katerina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she must see you\nabout it.... Why, of course, I can't say. But she wants to see you at\nonce. And you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian duty.\"\n\n\"I have only seen her once,\" Alyosha protested with the same perplexity.\n\n\"Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature! If only for her\nsuffering.... Think what she has gone through, what she is enduring now!\nThink what awaits her! It's all terrible, terrible!\"\n\n\"Very well, I will come,\" Alyosha decided, after rapidly scanning the\nbrief, enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent entreaty that he would\ncome, without any sort of explanation.\n\n\"Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you!\" cried Lise with sudden\nanimation. \"I told mamma you'd be sure not to go. I said you were saving\nyour soul. How splendid you are! I've always thought you were splendid.\nHow glad I am to tell you so!\"\n\n\"Lise!\" said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had said\nit.\n\n\"You have quite forgotten us, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" she said; \"you never\ncome to see us. Yet Lise has told me twice that she is never happy except\nwith you.\"\n\nAlyosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled\nwithout knowing why. But the elder was no longer watching him. He had\nbegun talking to a monk who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his\nentrance by Lise's chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that is\nof the peasant, class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer, and, in\nhis own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from the far\nnorth, from Obdorsk, from Saint Sylvester, and was a member of a poor\nmonastery, consisting of only ten monks. The elder gave him his blessing\nand invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked.\n\n\"How can you presume to do such deeds?\" the monk asked suddenly, pointing\nsolemnly and significantly at Lise. He was referring to her \"healing.\"\n\n\"It's too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not complete cure,\nand may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any healing,\nit is by no power but God's will. It's all from God. Visit me, Father,\" he\nadded to the monk. \"It's not often I can see visitors. I am ill, and I\nknow that my days are numbered.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no! God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long\ntime yet,\" cried the lady. \"And in what way are you ill? You look so well,\nso gay and happy.\"\n\n\"I am extraordinarily better to-day. But I know that it's only for a\nmoment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seem so happy to you,\nyou could never say anything that would please me so much. For men are\nmade for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right to say\nto himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.' All the righteous, all the\nsaints, all the holy martyrs were happy.\"\n\n\"Oh, how you speak! What bold and lofty words!\" cried the lady. \"You seem\nto pierce with your words. And yet--happiness, happiness--where is it? Who\ncan say of himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so good as to\nlet us see you once more to-day, let me tell you what I could not utter\nlast time, what I dared not say, all I am suffering and have been for so\nlong! I am suffering! Forgive me! I am suffering!\"\n\nAnd in a rush of fervent feeling she clasped her hands before him.\n\n\"From what specially?\"\n\n\"I suffer ... from lack of faith.\"\n\n\"Lack of faith in God?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no! I dare not even think of that. But the future life--it is such\nan enigma! And no one, no one can solve it. Listen! You are a healer, you\nare deeply versed in the human soul, and of course I dare not expect you\nto believe me entirely, but I assure you on my word of honor that I am not\nspeaking lightly now. The thought of the life beyond the grave distracts\nme to anguish, to terror. And I don't know to whom to appeal, and have not\ndared to all my life. And now I am so bold as to ask you. Oh, God! What\nwill you think of me now?\"\n\nShe clasped her hands.\n\n\"Don't distress yourself about my opinion of you,\" said the elder. \"I\nquite believe in the sincerity of your suffering.\"\n\n\"Oh, how thankful I am to you! You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself if\nevery one has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say that it\nall comes from terror at the menacing phenomena of nature, and that none\nof it's real. And I say to myself, 'What if I've been believing all my\nlife, and when I come to die there's nothing but the burdocks growing on\nmy grave?' as I read in some author. It's awful! How--how can I get back my\nfaith? But I only believed when I was a little child, mechanically,\nwithout thinking of anything. How, how is one to prove it? I have come now\nto lay my soul before you and to ask you about it. If I let this chance\nslip, no one all my life will answer me. How can I prove it? How can I\nconvince myself? Oh, how unhappy I am! I stand and look about me and see\nthat scarcely any one else cares; no one troubles his head about it, and\nI'm the only one who can't stand it. It's deadly--deadly!\"\n\n\"No doubt. But there's no proving it, though you can be convinced of it.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor actively\nand indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of\nthe reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to\nperfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will\nbelieve without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. This has\nbeen tried. This is certain.\"\n\n\"In active love? There's another question--and such a question! You see, I\nso love humanity that--would you believe it?--I often dream of forsaking all\nthat I have, leaving Lise, and becoming a sister of mercy. I close my eyes\nand think and dream, and at that moment I feel full of strength to\novercome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering sores could at that moment\nfrighten me. I would bind them up and wash them with my own hands. I would\nnurse the afflicted. I would be ready to kiss such wounds.\"\n\n\"It is much, and well that your mind is full of such dreams and not\nothers. Sometime, unawares, you may do a good deed in reality.\"\n\n\"Yes. But could I endure such a life for long?\" the lady went on\nfervently, almost frantically. \"That's the chief question--that's my most\nagonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, 'Would you persevere\nlong on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not\nmeet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing\nor remarking your charitable services, began abusing you and rudely\ncommanding you, and complaining to the superior authorities of you (which\noften happens when people are in great suffering)--what then? Would you\npersevere in your love, or not?' And do you know, I came with horror to\nthe conclusion that, if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it\nwould be ingratitude. In short, I am a hired servant, I expect my payment\nat once--that is, praise, and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise I\nam incapable of loving any one.\"\n\nShe was in a very paroxysm of self-castigation, and, concluding, she\nlooked with defiant resolution at the elder.\n\n\"It's just the same story as a doctor once told me,\" observed the elder.\n\"He was a man getting on in years, and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as\nfrankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. 'I love humanity,' he\nsaid, 'but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the\nless I love man in particular. In my dreams,' he said, 'I have often come\nto making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity, and perhaps I\nmight actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary;\nand yet I am incapable of living in the same room with any one for two\ndays together, as I know by experience. As soon as any one is near me, his\npersonality disturbs my self-complacency and restricts my freedom. In\ntwenty-four hours I begin to hate the best of men: one because he's too\nlong over his dinner; another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing\nhis nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But\nit has always happened that the more I detest men individually the more\nardent becomes my love for humanity.' \"\n\n\"But what's to be done? What can one do in such a case? Must one despair?\"\n\n\"No. It is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can, and it\nwill be reckoned unto you. Much is done already in you since you can so\ndeeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me so\nsincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did from\nme just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the\nachievement of real love; it will all get no further than dreams, and your\nwhole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case you will naturally\ncease to think of the future life too, and will of yourself grow calmer\nafter a fashion in the end.\"\n\n\"You have crushed me! Only now, as you speak, I understand that I was\nreally only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I\ncould not endure ingratitude. You have revealed me to myself. You have\nseen through me and explained me to myself!\"\n\n\"Are you speaking the truth? Well, now, after such a confession, I believe\nthat you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness,\nalways remember that you are on the right road, and try not to leave it.\nAbove all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness\nto yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every\nhour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself.\nWhat seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of\nyour observing it in yourself. Avoid fear, too, though fear is only the\nconsequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own\nfaint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened overmuch even at\nyour evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for\nlove in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams.\nLove in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in\nthe sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does\nnot last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as\nthough on the stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some\npeople too, perhaps, a complete science. But I predict that just when you\nsee with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther\nfrom your goal instead of nearer to it--at that very moment I predict that\nyou will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord who\nhas been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive me for\nnot being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me. Good-by.\"\n\nThe lady was weeping.\n\n\"Lise, Lise! Bless her--bless her!\" she cried, starting up suddenly.\n\n\"She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all along,\"\nthe elder said jestingly. \"Why have you been laughing at Alexey?\"\n\nLise had in fact been occupied in mocking at him all the time. She had\nnoticed before that Alyosha was shy and tried not to look at her, and she\nfound this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye.\nAlyosha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and\nsuddenly drawn to glance at her, and at once she smiled triumphantly in\nhis face. Alyosha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he turned\naway from her altogether and hid behind the elder's back. After a few\nminutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he turned again to see\nwhether he was being looked at or not, and found Lise almost hanging out\nof her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for him to look.\nCatching his eye, she laughed so that the elder could not help saying,\n\"Why do you make fun of him like that, naughty girl?\"\n\nLise suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her\nface became quite serious. She began speaking quickly and nervously in a\nwarm and resentful voice:\n\n\"Why has he forgotten everything, then? He used to carry me about when I\nwas little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to read,\ndo you know. Two years ago, when he went away, he said that he would never\nforget me, that we were friends for ever, for ever, for ever! And now he's\nafraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why doesn't he want to\ncome near me? Why doesn't he talk? Why won't he come and see us? It's not\nthat you won't let him. We know that he goes everywhere. It's not good\nmanners for me to invite him. He ought to have thought of it first, if he\nhasn't forgotten me. No, now he's saving his soul! Why have you put that\nlong gown on him? If he runs he'll fall.\"\n\nAnd suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into irresistible,\nprolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder listened to her with a\nsmile, and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed his hand she suddenly\npressed it to her eyes and began crying.\n\n\"Don't be angry with me. I'm silly and good for nothing ... and perhaps\nAlyosha's right, quite right, in not wanting to come and see such a\nridiculous girl.\"\n\n\"I will certainly send him,\" said the elder.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. So Be It! So Be It!\n\n\nThe elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five\nminutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose account\nthey had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be\nforgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests\nengaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks took the leading\nshare in it. Miuesov, too, was trying to take a part, and apparently very\neagerly, in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was\nevidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect,\nwhich increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with\nIvan before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed\nhim.\n\n\"Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is\nprogressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores us,\"\nhe thought.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had\nactually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Miuesov with\nan ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He had been\nwaiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the\nopportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder he began teasing him again in\na whisper.\n\n\"Why didn't you go away just now, after the 'courteously kissing'? Why did\nyou consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt\ninsulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing\noff your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your\nintellect to them.\"\n\n\"You again?... On the contrary, I'm just going.\"\n\n\"You'll be the last, the last of all to go!\" Fyodor Pavlovitch delivered\nhim another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima's return.\n\nThe discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in\nhis former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to\ngo on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was\nfearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable\nto fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common\nbefore such attacks, and his lips were white. But he evidently did not\nwant to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his\nown in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently.\n\n\"We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article,\" said Father\nIosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan. \"He\nbrings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways.\nIt is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical\nauthority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of\nits jurisdiction.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it,\" said the\nelder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan.\n\n\"He takes up a most interesting position,\" continued the Father Librarian.\n\"As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed\nto the separation of Church from State.\"\n\n\"That's interesting. But in what sense?\" Father Zossima asked Ivan.\n\nThe latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had\nfeared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and apparently\nwithout the slightest _arriere-pensee_.\n\n\"I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of\nthe essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on for\never, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and\nthat the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even\nnormal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it.\nCompromise between the Church and State in such questions as, for\ninstance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking, impossible in any real sense.\nMy clerical opponent maintains that the Church holds a precise and defined\nposition in the State. I maintain, on the contrary, that the Church ought\nto include the whole State, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and,\nif this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in\nreality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future\ndevelopment of Christian society!\"\n\n\"Perfectly true,\" Father Paissy, the silent and learned monk, assented\nwith fervor and decision.\n\n\"The purest Ultramontanism!\" cried Miuesov impatiently, crossing and\nrecrossing his legs.\n\n\"Oh, well, we have no mountains,\" cried Father Iosif, and turning to the\nelder he continued: \"Observe the answer he makes to the following\n'fundamental and essential' propositions of his opponent, who is, you must\nnote, an ecclesiastic. First, that 'no social organization can or ought to\narrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of\nits members.' Secondly, that 'criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to\nbelong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a\ndivine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects,'\nand, finally, in the third place, 'the Church is a kingdom not of this\nworld.' \"\n\n\"A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!\" Father Paissy could\nnot refrain from breaking in again. \"I have read the book which you have\nanswered,\" he added, addressing Ivan, \"and was astounded at the words 'the\nChurch is a kingdom not of this world.' If it is not of this world, then\nit cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the words 'not of this\nworld' are not used in that sense. To play with such words is\nindefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church upon earth.\nThe Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in Heaven; but\nit is only entered through the Church which has been founded and\nestablished upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a\nconnection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in truth, a\nkingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the\nkingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise.\"\n\nHe ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After listening\nattentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the elder with\nperfect composure and as before with ready cordiality:\n\n\"The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first\nthree centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and was\nnothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become\nChristian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included\nthe Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its departments. In\nreality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State retained too much of\nthe pagan civilization and culture, as, for example, in the very objects\nand fundamental principles of the State. The Christian Church entering\ninto the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental\nprinciples--the rock on which it stands--and could pursue no other aims than\nthose which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them\nthat of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State\nitself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future)\nit is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State,\nlike 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for\nreligious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the\ncontrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely\ntransformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church,\nrejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this\nwill not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great\nState, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false,\nstill pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone\nleads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book _On the\nFoundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged correctly if, in\nseeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a\ntemporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and imperfect days. But as\nsoon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations which he\npredicates now, part of which Father Iosif just enumerated, are the\npermanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he is going directly\nagainst the Church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist\nof my article.\"\n\n\"That is, in brief,\" Father Paissy began again, laying stress on each\nword, \"according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the\nnineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State, as\nthough this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to\ndisappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and\ncivilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some corner will\nbe set apart for her in the State, and even that under control--and this\nwill be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes\nand conceptions demand not that the Church should pass as from a lower\ninto a higher type into the State, but, on the contrary, that the State\nshould end by being worthy to become only the Church and nothing else. So\nbe it! So be it!\"\n\n\"Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat,\" Miuesov said smiling, again\ncrossing his legs. \"So far as I understand, then, the realization of such\nan ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ. That's as\nyou please. It's a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition of war,\ndiplomacy, banks, and so on--something after the fashion of socialism,\nindeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the\nChurch might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence them to\nbeating, prison, and even death.\"\n\n\"But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would not\neven now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of\nregarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but\nfairly soon,\" Ivan replied calmly, without flinching.\n\n\"Are you serious?\" Miuesov glanced keenly at him.\n\n\"If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the\ncriminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads,\" Ivan went\non. \"I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off\nthen not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would\nhave transgressed not only against men but against the Church of Christ.\nThis is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is not clearly\nenunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day compromises with\nhis conscience: 'I steal,' he says, 'but I don't go against the Church.\nI'm not an enemy of Christ.' That's what the criminal of to-day is\ncontinually saying to himself, but when the Church takes the place of the\nState it will be difficult for him, in opposition to the Church all over\nthe world, to say: 'All men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are\nthe false Church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian\nChurch.' It will be very difficult to say this to himself; it requires a\nrare combination of unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take\nthe Church's own view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present\nalmost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its\ntainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into\ncompletely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man,\nof his reformation and salvation?\"\n\n\"What do you mean? I fail to understand again,\" Miuesov interrupted. \"Some\nsort of dream again. Something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What\nis excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply\namusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now,\" said the elder suddenly, and\nall turned to him at once. \"If it were not for the Church of Christ there\nwould be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no real\nchastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical\npunishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only\nembitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual one,\nthe only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin\nby conscience.\"\n\n\"How is that, may one inquire?\" asked Miuesov, with lively curiosity.\n\n\"Why,\" began the elder, \"all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and\nformerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly\na single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is\ncontinually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently the\nsecurity of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious member\nis mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal\nalways comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything\ndoes preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform\nthe criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It\nis only by recognizing his wrong-doing as a son of a Christian\nsociety--that is, of the Church--that he recognizes his sin against\nsociety--that is, against the Church. So that it is only against the\nChurch, and not against the State, that the criminal of to-day can\nrecognize that he has sinned. If society, as a Church, had jurisdiction,\nthen it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reunite to\nitself. Now the Church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of\nmoral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the\ncriminal actively. She does not excommunicate him but simply persists in\nmotherly exhortation of him. What is more, the Church even tries to\npreserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to\nchurch services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him\nmore as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the\ncriminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society--that is, the Church--were\nto reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What\nwould become of him if the Church punished him with her excommunication as\nthe direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible\ndespair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have\nfaith. Though, who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen,\nperhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then\nwhat would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother,\nholds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely\npunished already by the civil law, and there must be at least some one to\nhave pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment\nis the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically\nand morally be united to any other judgment even as a temporary\ncompromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign\ncriminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of to-day\nconfirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction\nagainst an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a\nforce that triumphs over him mechanically and (so at least they say of\nthemselves in Europe) accompanies this exclusion with hatred,\nforgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate\nof the erring brother. In this way, it all takes place without the\ncompassionate intervention of the Church, for in many cases there are no\nchurches there at all, for though ecclesiastics and splendid church\nbuildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass\nfrom Church into State and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at\nleast in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State\ninstead of a Church a thousand years ago. And so the criminal is no longer\nconscious of being a member of the Church and sinks into despair. If he\nreturns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself\ninstinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In\nmany cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is\nthat besides the established law courts we have the Church too, which\nalways keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious\nson. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought,\nthe judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is\nstill living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively\nrecognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is\ntrue too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were introduced\nin practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the society were\nchanged into the Church, not only the judgment of the Church would have\ninfluence on the reformation of the criminal such as it never has now, but\npossibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And\nthere can be no doubt that the Church would look upon the criminal and the\ncrime of the future in many cases quite differently and would succeed in\nrestoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in\nregenerating the fallen. It is true,\" said Father Zossima, with a smile,\n\"the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven\nrighteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still\nunshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society\nalmost heathen in character into a single universal and all-powerful\nChurch. So be it, so be it! Even though at the end of the ages, for it is\nordained to come to pass! And there is no need to be troubled about times\nand seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is in the wisdom of\nGod, in His foresight, and His love. And what in human reckoning seems\nstill afar off, may by the Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve\nof its appearance. And so be it, so be it!\"\n\n\"So be it, so be it!\" Father Paissy repeated austerely and reverently.\n\n\"Strange, extremely strange!\" Miuesov pronounced, not so much with heat as\nwith latent indignation.\n\n\"What strikes you as so strange?\" Father Iosif inquired cautiously.\n\n\"Why, it's beyond anything!\" cried Miuesov, suddenly breaking out; \"the\nState is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the State.\nIt's not simply Ultramontanism, it's arch-Ultramontanism! It's beyond the\ndreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!\"\n\n\"You are completely misunderstanding it,\" said Father Paissy sternly.\n\"Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That is\nRome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the\ncontrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and become\na Church over the whole world--which is the complete opposite of\nUltramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious\ndestiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise in the\neast!\"\n\nMiuesov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary\npersonal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his\nlips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole\nconversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Rakitin, who\nwas standing immovable in his place by the door listening and watching\nintently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks\nAlyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited, and he knew\nwhat caused his excitement.\n\n\"Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen,\" Miuesov said\nimpressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. \"Some years ago, soon after\nthe _coup d'etat_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an\nextremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a very\ninteresting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a\ndetective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of\npolitical detectives--a rather powerful position in its own way. I was\nprompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him.\nAnd as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official bringing\na special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he\ndeigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course.\nHe was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know how to be courteous,\nespecially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject\nwas the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will\nquote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. 'We are not\nparticularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these socialists, anarchists,\ninfidels, and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their\ngoings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God\nand are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the\npeople we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who\nis a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.'\nThe words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to\nme here, gentlemen.\"\n\n\"You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?\" Father Paissy\nasked directly, without beating about the bush.\n\nBut before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door\nopened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. They\nhad, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused\nsome surprise for a moment.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. Why Is Such A Man Alive?\n\n\nDmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and\nagreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular, and\nshowed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something\nnot healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and\nthere was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His rather large,\nprominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet\nthere was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking\nirritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed\nsomething else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. \"It's\nhard to tell what he's thinking,\" those who talked to him sometimes\ndeclared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were\nstartled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light-\nhearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain\nstrained look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Every one\nknew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he\nhad been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had\nbeen roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories\ncurrent in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature,\n\"of an unstable and unbalanced mind,\" as our justice of the peace,\nKatchalnikov, happily described him.\n\nHe was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock-\ncoat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only lately left\nthe army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was\ncropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had the long,\ndetermined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the\nthreshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder,\nguessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow, and asked his\nblessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed\nhis hand respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said:\n\n\"Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but\nSmerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my inquiries, told\nme twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn--\"\n\n\"Don't disturb yourself,\" interposed the elder. \"No matter. You are a\nlittle late. It's of no consequence....\"\n\n\"I'm extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness.\"\n\nSaying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his\nfather, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had\nevidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness,\nthinking it his duty to show his respect and good intentions.\n\nAlthough Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the\noccasion. In response to Dmitri's bow he jumped up from his chair and made\nhis son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and\nimpressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed\ngenerally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his\nlong, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near Father\nPaissy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he\nhad interrupted.\n\nDmitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation\nwas resumed. But this time Miuesov thought it unnecessary to reply to\nFather Paissy's persistent and almost irritable question.\n\n\"Allow me to withdraw from this discussion,\" he observed with a certain\nwell-bred nonchalance. \"It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan\nFyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say\nabout that also. Ask him.\"\n\n\"Nothing special, except one little remark,\" Ivan replied at once.\n\"European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often mix\nup the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild\nnotion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only Liberals\nand dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases,\nit appears, the police--the foreign police, of course--do the same. Your\nParis anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch.\"\n\n\"I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether,\" Miuesov repeated.\n\"I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather\ncharacteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five days ago,\nin a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in\nargument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their\nneighbors. That there was no law of nature that man should love mankind,\nand that, if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing\nto a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality.\nIvan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis that the whole natural law lies in\nthat faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in\nimmortality, not only love but every living force maintaining the life of\nthe world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be\nimmoral, everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He\nended by asserting that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not\nbelieve in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be\nchanged into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that\negoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as\nthe inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position.\nFrom this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric\nand paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch's theories.\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" Dmitri cried suddenly; \"if I've heard aright, crime must not\nonly be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the most\nrational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or not?\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said Father Paissy.\n\n\"I'll remember it.\"\n\nHaving uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had\nbegun. Every one looked at him with curiosity.\n\n\"Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the\ndisappearance of the faith in immortality?\" the elder asked Ivan suddenly.\n\n\"Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no\nimmortality.\"\n\n\"You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy.\"\n\n\"Why unhappy?\" Ivan asked smiling.\n\n\"Because, in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality\nof your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on\nChurch jurisdiction.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn't altogether joking,\" Ivan suddenly\nand strangely confessed, flushing quickly.\n\n\"You were not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still\nfretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to\ndivert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair\nitself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with\nmagazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don't believe\nyour own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly....\nThat question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it\nclamors for an answer.\"\n\n\"But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?\" Ivan went on\nasking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable\nsmile.\n\n\"If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in\nthe negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all\nits suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a\nlofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher\nthings, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will\nattain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path.\"\n\nThe elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over\nIvan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went up to\nhim, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in\nsilence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the\npreceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed every\none by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent\nfor a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Alyosha's\nface. But Miuesov suddenly shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment\nFyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his seat.\n\n\"Most pious and holy elder,\" he cried, pointing to Ivan, \"that is my son,\nflesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful Karl\nMoor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against\nwhom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor--they are\nboth out of Schiller's _Robbers_, and so I am the reigning Count von Moor!\nJudge and save us! We need not only your prayers but your prophecies!\"\n\n\"Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of\nyour family,\" answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was\nobviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing.\n\n\"An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!\" cried Dmitri\nindignantly. He too leapt up. \"Forgive it, reverend Father,\" he added,\naddressing the elder. \"I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know\nhow to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have been\ntoo good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a\nscandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive. But\nI believe I know why--\"\n\n\"They all blame me, all of them!\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn.\n\"Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch, you have!\" he turned suddenly to Miuesov, although the\nlatter was not dreaming of interrupting him. \"They all accuse me of having\nhidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them, but isn't there\na court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\nfrom your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you\nhad, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to him.\nBecause they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is in debt to\nme, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary\nproof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries. And where he was\nstationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the\nseduction of some respectable girl; we know all about that, Dmitri\nFyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I'll prove it.... Would you\nbelieve it, holy Father, he has captivated the heart of the most honorable\nof young ladies of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel,\nformerly his superior officer, who had received many honors and had the\nAnna Order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of\nmarriage, now she is an orphan and here; she is betrothed to him, yet\nbefore her very eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress.\nAnd although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage\nwith a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an\nunapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife--for she is\nvirtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch wants to\nopen this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me\nnow, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this\nenchantress already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose.\nFrom whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?\"\n\n\"Be silent!\" cried Dmitri, \"wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence\nto asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should utter a\nword about her is an outrage, and I won't permit it!\"\n\nHe was breathless.\n\n\"Mitya! Mitya!\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a\ntear. \"And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what\nthen?\"\n\n\"Shameless hypocrite!\" exclaimed Dmitri furiously.\n\n\"He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others?\nGentlemen, only fancy; there's a poor but honorable man living here,\nburdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was\ndischarged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no\nslur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the beard in\na tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, and all\nbecause he is an agent in a little business of mine.\"\n\n\"It's all a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!\" Dmitri was\ntrembling with rage. \"Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it\npublicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and\nI'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent\nof yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress, and suggested to\nher from you, that she should take I.O.U.'s of mine which were in your\npossession, and should sue me for the money so as to get me into prison by\nmeans of them, if I persisted in claiming an account from you of my\nproperty. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady when you\nyourself incited her to captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She\ntold me the story and laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison\nbecause you are jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your\nattentions upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you\nfor that as well--you hear--she laughed at you as she described it. So here\nyou have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son!\nGentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would\nonly bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to forgive him if\nhe held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask forgiveness! But as he has\njust this minute insulted not only me, but an honorable young lady, for\nwhom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have\nmade up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father....\"\n\nHe could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with\ndifficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father\nZossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but\nwaited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from\nexcitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up\nhis face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check the\nstorm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to end\nthe scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched them\nintently as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly\nclear to him. At last Miuesov felt completely humiliated and disgraced.\n\n\"We are all to blame for this scandalous scene,\" he said hotly. \"But I did\nnot foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This\nmust be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise\nknowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was unwilling to\nbelieve them, and I learn for the first time.... A father is jealous of\nhis son's relations with a woman of loose behavior and intrigues with the\ncreature to get his son into prison! This is the company in which I have\nbeen forced to be present! I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was\nas much deceived as any one.\"\n\n\"Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an unnatural\nvoice, \"if you were not my son I would challenge you this instant to a\nduel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a handkerchief,\" he\nended, stamping with both feet.\n\nWith old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments when\nthey enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears\nof emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second later,\nthey are able to whisper to themselves, \"You know you are lying, you\nshameless old sinner! You're acting now, in spite of your 'holy' wrath.\"\n\nDmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his\nfather.\n\n\"I thought ... I thought,\" he said, in a soft and, as it were, controlled\nvoice, \"that I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart,\nmy betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved\nprofligate, a despicable clown!\"\n\n\"A duel!\" yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each\nsyllable. \"And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, let me tell you that\nthere has never been in all your family a loftier, and more honest--you\nhear--more honest woman than this 'creature,' as you have dared to call\nher! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your betrothed for that\n'creature,' so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't\nhold a candle to her. That's the woman called a 'creature'!\"\n\n\"Shameful!\" broke from Father Iosif.\n\n\"Shameful and disgraceful!\" Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a boyish\nvoice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment.\n\n\"Why is such a man alive?\" Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a\nhollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed.\n\"Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?\" He looked round\nat every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately.\n\n\"Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch,\nrushing up to Father Iosif. \"That's the answer to your 'shameful!' What is\nshameful? That 'creature,' that 'woman of loose behavior' is perhaps\nholier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation! She\nfell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved much,\nand Christ himself forgave the woman 'who loved much.' \"\n\n\"It was not for such love Christ forgave her,\" broke impatiently from the\ngentle Father Iosif.\n\n\"Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating\ncabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and you\nthink you bribe God with gudgeon.\"\n\n\"This is unendurable!\" was heard on all sides in the cell.\n\nBut this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father\nZossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for\nthe elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting\nhim by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him sank\non his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness,\nbut this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at\nDmitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so\nastounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a\nfaint smile on his lips.\n\n\"Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!\" he said, bowing on all sides to his\nguests.\n\nDmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him--what did\nit mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, \"Oh, God!\" hid his face in his hands,\nand rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in their\nconfusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host. Only the monks went\nup to him again for a blessing.\n\n\"What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or\nwhat?\" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen\nconversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were\nall passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment.\n\n\"I can't answer for a madhouse and for madmen,\" Miuesov answered at once\nill-humoredly, \"but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch,\nand, trust me, for ever. Where's that monk?\"\n\n\"That monk,\" that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the\nSuperior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down\nthe steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them\nall the time.\n\n\"Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to the\nFather Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miuesov, to his reverence,\ntelling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I\nam unable to have the honor of being present at his table, greatly as I\nshould desire to do so,\" Miuesov said irritably to the monk.\n\n\"And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself,\" Fyodor\nPavlovitch cut in immediately. \"Do you hear, Father; this gentleman\ndoesn't want to remain in my company or else he'd come at once. And you\nshall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good\nappetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at\nhome, I don't feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable\nrelative.\"\n\n\"I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!\"\n\n\"I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the\nrelationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling.\nI'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay if you like.\nI'll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the\nFather Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for the disturbance\nwe've been making....\"\n\n\"Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying?\"\n\n\"Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what's happened! Forgive me,\ngentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am\nashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and\nanother the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog\nFido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner, to\ngobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse\nme!\"\n\n\"The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?\" thought Miuesov, still\nhesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The\nlatter turned round, and noticing that Miuesov was watching him, waved him\na kiss.\n\n\"Well, are you coming to the Superior?\" Miuesov asked Ivan abruptly.\n\n\"Why not? I was especially invited yesterday.\"\n\n\"Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner,\"\nsaid Miuesov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the\nmonk was listening. \"We ought, at least, to apologize for the disturbance,\nand explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?\"\n\n\"Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be\nthere,\" observed Ivan.\n\n\"Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!\"\n\nThey all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road\nthrough the copse he made one observation however--that the Father Superior\nhad been waiting a long time, and that they were more than half an hour\nlate. He received no answer. Miuesov looked with hatred at Ivan.\n\n\"Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened,\" he\nthought. \"A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. A Young Man Bent On A Career\n\n\nAlyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It\nwas a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow\niron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner, under\nthe ikons, was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel lying on it. The\nelder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard.\nHe looked intently at Alyosha, as though considering something.\n\n\"Go, my dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed\nthere, go and wait at the Father Superior's table.\"\n\n\"Let me stay here,\" Alyosha entreated.\n\n\"You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and be\nof service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember, my\nson\"--the elder liked to call him that--\"this is not the place for you in\nthe future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery. Go away\nfor good.\"\n\nAlyosha started.\n\n\"What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great\nservice in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will have\nto take a wife, too. You will have to bear _all_ before you come back.\nThere will be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you\nforth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not abandon you.\nYou will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is\nmy last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly.\nRemember my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my\ndays but my hours are numbered.\"\n\nAlyosha's face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth\nquivered.\n\n\"What is it again?\" Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. \"The worldly may\nfollow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who is\ndeparting. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go, and\nmake haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near both.\"\n\nFather Zossima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no\nprotest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover, to\nask the significance of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on the tip\nof his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have\nexplained it unasked if he had thought fit. But evidently it was not his\nwill. That action had made a terrible impression on Alyosha; he believed\nblindly in its mysterious significance. Mysterious, and perhaps awful.\n\nAs he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in\ntime to serve at the Father Superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang at\nhis heart, and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima's\nwords, foretelling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly\nmust infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how\ncould he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing\nhim? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to leave the\nmonastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such anguish. He\nhurried through the copse that divided the monastery from the hermitage,\nand unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient\npines beside the path. He had not far to go--about five hundred paces. He\nexpected to meet no one at that hour, but at the first turn of the path he\nnoticed Rakitin. He was waiting for some one.\n\n\"Are you waiting for me?\" asked Alyosha, overtaking him.\n\n\"Yes,\" grinned Rakitin. \"You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I know;\nhe has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior\nentertained the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I shan't be\nthere, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexey, what\ndoes that vision mean? That's what I want to ask you.\"\n\n\"What vision?\"\n\n\"That bowing to your brother, Dmitri. And didn't he tap the ground with\nhis forehead, too!\"\n\n\"You speak of Father Zossima?\"\n\n\"Yes, of Father Zossima.\"\n\n\"Tapped the ground?\"\n\n\"Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that\nvision mean?\"\n\n\"I don't know what it means, Misha.\"\n\n\"I knew he wouldn't explain it to you! There's nothing wonderful about it,\nof course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in the\nperformance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it and\nspread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To my\nthinking the old man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime. Your\nhouse stinks of it.\"\n\n\"What crime?\"\n\nRakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of.\n\n\"It'll be in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your rich\nold father. So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what may turn\nup. If something happens later on, it'll be: 'Ah, the holy man foresaw it,\nprophesied it!' though it's a poor sort of prophecy, flopping like that.\n'Ah, but it was symbolic,' they'll say, 'an allegory,' and the devil knows\nwhat all! It'll be remembered to his glory: 'He predicted the crime and\nmarked the criminal!' That's always the way with these crazy fanatics;\nthey cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like\nyour elder, he takes a stick to a just man and falls at the feet of a\nmurderer.\"\n\n\"What crime? What murderer? What do you mean?\"\n\nAlyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too.\n\n\"What murderer? As though you didn't know! I'll bet you've thought of it\nbefore. That's interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you always\nspeak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought\nof it or not? Answer.\"\n\n\"I have,\" answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken aback.\n\n\"What? Have you really?\" he cried.\n\n\"I ... I've not exactly thought it,\" muttered Alyosha, \"but directly you\nbegan speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself.\"\n\n\"You see? (And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and your\nbrother Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I'm not mistaken?\"\n\n\"But wait, wait a minute,\" Alyosha broke in uneasily. \"What has led you to\nsee all this? Why does it interest you? That's the first question.\"\n\n\"Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I'll deal with them separately.\nWhat led me to see it? I shouldn't have seen it, if I hadn't suddenly\nunderstood your brother Dmitri, seen right into the very heart of him all\nat once. I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but\npassionate people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd\nrun at your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned\nold sinner, who can never draw the line--if they both let themselves go,\nthey'll both come to grief.\"\n\n\"No, Misha, no. If that's all, you've reassured me. It won't come to\nthat.\"\n\n\"But why are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our Mitya\n(he is stupid, but honest), but he's--a sensualist. That's the very\ndefinition and inner essence of him. It's your father has handed him on\nhis low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you, Alyosha, how you\ncan have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov too, you know! In your\nfamily sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these three\nsensualists are watching one another, with their knives in their belts.\nThe three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may be the\nfourth.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken about that woman. Dmitri--despises her,\" said Alyosha,\nwith a sort of shudder.\n\n\"Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn't despise her. Since he has openly\nabandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something\nhere, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love\nwith some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's\nbody (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own\nchildren for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia,\ntoo. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's\nfaithful, he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their\nfeet in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at\ntheir feet without a thrill--and it's not only their feet. Contempt's no\nhelp here, brother, even if he did despise Grushenka. He does, but he\ncan't tear himself away.\"\n\n\"I understand that,\" Alyosha jerked out suddenly.\n\n\"Really? Well, I dare say you do understand, since you blurt it out at the\nfirst word,\" said Rakitin, malignantly. \"That escaped you unawares, and\nthe confession's the more precious. So it's a familiar subject; you've\nthought about it already, about sensuality, I mean! Oh, you virgin soul!\nYou're a quiet one, Alyosha, you're a saint, I know, but the devil only\nknows what you've thought about, and what you know already! You are pure,\nbut you've been down into the depths.... I've been watching you a long\ntime. You're a Karamazov yourself; you're a thorough Karamazov--no doubt\nbirth and selection have something to answer for. You're a sensualist from\nyour father, a crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it\ntrue, then? Do you know, Grushenka has been begging me to bring you along.\n'I'll pull off his cassock,' she says. You can't think how she keeps\nbegging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you.\nDo you know, she's an extraordinary woman, too!\"\n\n\"Thank her and say I'm not coming,\" said Alyosha, with a strained smile.\n\"Finish what you were saying, Misha. I'll tell you my idea after.\"\n\n\"There's nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old tune,\nbrother. If even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother,\nIvan? He's a Karamazov, too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is\nthat you're all sensual, grasping and crazy! Your brother Ivan writes\ntheological articles in joke, for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own,\nthough he's an atheist, and he admits it's a fraud himself--that's your\nbrother Ivan. He's trying to get Mitya's betrothed for himself, and I\nfancy he'll succeed, too. And what's more, it's with Mitya's consent. For\nMitya will surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her, and escape to\nGrushenka. And he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and\ndisinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the most fatal people! Who the\ndevil can make you out? He recognizes his vileness and goes on with it!\nLet me tell you, too, the old man, your father, is standing in Mitya's way\nnow. He has suddenly gone crazy over Grushenka. His mouth waters at the\nsight of her. It's simply on her account he made that scene in the cell\njust now, simply because Miuesov called her an 'abandoned creature.' He's\nworse than a tom-cat in love. At first she was only employed by him in\nconnection with his taverns and in some other shady business, but now he\nhas suddenly realized all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps\npestering her with his offers, not honorable ones, of course. And they'll\ncome into collision, the precious father and son, on that path! But\nGrushenka favors neither of them, she's still playing with them, and\nteasing them both, considering which she can get most out of. For though\nshe could filch a lot of money from the papa he wouldn't marry her, and\nmaybe he'll turn stingy in the end, and keep his purse shut. That's where\nMitya's value comes in; he has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes,\nready to marry her! to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katerina\nIvanovna, who's rich, and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry\nGrushenka, who has been the mistress of a dissolute old merchant,\nSamsonov, a coarse, uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict\nmay well come to pass from all this, and that's what your brother Ivan is\nwaiting for. It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off\nKaterina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of\nsixty thousand. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no\nconsequence and a beggar. And, take note, he won't be wronging Mitya, but\ndoing him the greatest service. For I know as a fact that Mitya only last\nweek, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud\nthat he was unworthy of his betrothed, Katya, but that his brother Ivan,\nhe was the man who deserved her. And Katerina Ivanovna will not in the end\nrefuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of\nthem already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship\nhim? He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense.\"\n\n\"How do you know? How can you speak so confidently?\" Alyosha asked\nsharply, frowning.\n\n\"Why do you ask, and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you know\nI'm speaking the truth.\"\n\n\"You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money.\"\n\n\"Really? And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money,\nthough a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction.\"\n\n\"Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to any one for thousands. It is\nnot money, it's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is\nseeking.\"\n\n\"What wild dream now? Oh, you--aristocrats!\"\n\n\"Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted\nby a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions,\nbut an answer to their questions.\"\n\n\"That's plagiarism, Alyosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan\nhas set you a problem!\" cried Rakitin, with undisguised malice. His face\nchanged, and his lips twitched. \"And the problem's a stupid one. It is no\ngood guessing it. Rack your brains--you'll understand it. His article is\nabsurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid theory just now: if\nthere's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue, and everything\nis lawful. (And by the way, do you remember how your brother Mitya cried\nout: 'I will remember!') An attractive theory for scoundrels!--(I'm being\nabusive, that's stupid.) Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic _poseurs_,\n'haunted by profound, unsolved doubts.' He's showing off, and what it all\ncomes to is, 'on the one hand we cannot but admit' and 'on the other it\nmust be confessed!' His whole theory is a fraud! Humanity will find in\nitself the power to live for virtue even without believing in immortality.\nIt will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity.\"\n\nRakitin could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as\nthough remembering something, he stopped short.\n\n\"Well, that's enough,\" he said, with a still more crooked smile. \"Why are\nyou laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool?\"\n\n\"No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but ...\nnever mind, I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot about it,\nMisha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent to Katerina\nIvanovna yourself; I've suspected that for a long time, brother, that's\nwhy you don't like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?\"\n\n\"And jealous of her money, too? Won't you add that?\"\n\n\"I'll say nothing about money. I am not going to insult you.\"\n\n\"I believe it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother Ivan\nwith you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart\nfrom Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him? He\ncondescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him?\"\n\n\"I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't\nspeak of you at all.\"\n\n\"But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna's he was\nabusing me for all he was worth--you see what an interest he takes in your\nhumble servant. And which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't\nsay. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for\nthe career of an archimandrite in the immediate future and don't become a\nmonk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid\nmagazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in\nthe end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal\nand atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of\nsocialism, but keeping a sharp look out all the time, that is, keeping in\nwith both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's\naccount, the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the\nproceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the\nend of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my\npublishing offices to it, and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has\neven chosen the place for it, near the new stone bridge across the Neva,\nwhich they say is to be built in Petersburg.\"\n\n\"Ah, Misha, that's just what will really happen, every word of it,\" cried\nAlyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile.\n\n\"You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"No, no, I'm joking, forgive me. I've something quite different in my\nmind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been\nat Katerina Ivanovna's yourself when he was talking about you?\"\n\n\"I wasn't there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it with\nmy own ears; if you want to know, he didn't tell me, but I overheard him,\nunintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenka's bedroom and I\ncouldn't go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch was in the next room.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours.\"\n\n\"A relation! That Grushenka a relation of mine!\" cried Rakitin, turning\ncrimson. \"Are you mad? You're out of your mind!\"\n\n\"Why, isn't she a relation of yours? I heard so.\"\n\n\"Where can you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient,\nnoble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at\nother men's tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor. I may\nbe only a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but\ndon't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honor, too,\nAlexey Fyodorovitch, I couldn't be a relation of Grushenka, a common\nharlot. I beg you to understand that!\"\n\nRakitin was intensely irritated.\n\n\"Forgive me, for goodness' sake, I had no idea ... besides ... how can you\ncall her a harlot? Is she ... that sort of woman?\" Alyosha flushed\nsuddenly. \"I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You\noften go to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I\nnever dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does she\nreally deserve it?\"\n\n\"I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business.\nBut as for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely\nto make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You'd better go to the\nkitchen. Hullo! what's wrong, what is it? Are we late? They can't have\nfinished dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No\ndoubt they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him.\nThey've broken out from the Father Superior's. And look, Father Isidor's\nshouting out something after them from the steps. And your father's\nshouting and waving his arms. I expect he's swearing. Bah, and there goes\nMiuesov driving away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old\nMaximov running!--there must have been a row. There can't have been any\ndinner. Surely they've not been beating the Father Superior! Or have they,\nperhaps, been beaten? It would serve them right!\"\n\nThere was reason for Rakitin's exclamations. There had been a scandalous,\nan unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. The Scandalous Scene\n\n\nMiuesov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward\nqualms, when he reached the Father Superior's with Ivan: he felt ashamed\nof having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that\ndespicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him\nin Father Zossima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. \"The monks\nwere not to blame, in any case,\" he reflected, on the steps. \"And if\nthey're decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand, is a\nnobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue, I'll\nfall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and ... and ... show\nthem that I've nothing to do with that AEsop, that buffoon, that Pierrot,\nand have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they have.\"\n\nHe determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish\nhis claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more\nready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he\nhad indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were.\n\nThese excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father\nSuperior's dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining-\nroom, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were,\nhowever, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima's. But there\nwas no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The\nfurniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the old-fashioned\nstyle of 1820; the floor was not even stained, but everything was shining\nwith cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows; the\nmost sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the\nbeautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone; there\nwere three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of\nexcellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvas--both the latter made in the\nmonastery, and famous in the neighborhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin\nrelated afterwards that there were five dishes: fish-soup made of\nsterlets, served with little fish patties; then boiled fish served in a\nspecial way; then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally,\nblanc-mange. Rakitin found out about all these good things, for he could\nnot resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He\nhad a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of\nan uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable\nabilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he\nwould play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to\nhim, was distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonorable, and\nquite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that\nbecause he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the\nhighest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor any one else could have influenced\nhim in that.\n\nRakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited\nto the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk\nwere the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting\nwhen Miuesov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a\nlittle aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of\nthe room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous\nold man, with black hair streaked with gray, and a long, grave, ascetic\nface. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to\nreceive his blessing. Miuesov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father\nSuperior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov\nwent through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner,\nkissing his hand as peasants do.\n\n\"We must apologize most humbly, your reverence,\" began Miuesov, simpering\naffably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. \"Pardon us for\nhaving come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch. He\nfelt obliged to decline the honor of your hospitality, and not without\nreason. In the reverend Father Zossima's cell he was carried away by the\nunhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out\nof keeping ... in fact, quite unseemly ... as\"--he glanced at the\nmonks--\"your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore,\nrecognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame,\nand begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his\napologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends\nlater. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken\nplace.\"\n\nAs he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miuesov completely recovered his\nself-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He\nfully and sincerely loved humanity again.\n\nThe Father Superior listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight bend\nof the head, replied:\n\n\"I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have\nlearnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen.\"\n\nHe stood before the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent\ntheir heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with\npeculiar fervor.\n\nIt was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It\nmust be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the\nimpossibility of going to dine with the Father Superior as though nothing\nhad happened, after his disgraceful behavior in the elder's cell. Not that\nhe was so very much ashamed of himself--quite the contrary perhaps. But\nstill he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking\ncarriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had\nhardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own\nwords at the elder's: \"I always feel when I meet people that I am lower\nthan all, and that they all take me for a buffoon; so I say let me play\nthe buffoon, for you are, every one of you, stupider and lower than I.\" He\nlonged to revenge himself on every one for his own unseemliness. He\nsuddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, \"Why do you hate\nso and so, so much?\" And he had answered them, with his shameless\nimpudence, \"I'll tell you. He has done me no harm. But I played him a\ndirty trick, and ever since I have hated him.\"\n\nRemembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a\nmoment. His eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. \"Well, since I\nhave begun, I may as well go on,\" he decided. His predominant sensation at\nthat moment might be expressed in the following words, \"Well, there is no\nrehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for all I am worth. I will\nshow them I don't care what they think--that's all!\"\n\nHe told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the\nmonastery and straight to the Father Superior's. He had no clear idea what\nhe would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a\ntouch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to\nobscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally\npunished. In the last resort, he could always restrain himself, and had\nmarveled indeed at himself, on that score, sometimes. He appeared in the\nFather Superior's dining-room, at the moment when the prayer was over, and\nall were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the\ncompany, and laughing his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked\nthem all boldly in the face. \"They thought I had gone, and here I am\nagain,\" he cried to the whole room.\n\nFor one moment every one stared at him without a word; and at once every\none felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was\nabout to happen. Miuesov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame\nof mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died\ndown in his heart revived instantly.\n\n\"No! this I cannot endure!\" he cried. \"I absolutely cannot! and ... I\ncertainly cannot!\"\n\nThe blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond\nthinking of style, and he seized his hat.\n\n\"What is it he cannot?\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, \"that he absolutely\ncannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will\nyou receive me as your guest?\"\n\n\"You are welcome with all my heart,\" answered the Superior. \"Gentlemen!\"\nhe added, \"I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your\ndissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony--with prayer to\nthe Lord at our humble table.\"\n\n\"No, no, it is impossible!\" cried Miuesov, beside himself.\n\n\"Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for\nme, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch,\nI will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what\nyou said about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my\nrelation. That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Here's von Sohn. How are you,\nvon Sohn?\"\n\n\"Do you mean me?\" muttered Maximov, puzzled.\n\n\"Of course I mean you,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. \"Who else? The Father\nSuperior could not be von Sohn.\"\n\n\"But I am not von Sohn either. I am Maximov.\"\n\n\"No, you are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It\nwas a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry--I believe\nthat is what such places are called among you--he was killed and robbed,\nand in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from\nPetersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing him\nup, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the piano.\nSo this is that very von Sohn. He has risen from the dead, hasn't he, von\nSohn?\"\n\n\"What is happening? What's this?\" voices were heard in the group of monks.\n\n\"Let us go,\" cried Miuesov, addressing Kalganov.\n\n\"No, excuse me,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step\ninto the room. \"Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for\nbehaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr\nAlexandrovitch. Miuesov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de noblesse que\nde sincerite_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de sincerite que de\nnoblesse_, and--damn the _noblesse_! That's right, isn't it, von Sohn?\nAllow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet\nI am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of\nhonor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity and nothing\nelse. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son,\nAlexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his welfare, and\nit is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool, I have been\nlistening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to give you the\nlast act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing\nfalls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever.\nNot a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with\nyou. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down\nreverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud.\nCan it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to\nconfess in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it\nwas of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this\nand that ... well, you understand what--sometimes it would not be proper to\ntalk about it--so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be carried\nalong with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first opportunity\nI shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son, Alexey, home.\"\n\nWe must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the weak\nspot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even reached\nthe Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the\ninstitution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid to the\nelders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior, that the\nelders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so on--absurd\ncharges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the spirit of\nfolly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing him on the\ncurrent of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy,\nprompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not understand a\nword of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no\none had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell, so that he\ncould not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from\nconfused memory of old slanders. But as soon as he had uttered his foolish\ntirade, he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to\nprove to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been\ntalking nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word\nhe would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself,\nand plunged forward blindly.\n\n\"How disgraceful!\" cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch.\n\n\"Pardon me!\" said the Father Superior. \"It was said of old, 'Many have\nbegun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And\nhearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and He\nhas sent it to heal my vain soul.' And so we humbly thank you, honored\nguest!\" and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow.\n\n\"Tut--tut--tut--sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old\ngestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them. A\nkiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller's _Robbers_. I\ndon't like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the truth is not to\nbe found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud! Father monks, why do\nyou fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward\nlike that I will come and fast too! No, saintly monk, you try being\nvirtuous in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in\na monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up\naloft for it--you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense, too, Father\nSuperior. What have they got here?\" He went up to the table. \"Old port\nwine, mead brewed by the Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is\nsomething beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought\nout, he he he! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the\nlaborer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it\nfrom his family and the tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy\nfathers.\"\n\n\"This is too disgraceful!\" said Father Iosif.\n\nFather Paissy kept obstinately silent. Miuesov rushed from the room, and\nKalganov after him.\n\n\"Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to see\nyou again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a\nthousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he! No,\nI'll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the\nhumiliation I endured.\" He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm\nof simulated feeling. \"This monastery has played a great part in my life!\nIt has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one,\nagainst me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread stories about me\nall over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age of Liberalism, the\nage of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand, nor a hundred roubles,\nno, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me!\"\n\nIt must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part\nin his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was\nso carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment\nalmost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But\nat that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw back.\n\nThe Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke\nimpressively:\n\n\"It is written again, 'Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh\nupon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who\nhath dishonored thee.' And so will we.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink\nyourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from\nhere for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most\ndutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you\nto stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only\none short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking-pig and\nkasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I've\ncloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don't lose your chance.\" He went out,\nshouting and gesticulating.\n\nIt was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha.\n\n\"Alexey!\" his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. \"You\ncome home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and\nleave no trace behind.\"\n\nAlyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence.\nMeanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about\nto follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by to\nAlyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque\nbuffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly\nappeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being\ntoo late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that\nin his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan's left foot\nwas still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in.\n\"I am going with you!\" he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful laugh\nwith a look of reckless glee in his face. \"Take me, too.\"\n\n\"There!\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. \"Did I not say he was von\nSohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear\nyourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get away\nfrom the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that myself, but\nI am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It\nwill be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet,\nvon Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von\nSohn!\"\n\nBut Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a\nviolent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he\ndid not fall.\n\n\"Drive on!\" Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman.\n\n\"Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?\" Fyodor\nPavlovitch protested.\n\nBut the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply.\n\n\"Well, you are a fellow,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch said again.\n\nAfter a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, \"Why, it was you\ngot up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why\nare you angry now?\"\n\n\"You've talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now,\" Ivan snapped\nsullenly.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes.\n\n\"A drop of brandy would be nice now,\" he observed sententiously, but Ivan\nmade no response.\n\n\"You shall have some, too, when we get home.\"\n\nIvan was still silent.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes.\n\n\"But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike\nit so much, most honored Karl von Moor.\"\n\nIvan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the\nroad. And they did not speak again all the way home.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook III. The Sensualists Chapter I. In The Servants' Quarters\n\n\nThe Karamazovs' house was far from being in the center of the town, but it\nwas not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two\nstories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and\nmight still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little\ncupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor\nPavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. \"One doesn't feel so solitary\nwhen one's left alone in the evening,\" he used to say. It was his habit to\nsend the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up\nalone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Fyodor\nPavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although there was a\nkitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking, and, winter\nand summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The\nhouse was built for a large family; there was room for five times as many,\nwith their servants. But at the time of our story there was no one living\nin the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son Ivan. And in the lodge\nthere were only three servants: old Grigory, and his old wife Marfa, and a\nyoung man called Smerdyakov. Of these three we must say a few words. Of\nold Grigory we have said something already. He was firm and determined and\nwent blindly and obstinately for his object, if once he had been brought\nby any reasons (and they were often very illogical ones) to believe that\nit was immutably right. He was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa\nIgnatyevna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life, yet she\nhad pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set\non leaving Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with\ntheir small savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that \"the\nwoman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest,\" and that they\nought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for \"that was\nnow their duty.\"\n\n\"Do you understand what duty is?\" he asked Marfa Ignatyevna.\n\n\"I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it's our\nduty to stay here I never shall understand,\" Marfa answered firmly.\n\n\"Well, don't understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your\ntongue.\"\n\nAnd so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised them a\nsmall sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too, that he had\nan indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware\nof it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet, though\nhis will was strong enough \"in some of the affairs of life,\" as he\nexpressed it, he found himself, to his surprise, extremely feeble in\nfacing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of\nthem. There are positions in which one has to keep a sharp look out. And\nthat's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigory was a most\ntrustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch\nhad only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigory's intervention,\nand on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it\nwasn't only thrashings that Fyodor Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were\ngraver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Fyodor\nPavlovitch could not have explained the extraordinary craving for some one\nfaithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a\nmoment. It was almost a morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his\nlust, like some noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in\nmoments of drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral\nconvulsion which took an almost physical form. \"My soul's simply quaking\nin my throat at those times,\" he used to say. At such moments he liked to\nfeel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a\nstrong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his\ndebauchery and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to\noverlook all that, not to oppose him, above all, not to reproach him or\nthreaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and, in\ncase of need, to defend him--from whom? From somebody unknown, but terrible\nand dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was _another_ man, an\nold and tried friend, that he might call him in his sick moments merely to\nlook at his face, or, perhaps, exchange some quite irrelevant words with\nhim. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he\nwere angry, he was more dejected. It happened even (very rarely however)\nthat Fyodor Pavlovitch went at night to the lodge to wake Grigory and\nfetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Fyodor Pavlovitch would\nbegin talking about the most trivial matters, and would soon let him go\nagain, sometimes even with a jest. And after he had gone, Fyodor\nPavlovitch would get into bed with a curse and sleep the sleep of the\njust. Something of the same sort had happened to Fyodor Pavlovitch on\nAlyosha's arrival. Alyosha \"pierced his heart\" by \"living with him, seeing\neverything and blaming nothing.\" Moreover, Alyosha brought with him\nsomething his father had never known before: a complete absence of\ncontempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural\nunaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was\na complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family\nties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then\nloved nothing but \"evil.\" When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to\nhimself that he had learnt something he had not till then been willing to\nlearn.\n\nI have mentioned already that Grigory had detested Adelaida Ivanovna, the\nfirst wife of Fyodor Pavlovitch and the mother of Dmitri, and that he had,\non the contrary, protected Sofya Ivanovna, the poor \"crazy woman,\" against\nhis master and any one who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His\nsympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that\neven now, twenty years after, he could not bear a slighting allusion to\nher from any one, and would at once check the offender. Externally,\nGrigory was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words,\nwithout frivolity. It was impossible to tell at first sight whether he\nloved his meek, obedient wife; but he really did love her, and she knew\nit.\n\nMarfa Ignatyevna was by no means foolish; she was probably, indeed,\ncleverer than her husband, or, at least, more prudent than he in worldly\naffairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without question or\ncomplaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual\nsuperiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the\ncourse of their lives, and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The\ngrave and dignified Grigory thought over all his cares and duties alone,\nso that Marfa Ignatyevna had long grown used to knowing that he did not\nneed her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took\nit as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her but once, and then\nonly slightly. Once during the year after Fyodor Pavlovitch's marriage\nwith Adelaida Ivanovna, the village girls and women--at that time\nserfs--were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were\nbeginning \"In the Green Meadows,\" when Marfa, at that time a young woman,\nskipped forward and danced \"the Russian Dance,\" not in the village\nfashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of\nthe rich Miuesov family, in their private theater, where the actors were\ntaught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigory saw how his wife\ndanced, and, an hour later, at home in their cottage he gave her a lesson,\npulling her hair a little. But there it ended: the beating was never\nrepeated, and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing.\n\nGod had not blessed them with children. One child was born but it died.\nGrigory was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When\nAdelaida Ivanovna had run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of three\nyears old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own hands, and\nlooked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan\nand Alyosha, for which the general's widow had rewarded him with a slap in\nthe face; but I have already related all that. The only happiness his own\nchild had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it\nwas born, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six\nfingers. Grigory was so crushed by this, that he was not only silent till\nthe day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring,\nand he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was\nfixed for christening the baby: mean-time Grigory had reached a\nconclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the\nvisitors had arrived, including Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was to stand god-\nfather, he suddenly announced that the baby \"ought not to be christened at\nall.\" He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and\ngazing with dull intentness at the priest.\n\n\"Why not?\" asked the priest with good-humored surprise.\n\n\"Because it's a dragon,\" muttered Grigory.\n\n\"A dragon? What dragon?\"\n\nGrigory did not speak for some time. \"It's a confusion of nature,\" he\nmuttered vaguely, but firmly, and obviously unwilling to say more.\n\nThey laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Grigory prayed\nearnestly at the font, but his opinion of the new-born child remained\nunchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly\ninfant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and\nfor the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a\nfortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its\nlittle coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling\nup the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down to the\nearth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Marfa\nspeak of the baby before him, and, even if Grigory were not present, she\nnever spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of\nthe burial, he devoted himself to \"religion,\" and took to reading the\n_Lives of the Saints_, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and\nalways putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read\naloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of the Book of Job, and had\nsomehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of \"the God-fearing\nFather Isaac the Syrian,\" which he read persistently for years together,\nunderstanding very little of it, but perhaps prizing and loving it the\nmore for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect\nof Flagellants settled in the neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by\nthem, but judged it unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of\ntheological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity.\n\nHe was perhaps predisposed to mysticism. And the birth of his deformed\nchild, and its death, had, as though by special design, been accompanied\nby another strange and marvelous event, which, as he said later, had left\na \"stamp\" upon his soul. It happened that, on the very night after the\nburial of his child, Marfa was awakened by the wail of a new-born baby.\nShe was frightened and waked her husband. He listened and said he thought\nit was more like some one groaning, \"it might be a woman.\" He got up and\ndressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he went down the steps, he\ndistinctly heard groans coming from the garden. But the gate from the yard\ninto the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of\nentering it, for it was enclosed all round by a strong, high fence. Going\nback into the house, Grigory lighted a lantern, took the garden key, and\ntaking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still\npersuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby\ncrying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he\nheard at once that the groans came from the bath-house that stood near the\ngarden gate, and that they were the groans of a woman. Opening the door of\nthe bath-house, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who\nwandered about the streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname\nof Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya (Stinking Lizaveta), had got into the bath-\nhouse and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby\nbeside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But\nher story needs a chapter to itself.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. Lizaveta\n\n\nThere was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and\nconfirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a\ndwarfish creature, \"not five foot within a wee bit,\" as many of the pious\nold women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad,\nhealthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her\neyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered\nabout, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen\nsmock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a\nsort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had\nleaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on\nthe ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard,\ncalled Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with\nsome well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and\ndiseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to\nhim. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look\nafter her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's\nemployers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople,\ntried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and\nsheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her\nup without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral\nporch, and taking off all that had been given her--kerchief, sheepskin,\nskirt or boots--she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock\nas before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the\nprovince, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was\nwounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was\nan idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about\nin nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur\nagain. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At\nlast her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of\nthe religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, every one seemed\nto like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town,\nespecially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into\nstrange houses, and no one drove her away. Every one was kind to her and\ngave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at\nonce drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a\nroll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met.\nSometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it\nto her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted\nanything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop,\nwhere there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on\nher, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by\nthem, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to\nchurch. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle\n(there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a\nkitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up \"at home,\" that\nis at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went\nthere every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People\nwere amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to\nit, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some\nof the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but\nthat is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to\ntime uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud?\n\nIt happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago)\nfive or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late\nhour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the \"back-\nway,\" which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on\neither side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking\npool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and\nburdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped\nto look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness.\nIt occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether\nany one could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so\nforth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was\nimpossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and\ndeclared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a\ncertain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he\nwas overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and\nentertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in\nreality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time\nwhen he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg,\nand, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly\nthat even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The\nrevelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them\neven began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea\neven more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at\nlast they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had\ngone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no\none ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking,\nwith intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying\nto find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a\nterrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than\nFyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band five had\nleft the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much\nrespected civil councilor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could\nhardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it.\nBut rumor pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing\nat him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have\ntroubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud,\nand did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials\nand nobles, whom he entertained so well.\n\nAt the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked\nquarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing some\npeople round to his side. \"It's the wench's own fault,\" he asserted, and\nthe culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and\nwhose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This\nconjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in\nthe neighborhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three\npeople. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular\nsympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A\nwell-to-do merchant's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her\nhouse at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the\nconfinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their\nvigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor\nPavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the\nhigh, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have\nbeen lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The\nmost likely explanation is that it happened naturally--that Lizaveta,\naccustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow\nmanaged to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt\ndown, injuring herself.\n\nGrigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an\nold midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at\ndawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit\ndown, put it on her lap. \"A child of God--an orphan is akin to all,\" he\nsaid, \"and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who\nhas come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no\nmore.\"\n\nSo Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people\nwere not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch\ndid not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted\nvigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at\nhis adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname\nfor the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname.\n\nSo this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was\nliving in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins.\nHe was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but\nI am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these\ncommon menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of\nSmerdyakov in the course of it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Verse\n\n\nAlyosha remained for some time irresolute after hearing the command his\nfather shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness he\ndid not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the kitchen\nto find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set off,\ntrusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt tormenting\nhim. I hasten to add that his father's shouts, commanding him to return\nhome \"with his mattress and pillow\" did not frighten him in the least. He\nunderstood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were merely \"a flourish\"\nto produce an effect. In the same way a tradesman in our town who was\ncelebrating his name-day with a party of friends, getting angry at being\nrefused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery and furniture and tore his\nown and his wife's clothes, and finally broke his windows, all for the\nsake of effect. Next day, of course, when he was sober, he regretted the\nbroken cups and saucers. Alyosha knew that his father would let him go\nback to the monastery next day, possibly even that evening. Moreover, he\nwas fully persuaded that his father might hurt any one else, but would not\nhurt him. Alyosha was certain that no one in the whole world ever would\nwant to hurt him, and, what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him.\nThis was for him an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he\nwent his way without hesitation, relying on it.\n\nBut at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and\nworried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of\na woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the\nnote handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about something.\nThis request and the necessity of going had at once aroused an uneasy\nfeeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all\nthe morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the Father\nSuperior's. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak\nof and what he must answer. And he was not afraid of her simply as a\nwoman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life, from early\nchildhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was\nafraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from\nthe first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times, and\nhad only chanced to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a\nbeautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled\nhim, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased\nthe apprehension itself. The girl's aims were of the noblest, he knew\nthat. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri simply through generosity,\nthough he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Alyosha\nrecognized and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a\nshiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house.\n\nHe reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend,\nwith her, for Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dmitri he was even\nmore certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the reason. And\nso his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great longing to run\nand see his brother Dmitri before that fateful interview. Without showing\nhim the letter, he could talk to him about it. But Dmitri lived a long way\noff, and he was sure to be away from home too. Standing still for a\nminute, he reached a final decision. Crossing himself with a rapid and\naccustomed gesture, and at once smiling, he turned resolutely in the\ndirection of his terrible lady.\n\nHe knew her house. If he went by the High Street and then across the\nmarket-place, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is\nscattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile his father was\nexpecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might be\nunreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So he\ndecided to take a short cut by the back-way, for he knew every inch of the\nground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and crossing\nother people's back-yards, where every one he met knew him and greeted\nhim. In this way he could reach the High Street in half the time.\n\nHe had to pass the garden adjoining his father's, and belonging to a\nlittle tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as\nAlyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had\nbeen a genteel maid-servant in generals' families in Petersburg. Now she\nhad been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed\nup in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had sunk into such\npoverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup\nand bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the young woman came up\nfor soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had\na long train--a fact which Alyosha had learned from Rakitin, who always\nknew everything that was going on in the town. He had forgotten it as soon\nas he heard it, but now, on reaching the garden, he remembered the dress\nwith the train, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought, and came\nupon something quite unexpected.\n\nOver the hurdle in the garden, Dmitri, mounted on something, was leaning\nforward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously afraid to\nutter a word for fear of being overheard. Alyosha ran up to the hurdle.\n\n\"It's a good thing you looked up. I was nearly shouting to you,\" Mitya\nsaid in a joyful, hurried whisper. \"Climb in here quickly! How splendid\nthat you've come! I was just thinking of you!\"\n\nAlyosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the hurdle.\nMitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump. Tucking up\nhis cassock, Alyosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility of a bare-\nlegged street urchin.\n\n\"Well done! Now come along,\" said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper.\n\n\"Where?\" whispered Alyosha, looking about him and finding himself in a\ndeserted garden with no one near but themselves. The garden was small, but\nthe house was at least fifty paces away.\n\n\"There's no one here. Why do you whisper?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"Why do I whisper? Deuce take it!\" cried Dmitri at the top of his voice.\n\"You see what silly tricks nature plays one. I am here in secret, and on\nthe watch. I'll explain later on, but, knowing it's a secret, I began\nwhispering like a fool, when there's no need. Let us go. Over there. Till\nthen be quiet. I want to kiss you.\n\n\n    Glory to God in the world,\n    Glory to God in me ...\n\n\nI was just repeating that, sitting here, before you came.\"\n\nThe garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only\nalong the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples, limes\nand birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space, from\nwhich several hundredweight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden\nwas let out for a few roubles for the summer. There were also plantations\nof raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides; a\nkitchen garden had been planted lately near the house.\n\nDmitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden. There,\nin a thicket of lime-trees and old bushes of black currant, elder,\nsnowball-tree, and lilac, there stood a tumble-down green summer-house,\nblackened with age. Its walls were of lattice-work, but there was still a\nroof which could give shelter. God knows when this summer-house was built.\nThere was a tradition that it had been put up some fifty years before by a\nretired colonel called von Schmidt, who owned the house at that time. It\nwas all in decay, the floor was rotting, the planks were loose, the\nwoodwork smelled musty. In the summer-house there was a green wooden table\nfixed in the ground, and round it were some green benches upon which it\nwas still possible to sit. Alyosha had at once observed his brother's\nexhilarated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of\nbrandy and a wineglass on the table.\n\n\"That's brandy,\" Mitya laughed. \"I see your look: 'He's drinking again!'\nDistrust the apparition.\n\n\n    Distrust the worthless, lying crowd,\n    And lay aside thy doubts.\n\n\nI'm not drinking, I'm only 'indulging,' as that pig, your Rakitin, says.\nHe'll be a civil councilor one day, but he'll always talk about\n'indulging.' Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press you\nto my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world--in reality--in re-al-\ni-ty--(can you take it in?) I love no one but you!\"\n\nHe uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation.\n\n\"No one but you and one 'jade' I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But\nbeing in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet\nhate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit down here by\nthe table and I'll sit beside you and look at you, and go on talking. You\nshall keep quiet and I'll go on talking, for the time has come. But on\nreflection, you know, I'd better speak quietly, for here--here--you can\nnever tell what ears are listening. I will explain everything; as they\nsay, 'the story will be continued.' Why have I been longing for you? Why\nhave I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? (It's five\ndays since I've cast anchor here.) Because it's only to you I can tell\neverything; because I must, because I need you, because to-morrow I shall\nfly from the clouds, because to-morrow life is ending and beginning. Have\nyou ever felt, have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a\npit? That's just how I'm falling, but not in a dream. And I'm not afraid,\nand don't you be afraid. At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It's not\nenjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong\nspirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit--whatever it is! Let us praise\nnature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all\ngreen, it's still summer; four o'clock in the afternoon and the stillness!\nWhere were you going?\"\n\n\"I was going to father's, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna's first.\"\n\n\"To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you?\nHungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my\nribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to\nhave done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent\nany one, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to\nsee father and her.\"\n\n\"Did you really mean to send me?\" cried Alyosha with a distressed\nexpression.\n\n\"Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet,\nbe quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry.\"\n\nDmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead.\n\n\"She's asked you, written to you a letter or something, that's why you're\ngoing to her? You wouldn't be going except for that?\"\n\n\"Here is her note.\" Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked\nthrough it quickly.\n\n\"And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by\nthe back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old\nfishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to\ntell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in heaven I've\ntold already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on\nearth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need, that\nsome one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from\neverything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them,\nand before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says,\n'Do this for me'--some favor never asked before that could only be asked on\none's deathbed--would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?\"\n\n\"I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Make haste! H'm!... Don't be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry\nyourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new\nturning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what\nam I saying to him? As though you didn't understand it. What an ass I am!\nWhat am I saying? 'Be noble, O man!'--who says that?\"\n\nAlyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his work\nlay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the\ntable and his head in his hand. Both were silent.\n\n\"Alyosha,\" said Mitya, \"you're the only one who won't laugh. I should like\nto begin--my confession--with Schiller's _Hymn to Joy_, _An die Freude_! I\ndon't know German, I only know it's called that. Don't think I'm talking\nnonsense because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well,\nbut I need two bottles to make me drunk:\n\n\n    Silenus with his rosy phiz\n    Upon his stumbling ass.\n\n\nBut I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not\nSilenus, though I am strong,(1) for I've made a decision once for all.\nForgive me the pun; you'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to-day.\nDon't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come\nto the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it\ngo?\"\n\nHe raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm:\n\n\n    \"Wild and fearful in his cavern\n     Hid the naked troglodyte,\n     And the homeless nomad wandered\n     Laying waste the fertile plain.\n     Menacing with spear and arrow\n     In the woods the hunter strayed....\n     Woe to all poor wretches stranded\n     On those cruel and hostile shores!\n\n    \"From the peak of high Olympus\n     Came the mother Ceres down,\n     Seeking in those savage regions\n     Her lost daughter Proserpine.\n     But the Goddess found no refuge,\n     Found no kindly welcome there,\n     And no temple bearing witness\n     To the worship of the gods.\n\n    \"From the fields and from the vineyards\n     Came no fruits to deck the feasts,\n     Only flesh of bloodstained victims\n     Smoldered on the altar-fires,\n     And where'er the grieving goddess\n     Turns her melancholy gaze,\n     Sunk in vilest degradation\n     Man his loathsomeness displays.\"\n\n\nMitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha's hand.\n\n\"My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There's a\nterrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble.\nDon't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt\nand drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man--if only I'm\nnot lying. I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that\nman because I am that man myself.\n\n\n    Would he purge his soul from vileness\n    And attain to light and worth,\n    He must turn and cling for ever\n    To his ancient Mother Earth.\n\n\nBut the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I don't\nkiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a\nshepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light\nand joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And\nwhenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's\nalways been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it\nreformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit,\nI go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that\ndegrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of\nthat degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be\nvile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is\nshrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I\nlove Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand.\n\n\n    Joy everlasting fostereth\n    The soul of all creation,\n    It is her secret ferment fires\n    The cup of life with flame.\n    'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned\n    Each blade towards the light\n    And solar systems have evolved\n    From chaos and dark night,\n    Filling the realms of boundless space\n    Beyond the sage's sight.\n    At bounteous Nature's kindly breast,\n    All things that breathe drink Joy,\n    And birds and beasts and creeping things\n    All follow where She leads.\n    Her gifts to man are friends in need,\n    The wreath, the foaming must,\n    To angels--vision of God's throne,\n    To insects--sensual lust.\n\n\nBut enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that\nevery one would laugh at. But you won't laugh. Your eyes are shining, too.\nEnough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave\n\"sensual lust.\"\n\n\n    To insects--sensual lust.\n\n\nI am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we\nKaramazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in\nyou, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because\nsensual lust is a tempest--worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and\nawful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can\nbe fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet\nand all contradictions exist side by side. I am not a cultivated man,\nbrother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries\nthere are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as\nwe can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can't endure\nthe thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of\nthe Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is\nthat a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal\nof the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on\nfire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too\nbroad, indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of\nit! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart.\nIs there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind\nbeauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is\nthat beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are\nfighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always\ntalks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Anecdote\n\n\n\"I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent several\nthousand roubles in seducing young girls. That's a swinish invention, and\nthere was nothing of the sort. And if there was, I didn't need money\nsimply for _that_. With me money is an accessory, the overflow of my\nheart, the framework. To-day she would be my lady, to-morrow a wench out\nof the streets in her place. I entertained them both. I threw away money\nby the handful on music, rioting, and gypsies. Sometimes I gave it to the\nladies, too, for they'll take it greedily, that must be admitted, and be\npleased and thankful for it. Ladies used to be fond of me: not all of\nthem, but it happened, it happened. But I always liked side-paths, little\ndark back-alleys behind the main road--there one finds adventures and\nsurprises, and precious metal in the dirt. I am speaking figuratively,\nbrother. In the town I was in, there were no such back-alleys in the\nliteral sense, but morally there were. If you were like me, you'd know\nwhat that means. I loved vice, I loved the ignominy of vice. I loved\ncruelty; am I not a bug, am I not a noxious insect? In fact a Karamazov!\nOnce we went, a whole lot of us, for a picnic, in seven sledges. It was\ndark, it was winter, and I began squeezing a girl's hand, and forced her\nto kiss me. She was the daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle,\nsubmissive creature. She allowed me, she allowed me much in the dark. She\nthought, poor thing, that I should come next day to make her an offer (I\nwas looked upon as a good match, too). But I didn't say a word to her for\nfive months. I used to see her in a corner at dances (we were always\nhaving dances), her eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire--a\nfire of gentle indignation. This game only tickled that insect lust I\ncherished in my soul. Five months later she married an official and left\nthe town, still angry, and still, perhaps, in love with me. Now they live\nhappily. Observe that I told no one. I didn't boast of it. Though I'm full\nof low desires, and love what's low, I'm not dishonorable. You're\nblushing; your eyes flashed. Enough of this filth with you. And all this\nwas nothing much--wayside blossoms _a la_ Paul de Kock--though the cruel\ninsect had already grown strong in my soul. I've a perfect album of\nreminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings. I tried to break it\noff without quarreling. And I never gave them away. I never bragged of one\nof them. But that's enough. You can't suppose I brought you here simply to\ntalk of such nonsense. No, I'm going to tell you something more curious;\nand don't be surprised that I'm glad to tell you, instead of being\nashamed.\"\n\n\"You say that because I blushed,\" Alyosha said suddenly. \"I wasn't\nblushing at what you were saying or at what you've done. I blushed because\nI am the same as you are.\"\n\n\"You? Come, that's going a little too far!\"\n\n\"No, it's not too far,\" said Alyosha warmly (obviously the idea was not a\nnew one). \"The ladder's the same. I'm at the bottom step, and you're\nabove, somewhere about the thirteenth. That's how I see it. But it's all\nthe same. Absolutely the same in kind. Any one on the bottom step is bound\nto go up to the top one.\"\n\n\"Then one ought not to step on at all.\"\n\n\"Any one who can help it had better not.\"\n\n\"But can you?\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\n\"Hush, Alyosha, hush, darling! I could kiss your hand, you touch me so.\nThat rogue Grushenka has an eye for men. She told me once that she'd\ndevour you one day. There, there, I won't! From this field of corruption\nfouled by flies, let's pass to my tragedy, also befouled by flies, that is\nby every sort of vileness. Although the old man told lies about my\nseducing innocence, there really was something of the sort in my tragedy,\nthough it was only once, and then it did not come off. The old man who has\nreproached me with what never happened does not even know of this fact; I\nnever told any one about it. You're the first, except Ivan, of course--Ivan\nknows everything. He knew about it long before you. But Ivan's a tomb.\"\n\n\"Ivan's a tomb?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nAlyosha listened with great attention.\n\n\"I was lieutenant in a line regiment, but still I was under supervision,\nlike a kind of convict. Yet I was awfully well received in the little\ntown. I spent money right and left. I was thought to be rich; I thought so\nmyself. But I must have pleased them in other ways as well. Although they\nshook their heads over me, they liked me. My colonel, who was an old man,\ntook a sudden dislike to me. He was always down upon me, but I had\npowerful friends, and, moreover, all the town was on my side, so he\ncouldn't do me much harm. I was in fault myself for refusing to treat him\nwith proper respect. I was proud. This obstinate old fellow, who was\nreally a very good sort, kind-hearted and hospitable, had had two wives,\nboth dead. His first wife, who was of a humble family, left a daughter as\nunpretentious as herself. She was a young woman of four and twenty when I\nwas there, and was living with her father and an aunt, her mother's\nsister. The aunt was simple and illiterate; the niece was simple but\nlively. I like to say nice things about people. I never knew a woman of\nmore charming character than Agafya--fancy, her name was Agafya Ivanovna!\nAnd she wasn't bad-looking either, in the Russian style: tall, stout, with\na full figure, and beautiful eyes, though a rather coarse face. She had\nnot married, although she had had two suitors. She refused them, but was\nas cheerful as ever. I was intimate with her, not in 'that' way, it was\npure friendship. I have often been friendly with women quite innocently. I\nused to talk to her with shocking frankness, and she only laughed. Many\nwomen like such freedom, and she was a girl too, which made it very\namusing. Another thing, one could never think of her as a young lady. She\nand her aunt lived in her father's house with a sort of voluntary\nhumility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She was\na general favorite, and of use to every one, for she was a clever\ndressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely without\nasking for payment, but if any one offered her payment, she didn't refuse.\nThe colonel, of course, was a very different matter. He was one of the\nchief personages in the district. He kept open house, entertained the\nwhole town, gave suppers and dances. At the time I arrived and joined the\nbattalion, all the town was talking of the expected return of the\ncolonel's second daughter, a great beauty, who had just left a fashionable\nschool in the capital. This second daughter is Katerina Ivanovna, and she\nwas the child of the second wife, who belonged to a distinguished\ngeneral's family; although, as I learnt on good authority, she too brought\nthe colonel no money. She had connections, and that was all. There may\nhave been expectations, but they had come to nothing.\n\n\"Yet, when the young lady came from boarding-school on a visit, the whole\ntown revived. Our most distinguished ladies--two 'Excellencies' and a\ncolonel's wife--and all the rest following their lead, at once took her up\nand gave entertainments in her honor. She was the belle of the balls and\npicnics, and they got up _tableaux vivants_ in aid of distressed\ngovernesses. I took no notice, I went on as wildly as before, and one of\nmy exploits at the time set all the town talking. I saw her eyes taking my\nmeasure one evening at the battery commander's, but I didn't go up to her,\nas though I disdained her acquaintance. I did go up and speak to her at an\nevening party not long after. She scarcely looked at me, and compressed\nher lips scornfully. 'Wait a bit. I'll have my revenge,' thought I. I\nbehaved like an awful fool on many occasions at that time, and I was\nconscious of it myself. What made it worse was that I felt that 'Katenka'\nwas not an innocent boarding-school miss, but a person of character, proud\nand really high-principled; above all, she had education and intellect,\nand I had neither. You think I meant to make her an offer? No, I simply\nwanted to revenge myself, because I was such a hero and she didn't seem to\nfeel it.\n\n\"Meanwhile, I spent my time in drink and riot, till the lieutenant-colonel\nput me under arrest for three days. Just at that time father sent me six\nthousand roubles in return for my sending him a deed giving up all claims\nupon him--settling our accounts, so to speak, and saying that I wouldn't\nexpect anything more. I didn't understand a word of it at the time. Until\nI came here, Alyosha, till the last few days, indeed, perhaps even now, I\nhaven't been able to make head or tail of my money affairs with father.\nBut never mind that, we'll talk of it later.\n\n\"Just as I received the money, I got a letter from a friend telling me\nsomething that interested me immensely. The authorities, I learnt, were\ndissatisfied with our lieutenant-colonel. He was suspected of\nirregularities; in fact, his enemies were preparing a surprise for him.\nAnd then the commander of the division arrived, and kicked up the devil of\na shindy. Shortly afterwards he was ordered to retire. I won't tell you\nhow it all happened. He had enemies certainly. Suddenly there was a marked\ncoolness in the town towards him and all his family. His friends all\nturned their backs on him. Then I took my first step. I met Agafya\nIvanovna, with whom I'd always kept up a friendship, and said, 'Do you\nknow there's a deficit of 4,500 roubles of government money in your\nfather's accounts?'\n\n\" 'What do you mean? What makes you say so? The general was here not long\nago, and everything was all right.'\n\n\" 'Then it was, but now it isn't.'\n\n\"She was terribly scared.\n\n\" 'Don't frighten me!' she said. 'Who told you so?'\n\n\" 'Don't be uneasy,' I said, 'I won't tell any one. You know I'm as silent\nas the tomb. I only wanted, in view of \"possibilities,\" to add, that when\nthey demand that 4,500 roubles from your father, and he can't produce it,\nhe'll be tried, and made to serve as a common soldier in his old age,\nunless you like to send me your young lady secretly. I've just had money\npaid me. I'll give her four thousand, if you like, and keep the secret\nreligiously.'\n\n\" 'Ah, you scoundrel!'--that's what she said. 'You wicked scoundrel! How\ndare you!'\n\n\"She went away furiously indignant, while I shouted after her once more\nthat the secret should be kept sacred. Those two simple creatures, Agafya\nand her aunt, I may as well say at once, behaved like perfect angels all\nthrough this business. They genuinely adored their 'Katya,' thought her\nfar above them, and waited on her, hand and foot. But Agafya told her of\nour conversation. I found that out afterwards. She didn't keep it back,\nand of course that was all I wanted.\n\n\"Suddenly the new major arrived to take command of the battalion. The old\nlieutenant-colonel was taken ill at once, couldn't leave his room for two\ndays, and didn't hand over the government money. Dr. Kravchenko declared\nthat he really was ill. But I knew for a fact, and had known for a long\ntime, that for the last four years the money had never been in his hands\nexcept when the Commander made his visits of inspection. He used to lend\nit to a trustworthy person, a merchant of our town called Trifonov, an old\nwidower, with a big beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. He used to go to the\nfair, do a profitable business with the money, and return the whole sum to\nthe colonel, bringing with it a present from the fair, as well as interest\non the loan. But this time (I heard all about it quite by chance from\nTrifonov's son and heir, a driveling youth and one of the most vicious in\nthe world)--this time, I say, Trifonov brought nothing back from the fair.\nThe lieutenant-colonel flew to him. 'I've never received any money from\nyou, and couldn't possibly have received any.' That was all the answer he\ngot. So now our lieutenant-colonel is confined to the house, with a towel\nround his head, while they're all three busy putting ice on it. All at\nonce an orderly arrives on the scene with the book and the order to 'hand\nover the battalion money immediately, within two hours.' He signed the\nbook (I saw the signature in the book afterwards), stood up, saying he\nwould put on his uniform, ran to his bedroom, loaded his double-barreled\ngun with a service bullet, took the boot off his right foot, fixed the gun\nagainst his chest, and began feeling for the trigger with his foot. But\nAgafya, remembering what I had told her, had her suspicions. She stole up\nand peeped into the room just in time. She rushed in, flung herself upon\nhim from behind, threw her arms round him, and the gun went off, hit the\nceiling, but hurt no one. The others ran in, took away the gun, and held\nhim by the arms. I heard all about this afterwards. I was at home, it was\ngetting dusk, and I was just preparing to go out. I had dressed, brushed\nmy hair, scented my handkerchief, and taken up my cap, when suddenly the\ndoor opened, and facing me in the room stood Katerina Ivanovna.\n\n\"It's strange how things happen sometimes. No one had seen her in the\nstreet, so that no one knew of it in the town. I lodged with two decrepit\nold ladies, who looked after me. They were most obliging old things, ready\nto do anything for me, and at my request were as silent afterwards as two\ncast-iron posts. Of course I grasped the position at once. She walked in\nand looked straight at me, her dark eyes determined, even defiant, but on\nher lips and round her mouth I saw uncertainty.\n\n\" 'My sister told me,' she began, 'that you would give me 4,500 roubles if\nI came to you for it--myself. I have come ... give me the money!'\n\n\"She couldn't keep it up. She was breathless, frightened, her voice failed\nher, and the corners of her mouth and the lines round it quivered.\nAlyosha, are you listening, or are you asleep?\"\n\n\"Mitya, I know you will tell the whole truth,\" said Alyosha in agitation.\n\n\"I am telling it. If I tell the whole truth just as it happened I shan't\nspare myself. My first idea was a--Karamazov one. Once I was bitten by a\ncentipede, brother, and laid up a fortnight with fever from it. Well, I\nfelt a centipede biting at my heart then--a noxious insect, you understand?\nI looked her up and down. You've seen her? She's a beauty. But she was\nbeautiful in another way then. At that moment she was beautiful because\nshe was noble, and I was a scoundrel; she in all the grandeur of her\ngenerosity and sacrifice for her father, and I--a bug! And, scoundrel as I\nwas, she was altogether at my mercy, body and soul. She was hemmed in. I\ntell you frankly, that thought, that venomous thought, so possessed my\nheart that it almost swooned with suspense. It seemed as if there could be\nno resisting it; as though I should act like a bug, like a venomous\nspider, without a spark of pity. I could scarcely breathe. Understand, I\nshould have gone next day to ask for her hand, so that it might end\nhonorably, so to speak, and that nobody would or could know. For though\nI'm a man of base desires, I'm honest. And at that very second some voice\nseemed to whisper in my ear, 'But when you come to-morrow to make your\nproposal, that girl won't even see you; she'll order her coachman to kick\nyou out of the yard. \"Publish it through all the town,\" she would say,\n\"I'm not afraid of you.\" ' I looked at the young lady, my voice had not\ndeceived me. That is how it would be, not a doubt of it. I could see from\nher face now that I should be turned out of the house. My spite was\nroused. I longed to play her the nastiest swinish cad's trick: to look at\nher with a sneer, and on the spot where she stood before me to stun her\nwith a tone of voice that only a shopman could use.\n\n\" 'Four thousand! What do you mean? I was joking. You've been counting\nyour chickens too easily, madam. Two hundred, if you like, with all my\nheart. But four thousand is not a sum to throw away on such frivolity.\nYou've put yourself out to no purpose.'\n\n\"I should have lost the game, of course. She'd have run away. But it would\nhave been an infernal revenge. It would have been worth it all. I'd have\nhowled with regret all the rest of my life, only to have played that\ntrick. Would you believe it, it has never happened to me with any other\nwoman, not one, to look at her at such a moment with hatred. But, on my\noath, I looked at her for three seconds, or five perhaps, with fearful\nhatred--that hate which is only a hair's-breadth from love, from the\nmaddest love!\n\n\"I went to the window, put my forehead against the frozen pane, and I\nremember the ice burnt my forehead like fire. I did not keep her long,\ndon't be afraid. I turned round, went up to the table, opened the drawer\nand took out a banknote for five thousand roubles (it was lying in a\nFrench dictionary). Then I showed it her in silence, folded it, handed it\nto her, opened the door into the passage, and, stepping back, made her a\ndeep bow, a most respectful, a most impressive bow, believe me! She\nshuddered all over, gazed at me for a second, turned horribly pale--white\nas a sheet, in fact--and all at once, not impetuously but softly, gently,\nbowed down to my feet--not a boarding-school curtsey, but a Russian bow,\nwith her forehead to the floor. She jumped up and ran away. I was wearing\nmy sword. I drew it and nearly stabbed myself with it on the spot; why, I\ndon't know. It would have been frightfully stupid, of course. I suppose it\nwas from delight. Can you understand that one might kill oneself from\ndelight? But I didn't stab myself. I only kissed my sword and put it back\nin the scabbard--which there was no need to have told you, by the way. And\nI fancy that in telling you about my inner conflict I have laid it on\nrather thick to glorify myself. But let it pass, and to hell with all who\npry into the human heart! Well, so much for that 'adventure' with Katerina\nIvanovna. So now Ivan knows of it, and you--no one else.\"\n\nDmitri got up, took a step or two in his excitement, pulled out his\nhandkerchief and mopped his forehead, then sat down again, not in the same\nplace as before, but on the opposite side, so that Alyosha had to turn\nquite round to face him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--\"Heels Up\"\n\n\n\"Now,\" said Alyosha, \"I understand the first half.\"\n\n\"You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played\nout there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here.\"\n\n\"And I understand nothing of that second half so far,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"And I? Do you suppose I understand it?\"\n\n\"Stop, Dmitri. There's one important question. Tell me, you were\nbetrothed, you are betrothed still?\"\n\n\"We weren't betrothed at once, not for three months after that adventure.\nThe next day I told myself that the incident was closed, concluded, that\nthere would be no sequel. It seemed to me caddish to make her an offer. On\nher side she gave no sign of life for the six weeks that she remained in\nthe town; except, indeed, for one action. The day after her visit the\nmaid-servant slipped round with an envelope addressed to me. I tore it\nopen: it contained the change out of the banknote. Only four thousand five\nhundred roubles was needed, but there was a discount of about two hundred\non changing it. She only sent me about two hundred and sixty. I don't\nremember exactly, but not a note, not a word of explanation. I searched\nthe packet for a pencil mark--n-nothing! Well, I spent the rest of the\nmoney on such an orgy that the new major was obliged to reprimand me.\n\n\"Well, the lieutenant-colonel produced the battalion money, to the\nastonishment of every one, for nobody believed that he had the money\nuntouched. He'd no sooner paid it than he fell ill, took to his bed, and,\nthree weeks later, softening of the brain set in, and he died five days\nafterwards. He was buried with military honors, for he had not had time to\nreceive his discharge. Ten days after his funeral, Katerina Ivanovna, with\nher aunt and sister, went to Moscow. And, behold, on the very day they\nwent away (I hadn't seen them, didn't see them off or take leave) I\nreceived a tiny note, a sheet of thin blue paper, and on it only one line\nin pencil: 'I will write to you. Wait. K.' And that was all.\n\n\"I'll explain the rest now, in two words. In Moscow their fortunes changed\nwith the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an Arabian\nfairy-tale. That general's widow, their nearest relation, suddenly lost\nthe two nieces who were her heiresses and next-of-kin--both died in the\nsame week of small-pox. The old lady, prostrated with grief, welcomed\nKatya as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will in\nKatya's favor. But that concerned the future. Meanwhile she gave her, for\npresent use, eighty thousand roubles, as a marriage portion, to do what\nshe liked with. She was an hysterical woman. I saw something of her in\nMoscow, later.\n\n\"Well, suddenly I received by post four thousand five hundred roubles. I\nwas speechless with surprise, as you may suppose. Three days later came\nthe promised letter. I have it with me now. You must read it. She offers\nto be my wife, offers herself to me. 'I love you madly,' she says, 'even\nif you don't love me, never mind. Be my husband. Don't be afraid. I won't\nhamper you in any way. I will be your chattel. I will be the carpet under\nyour feet. I want to love you for ever. I want to save you from yourself.'\nAlyosha, I am not worthy to repeat those lines in my vulgar words and in\nmy vulgar tone, my everlastingly vulgar tone, that I can never cure myself\nof. That letter stabs me even now. Do you think I don't mind--that I don't\nmind still? I wrote her an answer at once, as it was impossible for me to\ngo to Moscow. I wrote to her with tears. One thing I shall be ashamed of\nfor ever. I referred to her being rich and having a dowry while I was only\na stuck-up beggar! I mentioned money! I ought to have borne it in silence,\nbut it slipped from my pen. Then I wrote at once to Ivan, and told him all\nI could about it in a letter of six pages, and sent him to her. Why do you\nlook like that? Why are you staring at me? Yes, Ivan fell in love with\nher; he's in love with her still. I know that. I did a stupid thing, in\nthe world's opinion; but perhaps that one stupid thing may be the saving\nof us all now. Oo! Don't you see what a lot she thinks of Ivan, how she\nrespects him? When she compares us, do you suppose she can love a man like\nme, especially after all that has happened here?\"\n\n\"But I am convinced that she does love a man like you, and not a man like\nhim.\"\n\n\"She loves her own _virtue_, not me.\" The words broke involuntarily, and\nalmost malignantly, from Dmitri. He laughed, but a minute later his eyes\ngleamed, he flushed crimson and struck the table violently with his fist.\n\n\"I swear, Alyosha,\" he cried, with intense and genuine anger at himself;\n\"you may not believe me, but as God is holy, and as Christ is God, I swear\nthat though I smiled at her lofty sentiments just now, I know that I am a\nmillion times baser in soul than she, and that these lofty sentiments of\nhers are as sincere as a heavenly angel's. That's the tragedy of it--that I\nknow that for certain. What if any one does show off a bit? Don't I do it\nmyself? And yet I'm sincere, I'm sincere. As for Ivan, I can understand\nhow he must be cursing nature now--with his intellect, too! To see the\npreference given--to whom, to what? To a monster who, though he is\nbetrothed and all eyes are fixed on him, can't restrain his\ndebaucheries--and before the very eyes of his betrothed! And a man like me\nis preferred, while he is rejected. And why? Because a girl wants to\nsacrifice her life and destiny out of gratitude. It's ridiculous! I've\nnever said a word of this to Ivan, and Ivan of course has never dropped a\nhint of the sort to me. But destiny will be accomplished, and the best man\nwill hold his ground while the undeserving one will vanish into his back-\nalley for ever--his filthy back-alley, his beloved back-alley, where he is\nat home and where he will sink in filth and stench at his own free will\nand with enjoyment. I've been talking foolishly. I've no words left. I use\nthem at random, but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back-\nalley, and she will marry Ivan.\"\n\n\"Stop, Dmitri,\" Alyosha interrupted again with great anxiety. \"There's one\nthing you haven't made clear yet: you are still betrothed all the same,\naren't you? How can you break off the engagement if she, your betrothed,\ndoesn't want to?\"\n\n\"Yes, formally and solemnly betrothed. It was all done on my arrival in\nMoscow, with great ceremony, with ikons, all in fine style. The general's\nwife blessed us, and--would you believe it?--congratulated Katya. 'You've\nmade a good choice,' she said, 'I see right through him.' And--would you\nbelieve it?--she didn't like Ivan, and hardly greeted him. I had a lot of\ntalk with Katya in Moscow. I told her about myself--sincerely, honorably.\nShe listened to everything.\n\n\n    There was sweet confusion,\n    There were tender words.\n\n\nThough there were proud words, too. She wrung out of me a mighty promise\nto reform. I gave my promise, and here--\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Why, I called to you and brought you out here to-day, this very\nday--remember it--to send you--this very day again--to Katerina Ivanovna,\nand--\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"To tell her that I shall never come to see her again. Say, 'He sends you\nhis compliments.' \"\n\n\"But is that possible?\"\n\n\"That's just the reason I'm sending you, in my place, because it's\nimpossible. And, how could I tell her myself?\"\n\n\"And where are you going?\"\n\n\"To the back-alley.\"\n\n\"To Grushenka, then!\" Alyosha exclaimed mournfully, clasping his hands.\n\"Can Rakitin really have told the truth? I thought that you had just\nvisited her, and that was all.\"\n\n\"Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible and with\nsuch a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the world? Confound it, I\nhave some honor! As soon as I began visiting Grushenka, I ceased to be\nbetrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look at\nme? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and I\nknow for a fact now, that that captain, father's agent, had given\nGrushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put an\nend to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a\nglimpse of her before. She doesn't strike one at first sight. I knew about\nher old merchant, who's lying ill now, paralyzed; but he's leaving her a\ndecent little sum. I knew, too, that she was fond of money, that she\nhoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest, that she's a\nmerciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I stayed. The storm\nbroke--it struck me down like the plague. I'm plague-stricken still, and I\nknow that everything is over, that there will never be anything more for\nme. The cycle of the ages is accomplished. That's my position. And though\nI'm a beggar, as fate would have it, I had three thousand just then in my\npocket. I drove with Grushenka to Mokroe, a place twenty-five versts from\nhere. I got gypsies there and champagne and made all the peasants there\ndrunk on it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In\nthree days' time I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero\nhad gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue,\nGrushenka, has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her\nlittle foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it, but that was\nall, I swear! 'I'll marry you if you like,' she said, 'you're a beggar,\nyou know. Say that you won't beat me, and will let me do anything I\nchoose, and perhaps I will marry you.' She laughed, and she's laughing\nstill!\"\n\nDmitri leapt up with a sort of fury. He seemed all at once as though he\nwere drunk. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot.\n\n\"And do you really mean to marry her?\"\n\n\"At once, if she will. And if she won't, I shall stay all the same. I'll\nbe the porter at her gate. Alyosha!\" he cried. He stopped short before\nhim, and taking him by the shoulders began shaking him violently. \"Do you\nknow, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium, senseless delirium, for\nthere's a tragedy here. Let me tell you, Alexey, that I may be a low man,\nwith low and degraded passions, but a thief and a pickpocket Dmitri\nKaramazov never can be. Well, then; let me tell you that I am a thief and\na pickpocket. That very morning, just before I went to beat Grushenka,\nKaterina Ivanovna sent for me, and in strict secrecy (why I don't know, I\nsuppose she had some reason) asked me to go to the chief town of the\nprovince and to post three thousand roubles to Agafya Ivanovna in Moscow,\nso that nothing should be known of it in the town here. So I had that\nthree thousand roubles in my pocket when I went to see Grushenka, and it\nwas that money we spent at Mokroe. Afterwards I pretended I had been to\nthe town, but did not show her the post office receipt. I said I had sent\nthe money and would bring the receipt, and so far I haven't brought it.\nI've forgotten it. Now what do you think you're going to her to-day to\nsay? 'He sends his compliments,' and she'll ask you, 'What about the\nmoney?' You might still have said to her, 'He's a degraded sensualist, and\na low creature, with uncontrolled passions. He didn't send your money\nthen, but wasted it, because, like a low brute, he couldn't control\nhimself.' But still you might have added, 'He isn't a thief though. Here\nis your three thousand; he sends it back. Send it yourself to Agafya\nIvanovna. But he told me to say \"he sends his compliments.\" ' But, as it\nis, she will ask, 'But where is the money?' \"\n\n\"Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don't worry\nyourself to death with despair.\"\n\n\"What, do you suppose I'd shoot myself because I can't get three thousand\nto pay back? That's just it. I shan't shoot myself. I haven't the strength\nnow. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I'm going to Grushenka. I don't care\nwhat happens.\"\n\n\"And what then?\"\n\n\"I'll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come, I'll\ngo into the next room. I'll clean her friends' goloshes, blow up their\nsamovar, run their errands.\"\n\n\"Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all,\" Alyosha said solemnly. \"She'll\nunderstand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has a lofty\nmind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She'll see that for\nherself.\"\n\n\"She won't forgive everything,\" said Dmitri, with a grin. \"There's\nsomething in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what\nwould be the best thing to do?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Pay back the three thousand.\"\n\n\"Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give you\nanother thousand--that makes three. Take it and pay it back.\"\n\n\"And when would you get it, your three thousand? You're not of age,\nbesides, and you must--you absolutely must--take my farewell to her to-day,\nwith the money or without it, for I can't drag on any longer, things have\ncome to such a pass. To-morrow is too late. I shall send you to father.\"\n\n\"To father?\"\n\n\"Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand.\"\n\n\"But, Mitya, he won't give it.\"\n\n\"As though he would! I know he won't. Do you know the meaning of despair,\nAlexey?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Listen. Legally he owes me nothing. I've had it all from him, I know\nthat. But morally he owes me something, doesn't he? You know he started\nwith twenty-eight thousand of my mother's money and made a hundred\nthousand with it. Let him give me back only three out of the twenty-eight\nthousand, and he'll draw my soul out of hell, and it will atone for many\nof his sins. For that three thousand--I give you my solemn word--I'll make\nan end of everything, and he shall hear nothing more of me. For the last\ntime I give him the chance to be a father. Tell him God Himself sends him\nthis chance.\"\n\n\"Mitya, he won't give it for anything.\"\n\n\"I know he won't. I know it perfectly well. Now, especially. That's not\nall. I know something more. Now, only a few days ago, perhaps only\nyesterday he found out for the first time _in earnest_ (underline _in\nearnest_) that Grushenka is really perhaps not joking, and really means to\nmarry me. He knows her nature; he knows the cat. And do you suppose he's\ngoing to give me money to help to bring that about when he's crazy about\nher himself? And that's not all, either. I can tell you more than that. I\nknow that for the last five days he has had three thousand drawn out of\nthe bank, changed into notes of a hundred roubles, packed into a large\nenvelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red tape. You see\nhow well I know all about it! On the envelope is written: 'To my angel,\nGrushenka, when she will come to me.' He scrawled it himself in silence\nand in secret, and no one knows that the money's there except the valet,\nSmerdyakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now he has been expecting\nGrushenka for the last three or four days; he hopes she'll come for the\nmoney. He has sent her word of it, and she has sent him word that perhaps\nshe'll come. And if she does go to the old man, can I marry her after\nthat? You understand now why I'm here in secret and what I'm on the watch\nfor.\"\n\n\"For her?\"\n\n\"Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma\ncomes from our parts; he was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs for\nthem. He's watchman at night and goes grouse-shooting in the day-time; and\nthat's how he lives. I've established myself in his room. Neither he nor\nthe women of the house know the secret--that is, that I am on the watch\nhere.\"\n\n\"No one but Smerdyakov knows, then?\"\n\n\"No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man.\"\n\n\"It was he told you about the money, then?\"\n\n\"Yes. It's a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn't know about the money, or\nanything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three\ndays' journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he'll give eight\nthousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help him by\ngoing to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That's what the\nold man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he's away.\"\n\n\"Then he's expecting Grushenka to-day?\"\n\n\"No, she won't come to-day; there are signs. She's certain not to come,\"\ncried Mitya suddenly. \"Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father's drinking now.\nHe's sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and ask for the three\nthousand.\"\n\n\"Mitya, dear, what's the matter with you?\" cried Alyosha, jumping up from\nhis place, and looking keenly at his brother's frenzied face. For one\nmoment the thought struck him that Dmitri was mad.\n\n\"What is it? I'm not insane,\" said Dmitri, looking intently and earnestly\nat him. \"No fear. I am sending you to father, and I know what I'm saying.\nI believe in miracles.\"\n\n\"In miracles?\"\n\n\"In a miracle of Divine Providence. God knows my heart. He sees my\ndespair. He sees the whole picture. Surely He won't let something awful\nhappen. Alyosha, I believe in miracles. Go!\"\n\n\"I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here?\"\n\n\"Yes. I know it will take some time. You can't go at him point blank. He's\ndrunk now. I'll wait three hours--four, five, six, seven. Only remember you\nmust go to Katerina Ivanovna to-day, if it has to be at midnight, _with\nthe money or without the money_, and say, 'He sends his compliments to\nyou.' I want you to say that verse to her: 'He sends his compliments to\nyou.' \"\n\n\"Mitya! And what if Grushenka comes to-day--if not to-day, to-morrow, or\nthe next day?\"\n\n\"Grushenka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it.\"\n\n\"And if--\"\n\n\"If there's an if, it will be murder. I couldn't endure it.\"\n\n\"Who will be murdered?\"\n\n\"The old man. I shan't kill her.\"\n\n\"Brother, what are you saying?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know.... I don't know. Perhaps I shan't kill, and perhaps I\nshall. I'm afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me with his\nface at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his nose, his eyes, his\nshameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of.\nThat's what may be too much for me.\"\n\n\"I'll go, Mitya. I believe that God will order things for the best, that\nnothing awful may happen.\"\n\n\"And I will sit and wait for the miracle. And if it doesn't come to pass--\"\n\nAlyosha went thoughtfully towards his father's house.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. Smerdyakov\n\n\nHe did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-\nroom in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing-room, which\nwas the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The\nfurniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material.\nIn the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white\nand gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with\nwhite paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large\nportraits--one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty\nyears before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the\ncorner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was\nlighted at nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light\nthe room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four\no'clock in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in\nan arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept\nquite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually\nSmerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.\n\nWhen Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been\nserved. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner.\nIvan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and\nSmerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed\nin singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter.\nBefore he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so\nwell, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached\nthe good-humored stage, and was far from being completely drunk.\n\n\"Here he is! Here he is!\" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at\nseeing Alyosha. \"Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it's hot\nand good. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you\nlike some? No; I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov,\ngo to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look\nsharp!\"\n\nAlyosha began refusing the liqueur.\n\n\"Never mind. If you won't have it, we will,\" said Fyodor Pavlovitch,\nbeaming. \"But stay--have you dined?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and\ndrunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior's kitchen. \"Though I should\nbe pleased to have some hot coffee.\"\n\n\"Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's\nboiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an\nartist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come\none day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay;\ndidn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow\nand all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!\"\n\n\"No, I haven't,\" said Alyosha, smiling, too.\n\n\"Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't\nyou? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know,\nIvan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs?\nIt makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you\nmy blessing--a father's blessing.\"\n\nAlyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said. \"I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for\nnow. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll\nmake you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here--and how he\ntalks! How he talks!\"\n\nBalaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man\nof about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he\nwas shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to\ndespise everybody.\n\nBut we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by\nGrigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up \"with no sense of gratitude,\" as\nGrigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the\nworld mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats,\nand burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as\nthough it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead\ncat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the\ngreatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a\nsound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. \"He\ndoesn't care for you or me, the monster,\" Grigory used to say to Marfa,\n\"and he doesn't care for any one. Are you a human being?\" he said,\naddressing the boy directly. \"You're not a human being. You grew from the\nmildew in the bath-house.(2) That's what you are.\" Smerdyakov, it appeared\nafterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to\nread and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the\nScriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third\nlesson the boy suddenly grinned.\n\n\"What's that for?\" asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from under\nhis spectacles.\n\n\"Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and\nstars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?\"\n\nGrigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher.\nThere was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory\ncould not restrain himself. \"I'll show you where!\" he cried, and gave the\nboy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but\nwithdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his\nfirst attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his\nlife--epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy\nseemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he\nnever scolded him, and always gave him a copeck when he met him.\nSometimes, when he was in good humor, he would send the boy something\nsweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an\nactive interest in him, sent for a doctor, and tried remedies, but the\ndisease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred, on an average, once\na month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too, in violence: some\nwere light and some were very severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade\nGrigory to use corporal punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to\ncome upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a\ntime, too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch\nnoticed him lingering by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the\nglass. Fyodor Pavlovitch had a fair number of books--over a hundred--but no\none ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the\nbookcase. \"Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting\nreading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this,\" and Fyodor\nPavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_.\n\nHe read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile, and ended by\nfrowning.\n\n\"Why? Isn't it funny?\" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch.\n\nSmerdyakov did not speak.\n\n\"Answer, stupid!\"\n\n\"It's all untrue,\" mumbled the boy, with a grin.\n\n\"Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here's\nSmaragdov's _Universal History_. That's all true. Read that.\"\n\nBut Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought it\ndull. So the bookcase was closed again.\n\nShortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that\nSmerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary\nfastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and look\ninto the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to\nthe light.\n\n\"What is it? A beetle?\" Grigory would ask.\n\n\"A fly, perhaps,\" observed Marfa.\n\nThe squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread,\nhis meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the\nlight, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation\ndecide to put it in his mouth.\n\n\"Ach! What fine gentlemen's airs!\" Grigory muttered, looking at him.\n\nWhen Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he\ndetermined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He\nspent some years there and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He\nlooked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled,\nyellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he seemed almost exactly\nthe same as before he went away. He was just as unsociable, and showed not\nthe slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we\nheard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little\ninterest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice\nof anything. He went once to the theater, but returned silent and\ndispleased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well\ndressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most\nscrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his\nsmart calf boots with a special English polish, so that they shone like\nmirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a\nsalary, almost the whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade,\nperfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the\nfemale sex as for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them.\nFyodor Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were\nbecoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which did\nnot suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all.\n\n\"Why are your fits getting worse?\" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking\naskance at his new cook. \"Would you like to get married? Shall I find you\na wife?\"\n\nBut Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor\nPavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he\nhad absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor\nPavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three\nhundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them\nnext day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the\nnotes lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked\nthem up and brought them in the day before.\n\n\"Well, my lad, I've never met any one like you,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch said\nshortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed in\nhis honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although the\nyoung man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always silent.\nHe rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the time what\nthe young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it would have\nbeen impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop\nsuddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would stand\nstill for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face\nwould have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a\nsort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter\nKramskoy, called \"Contemplation.\" There is a forest in winter, and on a\nroadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a\ntorn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he\nis not thinking; he is \"contemplating.\" If any one touched him he would\nstart and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he\nwould come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been\nthinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden\nwithin himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period\nof contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards\nthem imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he\ndoes not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many\nyears, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his\nsoul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native\nvillage, and perhaps do both. There are a good many \"contemplatives\" among\nthe peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably\nwas greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. The Controversy\n\n\nBut Balaam's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one.\nGrigory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from the\nshopkeeper Lukyanov the story of a Russian soldier which had appeared in\nthe newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken prisoner in some\nremote part of Asia, and was threatened with an immediate agonizing death\nif he did not renounce Christianity and follow Islam. He refused to deny\nhis faith, and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and\nglorifying Christ. Grigory had related the story at table. Fyodor\nPavlovitch always liked, over the dessert after dinner, to laugh and talk,\nif only with Grigory. This afternoon he was in a particularly good-humored\nand expansive mood. Sipping his brandy and listening to the story, he\nobserved that they ought to make a saint of a soldier like that, and to\ntake his skin to some monastery. \"That would make the people flock, and\nbring the money in.\"\n\nGrigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovitch was by no means touched,\nbut, as usual, was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smerdyakov, who was\nstanding by the door, smiled. Smerdyakov often waited at table towards the\nend of dinner, and since Ivan's arrival in our town he had done so every\nday.\n\n\"What are you grinning at?\" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, catching the smile\ninstantly, and knowing that it referred to Grigory.\n\n\"Well, my opinion is,\" Smerdyakov began suddenly and unexpectedly in a\nloud voice, \"that if that laudable soldier's exploit was so very great\nthere would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such an\nemergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own\nchristening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in\nthe course of years to expiate his cowardice.\"\n\n\"How could it not be a sin? You're talking nonsense. For that you'll go\nstraight to hell and be roasted there like mutton,\" put in Fyodor\nPavlovitch.\n\nIt was at this point that Alyosha came in, and Fyodor Pavlovitch, as we\nhave seen, was highly delighted at his appearance.\n\n\"We're on your subject, your subject,\" he chuckled gleefully, making\nAlyosha sit down to listen.\n\n\"As for mutton, that's not so, and there'll be nothing there for this, and\nthere shouldn't be either, if it's according to justice,\" Smerdyakov\nmaintained stoutly.\n\n\"How do you mean 'according to justice'?\" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried still\nmore gayly, nudging Alyosha with his knee.\n\n\"He's a rascal, that's what he is!\" burst from Grigory. He looked\nSmerdyakov wrathfully in the face.\n\n\"As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory Vassilyevitch,\" answered\nSmerdyakov with perfect composure. \"You'd better consider yourself that,\nonce I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they\ndemand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my holy\nchristening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there\nwould be no sin in it.\"\n\n\"But you've said that before. Don't waste words. Prove it,\" cried Fyodor\nPavlovitch.\n\n\"Soup-maker!\" muttered Grigory contemptuously.\n\n\"As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself,\nGrigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those\nenemies, 'No, I'm not a Christian, and I curse my true God,' then at once,\nby God's high judgment, I become immediately and specially anathema\naccursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as though I were a\nheathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but\nwhen I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am\ncut off. Is that so or not, Grigory Vassilyevitch?\"\n\nHe addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really\nanswering Fyodor Pavlovitch's questions, and was well aware of it, and\nintentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions.\n\n\"Ivan,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, \"stoop down for me to whisper.\nHe's got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him. Praise\nhim.\"\n\nIvan listened with perfect seriousness to his father's excited whisper.\n\n\"Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute,\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch once more.\n\"Ivan, your ear again.\"\n\nIvan bent down again with a perfectly grave face.\n\n\"I love you as I do Alyosha. Don't think I don't love you. Some brandy?\"\n\n\"Yes.--But you're rather drunk yourself,\" thought Ivan, looking steadily at\nhis father.\n\nHe was watching Smerdyakov with great curiosity.\n\n\"You're anathema accursed, as it is,\" Grigory suddenly burst out, \"and how\ndare you argue, you rascal, after that, if--\"\n\n\"Don't scold him, Grigory, don't scold him,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch cut him\nshort.\n\n\"You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen,\nfor I haven't finished all I had to say. For at the very moment I become\naccursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a heathen,\nand my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail. Isn't that\nso?\"\n\n\"Make haste and finish, my boy,\" Fyodor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping from\nhis wine-glass with relish.\n\n\"And if I've ceased to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy\nwhen they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, seeing I had\nalready been relieved by God Himself of my Christianity by reason of the\nthought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy. And if I\nhave already been discharged, in what manner and with what sort of justice\ncan I be held responsible as a Christian in the other world for having\ndenied Christ, when, through the very thought alone, before denying Him I\nhad been relieved from my christening? If I'm no longer a Christian, then\nI can't renounce Christ, for I've nothing then to renounce. Who will hold\nan unclean Tatar responsible, Grigory Vassilyevitch, even in heaven, for\nnot having been born a Christian? And who would punish him for that,\nconsidering that you can't take two skins off one ox? For God Almighty\nHimself, even if He did make the Tatar responsible, when he dies would\ngive him the smallest possible punishment, I imagine (since he must be\npunished), judging that he is not to blame if he has come into the world\nan unclean heathen, from heathen parents. The Lord God can't surely take a\nTatar and say he was a Christian? That would mean that the Almighty would\ntell a real untruth. And can the Lord of Heaven and earth tell a lie, even\nin one word?\"\n\nGrigory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly\nstarting out of his head. Though he did not clearly understand what was\nsaid, he had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood, looking like a\nman who has just hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovitch emptied\nhis glass and went off into his shrill laugh.\n\n\"Alyosha! Alyosha! What do you say to that! Ah, you casuist! He must have\nbeen with the Jesuits, somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, who\ntaught you? But you're talking nonsense, you casuist, nonsense, nonsense,\nnonsense. Don't cry, Grigory, we'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a\nmoment. Tell me this, O ass; you may be right before your enemies, but you\nhave renounced your faith all the same in your own heart, and you say\nyourself that in that very hour you became anathema accursed. And if once\nyou're anathema they won't pat you on the head for it in hell. What do you\nsay to that, my fine Jesuit?\"\n\n\"There is no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart, but there was\nno special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most ordinary.\"\n\n\"How's that the most ordinary?\"\n\n\"You lie, accursed one!\" hissed Grigory.\n\n\"Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,\" Smerdyakov went on, staid and\nunruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to the\nvanquished foe. \"Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch; it is said in\nthe Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and bid a\nmountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your\nbidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I'm without faith and you have so\ngreat a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself\ntelling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that's a long way off,\nbut even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the\ngarden. You'll see for yourself that it won't budge, but will remain just\nwhere it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory\nVassilyevitch, that you haven't faith in the proper manner, and only abuse\nothers about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day,\nnot only you, but actually no one, from the highest person to the lowest\npeasant, can shove mountains into the sea--except perhaps some one man in\nthe world, or, at most, two, and they most likely are saving their souls\nin secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn't find them--if\nso it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that\nis, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the\ndesert, and in His well-known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And\nso I'm persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven\nif I shed tears of repentance.\"\n\n\"Stay!\" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, in a transport of delight. \"So you do\nsuppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it,\nwrite it down. There you have the Russian all over!\"\n\n\"You're quite right in saying it's characteristic of the people's faith,\"\nIvan assented, with an approving smile.\n\n\"You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It's true, isn't it,\nAlyosha? That's the Russian faith all over, isn't it?\"\n\n\"No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all,\" said Alyosha firmly and\ngravely.\n\n\"I'm not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only\nthat idea. Surely that's Russian, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's purely Russian,\" said Alyosha smiling.\n\n\"Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I'll give it to you to-day.\nBut as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you,\nstupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness,\nbecause we haven't time; things are too much for us, and, in the second\nplace, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in\nthe day, so that one hasn't even time to get sleep enough, much less to\nrepent of one's sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies\nwhen you'd nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I\nconsider, brother, that it constitutes a sin.\"\n\n\"Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,\nthat it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then\nin very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been\nsinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the\npagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn't have come to torture\nthen, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the\nmountain, 'Move and crush the tormentor,' and it would have moved and at\nthe very instant have crushed him like a black-beetle, and I should have\nwalked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God.\nBut, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that\nmountain, 'Crush these tormentors,' and it hadn't crushed them, how could\nI have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of\nmortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not\nattain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain\nhad not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up\naloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to\ncome). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no\ngood purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back,\neven then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And\nat such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose\none's reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all.\nAnd, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my\nadvantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And\nso trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that\nI might be altogether forgiven.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. Over The Brandy\n\n\nThe controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had\nbeen so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy, and it\nwas already a glass too much.\n\n\"Get along with you, Jesuits!\" he cried to the servants. \"Go away,\nSmerdyakov. I'll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be\noff! Don't cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She'll comfort you and put you to\nbed. The rascals won't let us sit in peace after dinner,\" he snapped\npeevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word.\n\n\"Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It's you he's so\ninterested in. What have you done to fascinate him?\" he added to Ivan.\n\n\"Nothing whatever,\" answered Ivan. \"He's pleased to have a high opinion of\nme; he's a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however,\nwhen the time comes.\"\n\n\"For revolution?\"\n\n\"There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him as\nwell. His kind will come first, and better ones after.\"\n\n\"And when will the time come?\"\n\n\"The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very\nfond of listening to these soup-makers, so far.\"\n\n\"Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the\ndevil knows where he gets to.\"\n\n\"He's storing up ideas,\" said Ivan, smiling.\n\n\"You see, I know he can't bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you\nfancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha, he\ndespises Alyosha. But he doesn't steal, that's one thing, and he's not a\ngossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public.\nHe makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking\nabout so much?\"\n\n\"Of course he isn't.\"\n\n\"And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally\nspeaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained. Our peasants are\nswindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing they're\nstill flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the\nforests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people.\nWe've left off thrashing the peasants, we've grown so clever, but they go\non thrashing themselves. And a good thing too. 'For with what measure ye\nmete it shall be measured to you again,' or how does it go? Anyhow, it\nwill be measured. But Russia's all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew\nhow I hate Russia.... That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I\nmean Russia. _Tout cela c'est de la cochonnerie_.... Do you know what I\nlike? I like wit.\"\n\n\"You've had another glass. That's enough.\"\n\n\"Wait a bit. I'll have one more, and then another, and then I'll stop. No,\nstay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he\ntold me: 'There's nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be\nthrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the\ngirl he has thrashed to-day, the young man will ask in marriage to-morrow.\nSo it quite suits the girls, too,' he said. There's a set of de Sades for\nyou! But it's clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh?\nAlyosha, are you blushing? Don't be bashful, child. I'm sorry I didn't\nstay to dinner at the Superior's and tell the monks about the girls at\nMokroe. Alyosha, don't be angry that I offended your Superior this\nmorning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of\ncourse, I'm to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there\nisn't a God at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It's not enough to\ncut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it,\nIvan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don't believe it as I see\nfrom your eyes. You believe what people say, that I'm nothing but a\nbuffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I'm nothing but a buffoon?\"\n\n\"No, I don't believe it.\"\n\n\"And I believe you don't, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere\nand you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan's supercilious.... I'd make an\nend of your monks, though, all the same. I'd take all that mystic stuff\nand suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the\nfools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would flow into the\nmint!\"\n\n\"But why suppress it?\" asked Ivan.\n\n\"That Truth may prevail. That's why.\"\n\n\"Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you'd be the first to be robbed\nand suppressed.\"\n\n\"Ah! I dare say you're right. Ah, I'm an ass!\" burst out Fyodor\nPavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. \"Well, your\nmonastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that's how it is. And we clever\npeople will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have\nbeen so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God or\nnot? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?\"\n\n\"I'm laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about\nSmerdyakov's belief in the existence of two saints who could move\nmountains.\"\n\n\"Why, am I like him now, then?\"\n\n\"Very much.\"\n\n\"Well, that shows I'm a Russian, too, and I have a Russian characteristic.\nAnd you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall\nI catch you? What do you bet that I'll catch you to-morrow. Speak, all the\nsame, is there a God, or not? Only, be serious. I want you to be serious\nnow.\"\n\n\"No, there is no God.\"\n\n\"Alyosha, is there a God?\"\n\n\"There is.\"\n\n\"Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little, just a tiny\nbit?\"\n\n\"There is no immortality either.\"\n\n\"None at all?\"\n\n\"None at all.\"\n\n\"There's absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just something?\nAnything is better than nothing!\"\n\n\"Absolute nothingness.\"\n\n\"Alyosha, is there immortality?\"\n\n\"There is.\"\n\n\"God and immortality?\"\n\n\"God and immortality. In God is immortality.\"\n\n\"H'm! It's more likely Ivan's right. Good Lord! to think what faith, what\nforce of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on that dream, and for\nhow many thousand years. Who is it laughing at man? Ivan! For the last\ntime, once for all, is there a God or not? I ask for the last time!\"\n\n\"And for the last time there is not.\"\n\n\"Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?\"\n\n\"It must be the devil,\" said Ivan, smiling.\n\n\"And the devil? Does he exist?\"\n\n\"No, there's no devil either.\"\n\n\"It's a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn't I do to the man who first\ninvented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for him.\"\n\n\"There would have been no civilization if they hadn't invented God.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't there have been? Without God?\"\n\n\"No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your\nbrandy away from you, anyway.\"\n\n\"Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I've hurt Alyosha's\nfeelings. You're not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear little Alexey!\"\n\n\"No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your\nhead.\"\n\n\"My heart better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord! And that from you. Ivan,\ndo you love Alyosha?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You must love him\" (Fyodor Pavlovitch was by this time very drunk).\n\"Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was\nexcited. But there's wit in that elder, don't you think, Ivan?\"\n\n\"Very likely.\"\n\n\"There is, there is. _Il y a du Piron la-dedans._ He's a Jesuit, a Russian\none, that is. As he's an honorable person there's a hidden indignation\nboiling within him at having to pretend and affect holiness.\"\n\n\"But, of course, he believes in God.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it. Didn't you know? Why, he tells every one so, himself.\nThat is, not every one, but all the clever people who come to him. He said\nstraight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: '_Credo_, but I don't know\nin what.' \"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"He really did. But I respect him. There's something of Mephistopheles\nabout him, or rather of 'The hero of our time' ... Arbenin, or what's his\nname?... You see, he's a sensualist. He's such a sensualist that I should\nbe afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You\nknow, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last he invited\nus to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur), and began\ntelling us about old times till we nearly split our sides.... Especially\nhow he once cured a paralyzed woman. 'If my legs were not bad I know a\ndance I could dance you,' he said. What do you say to that? 'I've plenty\nof tricks in my time,' said he. He did Dernidov, the merchant, out of\nsixty thousand.\"\n\n\"What, he stole it?\"\n\n\"He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, 'Take care of\nit for me, friend, there'll be a police search at my place to-morrow.' And\nhe kept it. 'You have given it to the Church,' he declared. I said to him:\n'You're a scoundrel,' I said. 'No,' said he, 'I'm not a scoundrel, but I'm\nbroad-minded.' But that wasn't he, that was some one else. I've muddled\nhim with some one else ... without noticing it. Come, another glass and\nthat's enough. Take away the bottle, Ivan. I've been telling lies. Why\ndidn't you stop me, Ivan, and tell me I was lying?\"\n\n\"I knew you'd stop of yourself.\"\n\n\"That's a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You\ndespise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm going away. You've had too much brandy.\"\n\n\"I've begged you for Christ's sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or two,\nand you don't go.\"\n\n\"I'll go to-morrow if you're so set upon it.\"\n\n\"You won't go. You want to keep an eye on me. That's what you want,\nspiteful fellow. That's why you won't go.\"\n\nThe old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness when the\ndrunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a quarrel and to\nassert himself.\n\n\"Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look at\nme and say, 'You ugly drunkard!' Your eyes are mistrustful. They're\ncontemptuous.... You've come here with some design. Alyosha, here, looks\nat me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn't despise me. Alexey, you mustn't\nlove Ivan.\"\n\n\"Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him,\" Alyosha\nsaid emphatically.\n\n\"Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan. It's the\nthird time I've told you.\"\n\nHe mused, and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face.\n\n\"Don't be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don't love me, but\ndon't be angry all the same. You've nothing to love me for. You go to\nTchermashnya. I'll come to you myself and bring you a present. I'll show\nyou a little wench there. I've had my eye on her a long time. She's still\nrunning about bare-foot. Don't be afraid of bare-footed wenches--don't\ndespise them--they're pearls!\"\n\nAnd he kissed his hand with a smack.\n\n\"To my thinking,\" he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the instant he\ntouched on his favorite topic. \"To my thinking ... Ah, you boys! You\nchildren, little sucking-pigs, to my thinking ... I never thought a woman\nugly in my life--that's been my rule! Can you understand that? How could\nyou understand it? You've milk in your veins, not blood. You're not out of\nyour shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find something\ndevilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn't find in any other.\nOnly, one must know how to find it, that's the point! That's a talent! To\nmy mind there are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half\nthe battle ... but how could you understand that? Even in _vieilles\nfilles_, even in them you may discover something that makes you simply\nwonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without\nnoticing them. Bare-footed girls or unattractive ones, you must take by\nsurprise. Didn't you know that? You must astound them till they're\nfascinated, upset, ashamed that such a gentleman should fall in love with\nsuch a little slut. It's a jolly good thing that there always are and will\nbe masters and slaves in the world, so there always will be a little maid-\nof-all-work and her master, and you know, that's all that's needed for\nhappiness. Stay ... listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your\nmother, but in a different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all\nat once, when the minute came, I'd be all devotion to her, crawl on my\nknees, kiss her feet, and I always, always--I remember it as though it were\nto-day--reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh.\nIt was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that.\nThe next day she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh\nwas not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit. That's\nthe great thing, to know how to take every one. Once Belyavsky--he was a\nhandsome fellow, and rich--used to like to come here and hang about\nher--suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her presence. And she--such a\nmild sheep--why, I thought she would have knocked me down for that blow.\nHow she set on me! 'You're beaten, beaten now,' she said. 'You've taken a\nblow from him. You have been trying to sell me to him,' she said.... 'And\nhow dared he strike you in my presence! Don't dare come near me again,\nnever, never! Run at once, challenge him to a duel!'... I took her to the\nmonastery then to bring her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her\nback to reason. But I swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor\ncrazy girl! Only once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond\nof praying. She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used\nto turn me out of her room then. I'll knock that mysticism out of her,\nthought I! 'Here,' said I, 'you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I\ntake it down. You believe it's miraculous, but here, I'll spit on it\ndirectly and nothing will happen to me for it!'... When she saw it, good\nLord! I thought she would kill me. But she only jumped up, wrung her\nhands, then suddenly hid her face in them, began trembling all over and\nfell on the floor ... fell all of a heap. Alyosha, Alyosha, what's the\nmatter?\"\n\nThe old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun speaking about\nhis mother, a change had gradually come over Alyosha's face. He flushed\ncrimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sot had gone\nspluttering on, noticing nothing, till the moment when something very\nstrange happened to Alyosha. Precisely what he was describing in the crazy\nwoman was suddenly repeated with Alyosha. He jumped up from his seat\nexactly as his mother was said to have done, wrung his hands, hid his face\nin them, and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in an hysterical\nparoxysm of sudden violent, silent weeping. His extraordinary resemblance\nto his mother particularly impressed the old man.\n\n\"Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It's like her, exactly as she used to be\nthen, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that's what I\nused to do to her. He's upset about his mother, his mother,\" he muttered\nto Ivan.\n\n\"But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she not?\" said\nIvan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man shrank before his\nflashing eyes. But something very strange had happened, though only for a\nsecond; it seemed really to have escaped the old man's mind that Alyosha's\nmother actually was the mother of Ivan too.\n\n\"Your mother?\" he muttered, not understanding. \"What do you mean? What\nmother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it! of course she was\nyours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before. Excuse me,\nwhy, I was thinking, Ivan.... He he he!\" He stopped. A broad, drunken,\nhalf-senseless grin overspread his face.\n\nAt that moment a fearful noise and clamor was heard in the hall, there\nwere violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dmitri burst into the\nroom. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror.\n\n\"He'll kill me! He'll kill me! Don't let him get at me!\" he screamed,\nclinging to the skirt of Ivan's coat.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX. The Sensualists\n\n\nGrigory and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been\nstruggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on\ninstructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking\nadvantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room to\nlook about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors on\nthe opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood\nbefore the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the\nentrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this,\nDmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Grigory.\n\n\"Then she's there! She's hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!\"\n\nHe tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside\nhimself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all his might.\nThe old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him, broke in the\ndoor. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room,\nhuddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch.\n\n\"She's here!\" shouted Dmitri. \"I saw her turn towards the house just now,\nbut I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?\"\n\nThat shout, \"She's here!\" produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor\nPavlovitch. All his terror left him.\n\n\"Hold him! Hold him!\" he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile Grigory\nhad got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Alyosha ran\nafter their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the\nfloor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass vase--not an expensive\none--on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset as he ran past it.\n\n\"At him!\" shouted the old man. \"Help!\"\n\nIvan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him back.\n\n\"Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright,\" Ivan cried\nwrathfully at his father.\n\n\"Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka's here. He said he saw her\nhimself, running.\"\n\nHe was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the sudden\nnews that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over.\nHe seemed frantic.\n\n\"But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come,\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"But she may have come by that other entrance.\"\n\n\"You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key.\"\n\nDmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found\nthe other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's\npocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so Grushenka could\nnot have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere.\n\n\"Hold him!\" shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again. \"He's\nbeen stealing money in my bedroom.\" And tearing himself from Ivan he\nrushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly\nclutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his\ntemples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He\nkicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man\nmoaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms round\nhim, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his\nslender strength, holding Dmitri in front.\n\n\"Madman! You've killed him!\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"Serve him right!\" shouted Dmitri breathlessly. \"If I haven't killed him,\nI'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him!\"\n\n\"Dmitri! Go away at once!\" cried Alyosha commandingly.\n\n\"Alexey! You tell me. It's only you I can believe; was she here just now,\nor not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I\nshouted, she ran away.\"\n\n\"I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her.\"\n\n\"But I saw her.... So she must ... I'll find out at once where she is....\nGood-by, Alexey! Not a word to AEsop about the money now. But go to\nKaterina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, 'He sends his compliments to\nyou!' Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and farewell!\nDescribe the scene to her.\"\n\nMeanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an\narm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and\nlistened greedily to Dmitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka\nreally was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with hatred as he\nwent out.\n\n\"I don't repent shedding your blood!\" he cried. \"Beware, old man, beware\nof your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you\naltogether.\"\n\nHe ran out of the room.\n\n\"She's here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!\" the old man\nwheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger.\n\n\"No, she's not here, you old lunatic!\" Ivan shouted at him angrily. \"Here,\nhe's fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!\"\n\nSmerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and put\nhim to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the\nbrandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he shut his\neyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Ivan and\nAlyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the fragments of\nthe broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking gloomily at the\nfloor.\n\n\"Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?\" Alyosha\nsaid to him. \"We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow--on\nthe head.\"\n\n\"He's insulted me!\" Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly.\n\n\"He's 'insulted' his father, not only you,\" observed Ivan with a forced\nsmile.\n\n\"I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me,\" repeated Grigory.\n\n\"Damn it all, if I hadn't pulled him away perhaps he'd have murdered him.\nIt wouldn't take much to do for AEsop, would it?\" whispered Ivan to\nAlyosha.\n\n\"God forbid!\" cried Alyosha.\n\n\"Why should He forbid?\" Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant\ngrimace. \"One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right,\ntoo.\"\n\nAlyosha shuddered.\n\n\"Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here,\nAlyosha, I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache.\"\n\nAlyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the\nscreen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed\nfor a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at\nonce his face betrayed extraordinary excitement.\n\n\"Alyosha,\" he whispered apprehensively, \"where's Ivan?\"\n\n\"In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch.\"\n\n\"Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me.\"\n\nAlyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on the\nchest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was\nconsiderably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a\nrather large crimson bruise.\n\n\"What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Ivan.\nI'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid\nof....\"\n\n\"Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he'll defend you.\"\n\n\"Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me\nthe truth, was she here just now or not?\"\n\n\"No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here.\"\n\n\"You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her.\"\n\n\"She won't marry him.\"\n\n\"She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account!\"\n\nThe old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting\ncould have been said to him. In his delight he seized Alyosha's hand and\npressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes.\n\n\"That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now,\" he\nsaid. \"Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I'll let you go back to\nthe monastery.... I was joking this morning, don't be angry with me. My\nhead aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me\nthe truth!\"\n\n\"You're still asking whether she has been here or not?\" Alyosha said\nsorrowfully.\n\n\"No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka\nyourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself,\nwhich she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?\"\n\n\"If I see her I'll ask her,\" Alyosha muttered, embarrassed.\n\n\"No, she won't tell you,\" the old man interrupted, \"she's a rogue. She'll\nbegin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful,\nshameless hussy. You mustn't go to her, you mustn't!\"\n\n\"No, father, and it wouldn't be suitable, it wouldn't be right at all.\"\n\n\"Where was he sending you just now? He shouted 'Go' as he ran away.\"\n\n\"To Katerina Ivanovna.\"\n\n\"For money? To ask her for money?\"\n\n\"No. Not for money.\"\n\n\"He's no money; not a farthing. I'll settle down for the night, and think\nthings over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her.... Only be sure to\ncome to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to\nyou to-morrow. Will you come?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me.\nDon't tell any one I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan.\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"Good-by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget\nit. I've a word to say to you to-morrow--but I must think about it.\"\n\n\"And how do you feel now?\"\n\n\"I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!\"\n\nCrossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway.\nHe was sitting writing something in pencil in his note-book. Alyosha told\nIvan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go\nback to sleep at the monastery.\n\n\"Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning,\" said Ivan\ncordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha.\n\n\"I shall be at the Hohlakovs' to-morrow,\" answered Alyosha, \"I may be at\nKaterina Ivanovna's, too, if I don't find her now.\"\n\n\"But you're going to her now, anyway? For that 'compliments and\nfarewell,' \" said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted.\n\n\"I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what\nwent before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he--well, in\nfact--takes his leave of her?\"\n\n\"Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?\"\nexclaimed Alyosha.\n\n\"One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out.\nThat woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and\nnot let Dmitri in the house.\"\n\n\"Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other\nmen and decide which is worthy to live?\"\n\n\"Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in\nmen's hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights--who has\nnot the right to wish?\"\n\n\"Not for another man's death?\"\n\n\"What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself since all men\nlive so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I\nsaid just now--that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me\nask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding AEsop's blood,\nmurdering him, eh?\"\n\n\"What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't\nthink Dmitri is capable of it, either.\"\n\n\"Thanks, if only for that,\" smiled Ivan. \"Be sure, I should always defend\nhim. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-by\ntill to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain,\" he\nadded with a smile.\n\nThey shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that\nhis brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had\ncertainly done this with some definite motive.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter X. Both Together\n\n\nAlyosha left his father's house feeling even more exhausted and dejected\nin spirit than when he had entered it. His mind too seemed shattered and\nunhinged, while he felt that he was afraid to put together the disjointed\nfragments and form a general idea from all the agonizing and conflicting\nexperiences of the day. He felt something bordering upon despair, which he\nhad never known till then. Towering like a mountain above all the rest\nstood the fatal, insoluble question: How would things end between his\nfather and his brother Dmitri with this terrible woman? Now he had himself\nbeen a witness of it, he had been present and seen them face to face. Yet\nonly his brother Dmitri could be made unhappy, terribly, completely\nunhappy: there was trouble awaiting him. It appeared too that there were\nother people concerned, far more so than Alyosha could have supposed\nbefore. There was something positively mysterious in it, too. Ivan had\nmade a step towards him, which was what Alyosha had been long desiring.\nYet now he felt for some reason that he was frightened at it. And these\nwomen? Strange to say, that morning he had set out for Katerina Ivanovna's\nin the greatest embarrassment; now he felt nothing of the kind. On the\ncontrary, he was hastening there as though expecting to find guidance from\nher. Yet to give her this message was obviously more difficult than\nbefore. The matter of the three thousand was decided irrevocably, and\nDmitri, feeling himself dishonored and losing his last hope, might sink to\nany depth. He had, moreover, told him to describe to Katerina Ivanovna the\nscene which had just taken place with his father.\n\nIt was by now seven o'clock, and it was getting dark as Alyosha entered\nthe very spacious and convenient house in the High Street occupied by\nKaterina Ivanovna. Alyosha knew that she lived with two aunts. One of\nthem, a woman of little education, was that aunt of her half-sister Agafya\nIvanovna who had looked after her in her father's house when she came from\nboarding-school. The other aunt was a Moscow lady of style and\nconsequence, though in straitened circumstances. It was said that they\nboth gave way in everything to Katerina Ivanovna, and that she only kept\nthem with her as chaperons. Katerina Ivanovna herself gave way to no one\nbut her benefactress, the general's widow, who had been kept by illness in\nMoscow, and to whom she was obliged to write twice a week a full account\nof all her doings.\n\nWhen Alyosha entered the hall and asked the maid who opened the door to\nhim to take his name up, it was evident that they were already aware of\nhis arrival. Possibly he had been noticed from the window. At least,\nAlyosha heard a noise, caught the sound of flying footsteps and rustling\nskirts. Two or three women, perhaps, had run out of the room.\n\nAlyosha thought it strange that his arrival should cause such excitement.\nHe was conducted however to the drawing-room at once. It was a large room,\nelegantly and amply furnished, not at all in provincial style. There were\nmany sofas, lounges, settees, big and little tables. There were pictures\non the walls, vases and lamps on the tables, masses of flowers, and even\nan aquarium in the window. It was twilight and rather dark. Alyosha made\nout a silk mantle thrown down on the sofa, where people had evidently just\nbeen sitting; and on a table in front of the sofa were two unfinished cups\nof chocolate, cakes, a glass saucer with blue raisins, and another with\nsweetmeats. Alyosha saw that he had interrupted visitors, and frowned. But\nat that instant the portiere was raised, and with rapid, hurrying\nfootsteps Katerina Ivanovna came in, holding out both hands to Alyosha\nwith a radiant smile of delight. At the same instant a servant brought in\ntwo lighted candles and set them on the table.\n\n\"Thank God! At last you have come too! I've been simply praying for you\nall day! Sit down.\"\n\nAlyosha had been struck by Katerina Ivanovna's beauty when, three weeks\nbefore, Dmitri had first brought him, at Katerina Ivanovna's special\nrequest, to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation between\nthem at that interview, however. Supposing Alyosha to be very shy,\nKaterina Ivanovna had talked all the time to Dmitri to spare him. Alyosha\nhad been silent, but he had seen a great deal very clearly. He was struck\nby the imperiousness, proud ease, and self-confidence of the haughty girl.\nAnd all that was certain, Alyosha felt that he was not exaggerating it. He\nthought her great glowing black eyes were very fine, especially with her\npale, even rather sallow, longish face. But in those eyes and in the lines\nof her exquisite lips there was something with which his brother might\nwell be passionately in love, but which perhaps could not be loved for\nlong. He expressed this thought almost plainly to Dmitri when, after the\nvisit, his brother besought and insisted that he should not conceal his\nimpressions on seeing his betrothed.\n\n\"You'll be happy with her, but perhaps--not tranquilly happy.\"\n\n\"Quite so, brother. Such people remain always the same. They don't yield\nto fate. So you think I shan't love her for ever.\"\n\n\"No; perhaps you will love her for ever. But perhaps you won't always be\nhappy with her.\"\n\nAlyosha had given his opinion at the time, blushing, and angry with\nhimself for having yielded to his brother's entreaties and put such\n\"foolish\" ideas into words. For his opinion had struck him as awfully\nfoolish immediately after he had uttered it. He felt ashamed too of having\ngiven so confident an opinion about a woman. It was with the more\namazement that he felt now, at the first glance at Katerina Ivanovna as\nshe ran in to him, that he had perhaps been utterly mistaken. This time\nher face was beaming with spontaneous good-natured kindliness, and direct\nwarm-hearted sincerity. The \"pride and haughtiness,\" which had struck\nAlyosha so much before, was only betrayed now in a frank, generous energy\nand a sort of bright, strong faith in herself. Alyosha realized at the\nfirst glance, at the first word, that all the tragedy of her position in\nrelation to the man she loved so dearly was no secret to her; that she\nperhaps already knew everything, positively everything. And yet, in spite\nof that, there was such brightness in her face, such faith in the future.\nAlyosha felt at once that he had gravely wronged her in his thoughts. He\nwas conquered and captivated immediately. Besides all this, he noticed at\nher first words that she was in great excitement, an excitement perhaps\nquite exceptional and almost approaching ecstasy.\n\n\"I was so eager to see you, because I can learn from you the whole\ntruth--from you and no one else.\"\n\n\"I have come,\" muttered Alyosha confusedly, \"I--he sent me.\"\n\n\"Ah, he sent you! I foresaw that. Now I know everything--everything!\" cried\nKaterina Ivanovna, her eyes flashing. \"Wait a moment, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\nI'll tell you why I've been so longing to see you. You see, I know perhaps\nfar more than you do yourself, and there's no need for you to tell me\nanything. I'll tell you what I want from you. I want to know your own last\nimpression of him. I want you to tell me most directly, plainly, coarsely\neven (oh, as coarsely as you like!), what you thought of him just now and\nof his position after your meeting with him to-day. That will perhaps be\nbetter than if I had a personal explanation with him, as he does not want\nto come to me. Do you understand what I want from you? Now, tell me\nsimply, tell me every word of the message he sent you with (I knew he\nwould send you).\"\n\n\"He told me to give you his compliments--and to say that he would never\ncome again--but to give you his compliments.\"\n\n\"His compliments? Was that what he said--his own expression?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Accidentally perhaps he made a mistake in the word, perhaps he did not\nuse the right word?\"\n\n\"No; he told me precisely to repeat that word. He begged me two or three\ntimes not to forget to say so.\"\n\nKaterina Ivanovna flushed hotly.\n\n\"Help me now, Alexey Fyodorovitch. Now I really need your help. I'll tell\nyou what I think, and you must simply say whether it's right or not.\nListen! If he had sent me his compliments in passing, without insisting on\nyour repeating the words, without emphasizing them, that would be the end\nof everything! But if he particularly insisted on those words, if he\nparticularly told you not to forget to repeat them to me, then perhaps he\nwas in excitement, beside himself. He had made his decision and was\nfrightened at it. He wasn't walking away from me with a resolute step, but\nleaping headlong. The emphasis on that phrase may have been simply\nbravado.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes!\" cried Alyosha warmly. \"I believe that is it.\"\n\n\"And, if so, he's not altogether lost. I can still save him. Stay! Did he\nnot tell you anything about money--about three thousand roubles?\"\n\n\"He did speak about it, and it's that more than anything that's crushing\nhim. He said he had lost his honor and that nothing matters now,\" Alyosha\nanswered warmly, feeling a rush of hope in his heart and believing that\nthere really might be a way of escape and salvation for his brother. \"But\ndo you know about the money?\" he added, and suddenly broke off.\n\n\"I've known of it a long time; I telegraphed to Moscow to inquire, and\nheard long ago that the money had not arrived. He hadn't sent the money,\nbut I said nothing. Last week I learnt that he was still in need of money.\nMy only object in all this was that he should know to whom to turn, and\nwho was his true friend. No, he won't recognize that I am his truest\nfriend; he won't know me, and looks on me merely as a woman. I've been\ntormented all the week, trying to think how to prevent him from being\nashamed to face me because he spent that three thousand. Let him feel\nashamed of himself, let him be ashamed of other people's knowing, but not\nof my knowing. He can tell God everything without shame. Why is it he\nstill does not understand how much I am ready to bear for his sake? Why,\nwhy doesn't he know me? How dare he not know me after all that has\nhappened? I want to save him for ever. Let him forget me as his betrothed.\nAnd here he fears that he is dishonored in my eyes. Why, he wasn't afraid\nto be open with you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How is it that I don't deserve\nthe same?\"\n\nThe last words she uttered in tears. Tears gushed from her eyes.\n\n\"I must tell you,\" Alyosha began, his voice trembling too, \"what happened\njust now between him and my father.\"\n\nAnd he described the whole scene, how Dmitri had sent him to get the\nmoney, how he had broken in, knocked his father down, and after that had\nagain specially and emphatically begged him to take his compliments and\nfarewell. \"He went to that woman,\" Alyosha added softly.\n\n\"And do you suppose that I can't put up with that woman? Does he think I\ncan't? But he won't marry her,\" she suddenly laughed nervously. \"Could\nsuch a passion last for ever in a Karamazov? It's passion, not love. He\nwon't marry her because she won't marry him.\" Again Katerina Ivanovna\nlaughed strangely.\n\n\"He may marry her,\" said Alyosha mournfully, looking down.\n\n\"He won't marry her, I tell you. That girl is an angel. Do you know that?\nDo you know that?\" Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly with extraordinary\nwarmth. \"She is one of the most fantastic of fantastic creatures. I know\nhow bewitching she is, but I know too that she is kind, firm and noble.\nWhy do you look at me like that, Alexey Fyodorovitch? Perhaps you are\nwondering at my words, perhaps you don't believe me? Agrafena\nAlexandrovna, my angel!\" she cried suddenly to some one, peeping into the\nnext room, \"come in to us. This is a friend. This is Alyosha. He knows all\nabout our affairs. Show yourself to him.\"\n\n\"I've only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me,\" said a\nsoft, one might even say sugary, feminine voice.\n\nThe portiere was raised and Grushenka herself, smiling and beaming, came\nup to the table. A violent revulsion passed over Alyosha. He fixed his\neyes on her and could not take them off. Here she was, that awful woman,\nthe \"beast,\" as Ivan had called her half an hour before. And yet one would\nhave thought the creature standing before him most simple and ordinary, a\ngood-natured, kind woman, handsome certainly, but so like other handsome\nordinary women! It is true she was very, very good-looking with that\nRussian beauty so passionately loved by many men. She was a rather tall\nwoman, though a little shorter than Katerina Ivanovna, who was\nexceptionally tall. She had a full figure, with soft, as it were,\nnoiseless, movements, softened to a peculiar over-sweetness, like her\nvoice. She moved, not like Katerina Ivanovna, with a vigorous, bold step,\nbut noiselessly. Her feet made absolutely no sound on the floor. She sank\nsoftly into a low chair, softly rustling her sumptuous black silk dress,\nand delicately nestling her milk-white neck and broad shoulders in a\ncostly cashmere shawl. She was twenty-two years old, and her face looked\nexactly that age. She was very white in the face, with a pale pink tint on\nher cheeks. The modeling of her face might be said to be too broad, and\nthe lower jaw was set a trifle forward. Her upper lip was thin, but the\nslightly prominent lower lip was at least twice as full, and looked\npouting. But her magnificent, abundant dark brown hair, her sable-colored\neyebrows and charming gray-blue eyes with their long lashes would have\nmade the most indifferent person, meeting her casually in a crowd in the\nstreet, stop at the sight of her face and remember it long after. What\nstruck Alyosha most in that face was its expression of childlike good\nnature. There was a childlike look in her eyes, a look of childish\ndelight. She came up to the table, beaming with delight and seeming to\nexpect something with childish, impatient, and confiding curiosity. The\nlight in her eyes gladdened the soul--Alyosha felt that. There was\nsomething else in her which he could not understand, or would not have\nbeen able to define, and which yet perhaps unconsciously affected him. It\nwas that softness, that voluptuousness of her bodily movements, that\ncatlike noiselessness. Yet it was a vigorous, ample body. Under the shawl\ncould be seen full broad shoulders, a high, still quite girlish bosom. Her\nfigure suggested the lines of the Venus of Milo, though already in\nsomewhat exaggerated proportions. That could be divined. Connoisseurs of\nRussian beauty could have foretold with certainty that this fresh, still\nyouthful beauty would lose its harmony by the age of thirty, would\n\"spread\"; that the face would become puffy, and that wrinkles would very\nsoon appear upon her forehead and round the eyes; the complexion would\ngrow coarse and red perhaps--in fact, that it was the beauty of the moment,\nthe fleeting beauty which is so often met with in Russian women. Alyosha,\nof course, did not think of this; but though he was fascinated, yet he\nwondered with an unpleasant sensation, and as it were regretfully, why she\ndrawled in that way and could not speak naturally. She did so evidently\nfeeling there was a charm in the exaggerated, honeyed modulation of the\nsyllables. It was, of course, only a bad, underbred habit that showed bad\neducation and a false idea of good manners. And yet this intonation and\nmanner of speaking impressed Alyosha as almost incredibly incongruous with\nthe childishly simple and happy expression of her face, the soft, babyish\njoy in her eyes. Katerina Ivanovna at once made her sit down in an arm-\nchair facing Alyosha, and ecstatically kissed her several times on her\nsmiling lips. She seemed quite in love with her.\n\n\"This is the first time we've met, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" she said\nrapturously. \"I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her, but\nI'd no sooner expressed the wish than she came to me. I knew we should\nsettle everything together--everything. My heart told me so--I was begged\nnot to take the step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the\ndifficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grushenka has explained everything to\nme, told me all she means to do. She flew here like an angel of goodness\nand brought us peace and joy.\"\n\n\"You did not disdain me, sweet, excellent young lady,\" drawled Grushenka\nin her sing-song voice, still with the same charming smile of delight.\n\n\"Don't dare to speak to me like that, you sorceress, you witch! Disdain\nyou! Here, I must kiss your lower lip once more. It looks as though it\nwere swollen, and now it will be more so, and more and more. Look how she\nlaughs, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It does one's heart good to see the angel.\"\n\nAlyosha flushed, and faint, imperceptible shivers kept running down him.\n\n\"You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all\nworthy of your kindness.\"\n\n\"Not worthy! She's not worthy of it!\" Katerina Ivanovna cried again with\nthe same warmth. \"You know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we're fanciful, we're\nself-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We're noble,\nwe're generous, Alexey Fyodorovitch, let me tell you. We have only been\nunfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy,\nperhaps, or fickle man. There was one man--one, an officer too, we loved\nhim, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago,\nand he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a widower, he has\nwritten, he is coming here, and, do you know, we've loved him, none but\nhim, all this time, and we've loved him all our life! He will come, and\nGrushenka will be happy again. For the last five years she's been\nwretched. But who can reproach her, who can boast of her favor? Only that\nbedridden old merchant, but he is more like her father, her friend, her\nprotector. He found her then in despair, in agony, deserted by the man she\nloved. She was ready to drown herself then, but the old merchant saved\nher--saved her!\"\n\n\"You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry\nabout everything,\" Grushenka drawled again.\n\n\"Defend you! Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you?\nGrushenka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming soft little\nhand, Alexey Fyodorovitch! Look at it! It has brought me happiness and has\nlifted me up, and I'm going to kiss it, outside and inside, here, here,\nhere!\"\n\nAnd three times she kissed the certainly charming, though rather fat, hand\nof Grushenka in a sort of rapture. She held out her hand with a charming\nmusical, nervous little laugh, watched the \"sweet young lady,\" and\nobviously liked having her hand kissed.\n\n\"Perhaps there's rather too much rapture,\" thought Alyosha. He blushed. He\nfelt a peculiar uneasiness at heart the whole time.\n\n\"You won't make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this\nbefore Alexey Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"Do you think I meant to make you blush?\" said Katerina Ivanovna, somewhat\nsurprised. \"Ah, my dear, how little you understand me!\"\n\n\"Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe\nI'm not so good as I seem to you. I've a bad heart; I will have my own\nway. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for fun.\"\n\n\"But now you'll save him. You've given me your word. You'll explain it all\nto him. You'll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is\nnow offering you his hand.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I didn't give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking\nabout that. I didn't give you my word.\"\n\n\"Then I didn't quite understand you,\" said Katerina Ivanovna slowly,\nturning a little pale. \"You promised--\"\n\n\"Oh, no, angel lady, I've promised nothing,\" Grushenka interrupted softly\nand evenly, still with the same gay and simple expression. \"You see at\nonce, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with you. If I\nwant to do a thing I do it. I may have made you some promise just now. But\nnow again I'm thinking: I may take to Mitya again. I liked him very much\nonce--liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I shall go and tell him\nto stay with me from this day forward. You see, I'm so changeable.\"\n\n\"Just now you said--something quite different,\" Katerina Ivanovna whispered\nfaintly.\n\n\"Ah, just now! But, you know. I'm such a soft-hearted, silly creature.\nOnly think what he's gone through on my account! What if when I go home I\nfeel sorry for him? What then?\"\n\n\"I never expected--\"\n\n\"Ah, young lady, how good and generous you are compared with me! Now\nperhaps you won't care for a silly creature like me, now you know my\ncharacter. Give me your sweet little hand, angelic lady,\" she said\ntenderly, and with a sort of reverence took Katerina Ivanovna's hand.\n\n\"Here, dear young lady, I'll take your hand and kiss it as you did mine.\nYou kissed mine three times, but I ought to kiss yours three hundred times\nto be even with you. Well, but let that pass. And then it shall be as God\nwills. Perhaps I shall be your slave entirely and want to do your bidding\nlike a slave. Let it be as God wills, without any agreements and promises.\nWhat a sweet hand--what a sweet hand you have! You sweet young lady, you\nincredible beauty!\"\n\nShe slowly raised the hands to her lips, with the strange object indeed of\n\"being even\" with her in kisses.\n\nKaterina Ivanovna did not take her hand away. She listened with timid hope\nto the last words, though Grushenka's promise to do her bidding like a\nslave was very strangely expressed. She looked intently into her eyes; she\nstill saw in those eyes the same simple-hearted, confiding expression, the\nsame bright gayety.\n\n\"She's perhaps too naive,\" thought Katerina Ivanovna, with a gleam of\nhope.\n\nGrushenka meanwhile seemed enthusiastic over the \"sweet hand.\" She raised\nit deliberately to her lips. But she held it for two or three minutes near\nher lips, as though reconsidering something.\n\n\"Do you know, angel lady,\" she suddenly drawled in an even more soft and\nsugary voice, \"do you know, after all, I think I won't kiss your hand?\"\nAnd she laughed a little merry laugh.\n\n\"As you please. What's the matter with you?\" said Katerina Ivanovna,\nstarting suddenly.\n\n\"So that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I didn't\nkiss yours.\"\n\nThere was a sudden gleam in her eyes. She looked with awful intentness at\nKaterina Ivanovna.\n\n\"Insolent creature!\" cried Katerina Ivanovna, as though suddenly grasping\nsomething. She flushed all over and leapt up from her seat.\n\nGrushenka too got up, but without haste.\n\n\"So I shall tell Mitya how you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours at\nall. And how he will laugh!\"\n\n\"Vile slut! Go away!\"\n\n\"Ah, for shame, young lady! Ah, for shame! That's unbecoming for you, dear\nyoung lady, a word like that.\"\n\n\"Go away! You're a creature for sale!\" screamed Katerina Ivanovna. Every\nfeature was working in her utterly distorted face.\n\n\"For sale indeed! You used to visit gentlemen in the dusk for money once;\nyou brought your beauty for sale. You see, I know.\"\n\nKaterina Ivanovna shrieked, and would have rushed at her, but Alyosha held\nher with all his strength.\n\n\"Not a step, not a word! Don't speak, don't answer her. She'll go\naway--she'll go at once.\"\n\nAt that instant Katerina Ivanovna's two aunts ran in at her cry, and with\nthem a maid-servant. All hurried to her.\n\n\"I will go away,\" said Grushenka, taking up her mantle from the sofa.\n\"Alyosha, darling, see me home!\"\n\n\"Go away--go away, make haste!\" cried Alyosha, clasping his hands\nimploringly.\n\n\"Dear little Alyosha, see me home! I've got a pretty little story to tell\nyou on the way. I got up this scene for your benefit, Alyosha. See me\nhome, dear, you'll be glad of it afterwards.\"\n\nAlyosha turned away, wringing his hands. Grushenka ran out of the house,\nlaughing musically.\n\nKaterina Ivanovna went into a fit of hysterics. She sobbed, and was shaken\nwith convulsions. Every one fussed round her.\n\n\"I warned you,\" said the elder of her aunts. \"I tried to prevent your\ndoing this. You're too impulsive. How could you do such a thing? You don't\nknow these creatures, and they say she's worse than any of them. You are\ntoo self-willed.\"\n\n\"She's a tigress!\" yelled Katerina Ivanovna. \"Why did you hold me, Alexey\nFyodorovitch? I'd have beaten her--beaten her!\"\n\nShe could not control herself before Alyosha; perhaps she did not care to,\nindeed.\n\n\"She ought to be flogged in public on a scaffold!\"\n\nAlyosha withdrew towards the door.\n\n\"But, my God!\" cried Katerina Ivanovna, clasping her hands. \"He! He! He\ncould be so dishonorable, so inhuman! Why, he told that creature what\nhappened on that fatal, accursed day! 'You brought your beauty for sale,\ndear young lady.' She knows it! Your brother's a scoundrel, Alexey\nFyodorovitch.\"\n\nAlyosha wanted to say something, but he couldn't find a word. His heart\nached.\n\n\"Go away, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It's shameful, it's awful for me! To-\nmorrow, I beg you on my knees, come to-morrow. Don't condemn me. Forgive\nme. I don't know what I shall do with myself now!\"\n\nAlyosha walked out into the street reeling. He could have wept as she did.\nSuddenly he was overtaken by the maid.\n\n\"The young lady forgot to give you this letter from Madame Hohlakov; it's\nbeen left with us since dinner-time.\"\n\nAlyosha took the little pink envelope mechanically and put it, almost\nunconsciously, into his pocket.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI. Another Reputation Ruined\n\n\nIt was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the\nmonastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour deserted.\nIt was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces\nahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into sight under a\nsolitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha reached the cross-\nroads the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely:\n\n\"Your money or your life!\"\n\n\"So it's you, Mitya,\" cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled\nhowever.\n\n\"Ha ha ha! You didn't expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her\nhouse? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last\nI thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there's no other way\nto the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But\nwhat's the matter?\"\n\n\"Nothing, brother--it's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father's blood\njust now.\" (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of tears for a\nlong time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.) \"You almost\nkilled him--cursed him--and now--here--you're making jokes--'Your money or your\nlife!' \"\n\n\"Well, what of that? It's not seemly--is that it? Not suitable in my\nposition?\"\n\n\"No--I only--\"\n\n\"Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a\nwind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God's\nabove, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there\nto wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist\nthem into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening\nthe earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you\ncoming--Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So\nthere is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little\nbrother, whom I love more than any one in the world, the only one I love\nin the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I\nthought, 'I'll fall on his neck at once.' Then a stupid idea struck me, to\nhave a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, 'Your money!'\nForgive my foolery--it was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in\nmy soul.... Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike\nme, crush me, don't spare me! Was she furious?\"\n\n\"No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There--I found them\nboth there.\"\n\n\"Both? Whom?\"\n\n\"Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's.\"\n\nDmitri was struck dumb.\n\n\"Impossible!\" he cried. \"You're raving! Grushenka with her?\"\n\nAlyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to\nKaterina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. He can't be\nsaid to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it\nclear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly\ndescribing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in\nsilence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to\nAlyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the\nstory went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He\nscowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more\nrigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible\nrapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips\nparted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous\nlaughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not\nspeak.\n\n\"So she wouldn't kiss her hand! So she didn't kiss it; so she ran away!\"\nhe kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it might have\nbeen called, if it had not been so spontaneous. \"So the other one called\nher tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a\nscaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That's just what I think; she ought to\nhave been long ago. It's like this, brother, let her be punished, but I\nmust get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all\nover! You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil! She's\nmagnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I'll go--ah--I'll run to her!\nAlyosha, don't blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her.\"\n\n\"But Katerina Ivanovna!\" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully.\n\n\"I see her, too! I see right through her, as I've never done before! It's\na regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the\nfive! What a thing to do! That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to\nface a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous\nimpulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance\nof fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That\naunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She's the sister of the general's\nwidow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than she. But her husband was\ncaught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all,\nand the proud wife had to lower her colors, and hasn't raised them since.\nSo she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her! She thinks\nshe can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She\nthought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it\nherself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think\nshe kissed Grushenka's hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she\nreally was fascinated by Grushenka, that's to say, not by Grushenka, but\nby her own dream, her own delusion--because it was _her_ dream, _her_\ndelusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did\nyou pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!\"\n\n\"Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katerina\nIvanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face\njust now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty!\nBrother, what could be worse than that insult?\"\n\nWhat worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed,\nhis brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna's humiliation.\n\n\"Bah!\" Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He\nonly now realized it, though Alyosha had just told him of the insult, and\nKaterina Ivanovna's cry: \"Your brother is a scoundrel!\"\n\n\"Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that 'fatal day,' as\nKatya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at\nMokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I was\nsobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenka\nunderstood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried\nherself.... Damn it all! But it's bound to be so now.... Then she cried,\nbut now 'the dagger in the heart'! That's how women are.\"\n\nHe looked down and sank into thought.\n\n\"Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!\" he said suddenly, in a\ngloomy voice. \"It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel!\nTell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough.\nGood-by. It's no use talking! It's not amusing. You go your way and I\nmine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Good-\nby, Alexey!\"\n\nHe warmly pressed Alyosha's hand, and still looking down, without raising\nhis head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town.\n\nAlyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly.\n\n\"Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!\" cried Dmitri, suddenly\nturning back. \"Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here--there's\nterrible disgrace in store for me.\" (As he said \"here,\" Dmitri struck his\nchest with his fist with a strange air, as though the dishonor lay\nprecisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging\nround his neck.) \"You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but\nlet me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall\nagain, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I\nbear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to\npass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it\nthrough, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I\nshan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you\nthis, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if\nI do, I can give back the full half of my lost honor to-morrow. But I\nshan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness\nthat I told you so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to\nexplain. You'll find out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-\ndevil. Good-by. Don't pray for me, I'm not worth it. And there's no need,\nno need at all.... I don't need it! Away!\"\n\nAnd he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the\nmonastery.\n\n\"What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?\" he wondered\nwildly. \"Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up. I\nshall make a point of it. What does he mean?\"\n\n                  -------------------------------------\n\nHe went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the hermitage.\nThe door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There\nwas a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zossima's cell.\n\n\"Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was\npeace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was darkness in\nwhich one lost one's way and went astray at once....\"\n\nIn the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Paissy, who came every\nhour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm that he\nwas getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers\ncould not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the\nmonks flocked into Father Zossima's cell, and all confessed aloud their\nsins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations; even their\ndisputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder\nabsolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and dismissed\nthem. It was against this general \"confession\" that the opponents of\n\"elders\" protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament\nof confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different\nthing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such\nconfessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to\nsin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder, and\nwent against their own will because every one went, and for fear they\nshould be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of\nthe monks agreed beforehand, saying, \"I'll confess I lost my temper with\nyou this morning, and you confirm it,\" simply in order to have something\nto say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too,\nthat there were among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that\nletters from relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened\nand read by him before those to whom they were addressed.\n\nIt was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good\nfaith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in fact,\nthere was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was false and\nstrained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks\nadhered to their opinion, arguing that \"for those who have come within\nthese walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and sacrifice will\ncertainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on the other hand, who\nfind it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and have made a mistake in\nentering the monastery--their proper place is in the world. Even in the\ntemple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil. So it was no good taking\nit too much into account.\"\n\n\"He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him,\" Father Paissy whispered to\nAlyosha, as he blessed him. \"It's difficult to rouse him. And he must not\nbe roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the\nbrothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take\nthe sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked\nwhether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. 'I\nblessed him for that work,' he said, 'his place is there, not here, for\nawhile.' Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with\nanxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how is it that he has\ndecided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen\nsomething in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the\nworld, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for\nfrivolous vanity and worldly pleasures.\"\n\nFather Paissy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was\ndying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and\nardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the\nHohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next\nday, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with\nlove, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one\ninstant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his deathbed,\nand whom he honored above every one in the world. He went into Father\nZossima's bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground before the elder,\nwho slept quietly without stirring, with regular, hardly audible breathing\nand a peaceful face.\n\nAlyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima had received his\nguests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard,\nnarrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing\nbut a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted to him that\nmorning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock, which\nhe used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell on his knees and\nprayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to\nlighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous emotion, which\nalways visited his soul after the praise and adoration, of which his\nevening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light\nuntroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the\nlittle pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katerina\nIvanovna's. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some\nhesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him, signed by\nLise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had laughed at him before\nthe elder in the morning.\n\n\"Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" she wrote, \"I am writing to you without any one's\nknowledge, even mamma's, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live\nwithout telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this\nno one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so\nmuch to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's\nnot true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha,\nI love you, I've loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when\nyou were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my\nlife. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together\ntill our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the\nmonastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By\nthat time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and\ndancing. There can be no doubt of that.\n\n\"You see how I've thought of everything. There's only one thing I can't\nimagine: what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing\nand being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before\nI took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now\nI'm praying, and almost crying.\n\n\"My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don't know how I\nshall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can't restrain\nmyself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day. You'll\nthink I'm a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won't believe my letter.\nAnd so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come to-\nmorrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it\nwill be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown.\nI feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don't look at\nme at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window....\n\n\"Here I've written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha,\ndon't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you,\nforgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is\nin your hands.\n\n\"I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-by till our meeting, our _awful_\nmeeting.--LISE.\n\n\"P.S.--Alyosha! You must, must, must come!--LISE.\"\n\nAlyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a\nlittle, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh\nseemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as softly\nand happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself\nand lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. \"God, have mercy\nupon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy\nkeeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them\naccording to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!\"\nAlyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART II Book IV. Lacerations Chapter I. Father Ferapont\n\n\nAlyosha was roused early, before daybreak. Father Zossima woke up feeling\nvery weak, though he wanted to get out of bed and sit up in a chair. His\nmind was quite clear; his face looked very tired, yet bright and almost\njoyful. It wore an expression of gayety, kindness and cordiality. \"Maybe I\nshall not live through the coming day,\" he said to Alyosha. Then he\ndesired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He always confessed to\nFather Paissy. After taking the communion, the service of extreme unction\nfollowed. The monks assembled and the cell was gradually filled up by the\ninmates of the hermitage. Meantime it was daylight. People began coming\nfrom the monastery. After the service was over the elder desired to kiss\nand take leave of every one. As the cell was so small the earlier visitors\nwithdrew to make room for others. Alyosha stood beside the elder, who was\nseated again in his arm-chair. He talked as much as he could. Though his\nvoice was weak, it was fairly steady.\n\n\"I've been teaching you so many years, and therefore I've been talking\naloud so many years, that I've got into the habit of talking, and so much\nso that it's almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than to talk,\neven now, in spite of my weakness, dear Fathers and brothers,\" he jested,\nlooking with emotion at the group round him.\n\nAlyosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But\nthough he spoke out distinctly and his voice was fairly steady, his speech\nwas somewhat disconnected. He spoke of many things, he seemed anxious\nbefore the moment of death to say everything he had not said in his life,\nand not simply for the sake of instructing them, but as though thirsting\nto share with all men and all creation his joy and ecstasy, and once more\nin his life to open his whole heart.\n\n\"Love one another, Fathers,\" said Father Zossima, as far as Alyosha could\nremember afterwards. \"Love God's people. Because we have come here and\nshut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those that are\noutside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of\nus has confessed to himself that he is worse than others, than all men on\nearth.... And the longer the monk lives in his seclusion, the more keenly\nhe must recognize that. Else he would have had no reason to come here.\nWhen he realizes that he is not only worse than others, but that he is\nresponsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins,\nnational and individual, only then the aim of our seclusion is attained.\nFor know, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly responsible for\nall men and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness\nof creation, but each one personally for all mankind and every individual\nman. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man.\nFor monks are not a special sort of men, but only what all men ought to\nbe. Only through that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite,\nuniversal, inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power\nto win over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world\nwith your tears.... Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess\nyour sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when\nperceiving them, if only there be penitence, but make no conditions with\nGod. Again I say, Be not proud. Be proud neither to the little nor to the\ngreat. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you, who abuse and\nslander you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil, the\nmaterialists--and I mean not only the good ones--for there are many good\nones among them, especially in our day--hate not even the wicked ones.\nRemember them in your prayers thus: Save, O Lord, all those who have none\nto pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And add: it is not\nin pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men....\nLove God's people, let not strangers draw away the flock, for if you\nslumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or worse still, in\ncovetousness, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock.\nExpound the Gospel to the people unceasingly ... be not extortionate....\nDo not love gold and silver, do not hoard them.... Have faith. Cling to\nthe banner and raise it on high.\"\n\nBut the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alyosha reported his words\nafterwards. Sometimes he broke off altogether, as though to take breath,\nand recover his strength, but he was in a sort of ecstasy. They heard him\nwith emotion, though many wondered at his words and found them obscure....\nAfterwards all remembered those words.\n\nWhen Alyosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by the\ngeneral excitement and suspense in the monks who were crowding about it.\nThis anticipation showed itself in some by anxiety, in others by devout\nsolemnity. All were expecting that some marvel would happen immediately\nafter the elder's death. Their suspense was, from one point of view,\nalmost frivolous, but even the most austere of the monks were affected by\nit. Father Paissy's face looked the gravest of all.\n\nAlyosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Rakitin, who had\narrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Hohlakov. In\nit she informed Alyosha of a strange and very opportune incident. It\nappeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to receive\nFather Zossima's blessing, there had been an old woman from the town, a\nsergeant's widow, called Prohorovna. She had inquired whether she might\npray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vassenka, who had gone to\nIrkutsk, and had sent her no news for over a year. To which Father Zossima\nhad answered sternly, forbidding her to do so, and saying that to pray for\nthe living as though they were dead was a kind of sorcery. He afterwards\nforgave her on account of her ignorance, and added, \"as though reading the\nbook of the future\" (this was Madame Hohlakov's expression), words of\ncomfort: \"that her son Vassya was certainly alive and he would either come\nhimself very shortly or send a letter, and that she was to go home and\nexpect him.\" And \"Would you believe it?\" exclaimed Madame Hohlakov\nenthusiastically, \"the prophecy has been fulfilled literally indeed, and\nmore than that.\" Scarcely had the old woman reached home when they gave\nher a letter from Siberia which had been awaiting her. But that was not\nall; in the letter written on the road from Ekaterinenburg, Vassya\ninformed his mother that he was returning to Russia with an official, and\nthat three weeks after her receiving the letter he hoped \"to embrace his\nmother.\"\n\nMadame Hohlakov warmly entreated Alyosha to report this new \"miracle of\nprediction\" to the Superior and all the brotherhood. \"All, all, ought to\nknow of it!\" she concluded. The letter had been written in haste, the\nexcitement of the writer was apparent in every line of it. But Alyosha had\nno need to tell the monks, for all knew of it already. Rakitin had\ncommissioned the monk who brought his message \"to inform most respectfully\nhis reverence Father Paissy, that he, Rakitin, has a matter to speak of\nwith him, of such gravity that he dare not defer it for a moment, and\nhumbly begs forgiveness for his presumption.\" As the monk had given the\nmessage to Father Paissy before that to Alyosha, the latter found after\nreading the letter, there was nothing left for him to do but to hand it to\nFather Paissy in confirmation of the story.\n\nAnd even that austere and cautious man, though he frowned as he read the\nnews of the \"miracle,\" could not completely restrain some inner emotion.\nHis eyes gleamed, and a grave and solemn smile came into his lips.\n\n\"We shall see greater things!\" broke from him.\n\n\"We shall see greater things, greater things yet!\" the monks around\nrepeated.\n\nBut Father Paissy, frowning again, begged all of them, at least for a\ntime, not to speak of the matter \"till it be more fully confirmed, seeing\nthere is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed this\nmight well have chanced naturally,\" he added, prudently, as it were to\nsatisfy his conscience, though scarcely believing his own disavowal, a\nfact his listeners very clearly perceived.\n\nWithin the hour the \"miracle\" was of course known to the whole monastery,\nand many visitors who had come for the mass. No one seemed more impressed\nby it than the monk who had come the day before from St. Sylvester, from\nthe little monastery of Obdorsk in the far North. It was he who had been\nstanding near Madame Hohlakov the previous day and had asked Father\nZossima earnestly, referring to the \"healing\" of the lady's daughter, \"How\ncan you presume to do such things?\"\n\nHe was now somewhat puzzled and did not know whom to believe. The evening\nbefore he had visited Father Ferapont in his cell apart, behind the\napiary, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit. This\nFather Ferapont was that aged monk so devout in fasting and observing\nsilence who has been mentioned already, as antagonistic to Father Zossima\nand the whole institution of \"elders,\" which he regarded as a pernicious\nand frivolous innovation. He was a very formidable opponent, although from\nhis practice of silence he scarcely spoke a word to any one. What made him\nformidable was that a number of monks fully shared his feeling, and many\nof the visitors looked upon him as a great saint and ascetic, although\nthey had no doubt that he was crazy. But it was just his craziness\nattracted them.\n\nFather Ferapont never went to see the elder. Though he lived in the\nhermitage they did not worry him to keep its regulations, and this too\nbecause he behaved as though he were crazy. He was seventy-five or more,\nand he lived in a corner beyond the apiary in an old decaying wooden cell\nwhich had been built long ago for another great ascetic, Father Iona, who\nhad lived to be a hundred and five, and of whose saintly doings many\ncurious stories were still extant in the monastery and the neighborhood.\n\nFather Ferapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in this same\nsolitary cell seven years previously. It was simply a peasant's hut,\nthough it looked like a chapel, for it contained an extraordinary number\nof ikons with lamps perpetually burning before them--which men brought to\nthe monastery as offerings to God. Father Ferapont had been appointed to\nlook after them and keep the lamps burning. It was said (and indeed it was\ntrue) that he ate only two pounds of bread in three days. The beekeeper,\nwho lived close by the apiary, used to bring him the bread every three\ndays, and even to this man who waited upon him, Father Ferapont rarely\nuttered a word. The four pounds of bread, together with the sacrament\nbread, regularly sent him on Sundays after the late mass by the Father\nSuperior, made up his weekly rations. The water in his jug was changed\nevery day. He rarely appeared at mass. Visitors who came to do him homage\nsaw him sometimes kneeling all day long at prayer without looking round.\nIf he addressed them, he was brief, abrupt, strange, and almost always\nrude. On very rare occasions, however, he would talk to visitors, but for\nthe most part he would utter some one strange saying which was a complete\nriddle, and no entreaties would induce him to pronounce a word in\nexplanation. He was not a priest, but a simple monk. There was a strange\nbelief, chiefly however among the most ignorant, that Father Ferapont had\ncommunication with heavenly spirits and would only converse with them, and\nso was silent with men.\n\nThe monk from Obdorsk, having been directed to the apiary by the\nbeekeeper, who was also a very silent and surly monk, went to the corner\nwhere Father Ferapont's cell stood. \"Maybe he will speak as you are a\nstranger and maybe you'll get nothing out of him,\" the beekeeper had\nwarned him. The monk, as he related afterwards, approached in the utmost\napprehension. It was rather late in the evening. Father Ferapont was\nsitting at the door of his cell on a low bench. A huge old elm was lightly\nrustling overhead. There was an evening freshness in the air. The monk\nfrom Obdorsk bowed down before the saint and asked his blessing.\n\n\"Do you want me to bow down to you, monk?\" said Father Ferapont. \"Get up!\"\n\nThe monk got up.\n\n\"Blessing, be blessed! Sit beside me. Where have you come from?\"\n\nWhat most struck the poor monk was the fact that in spite of his strict\nfasting and great age, Father Ferapont still looked a vigorous old man. He\nwas tall, held himself erect, and had a thin, but fresh and healthy face.\nThere was no doubt he still had considerable strength. He was of athletic\nbuild. In spite of his great age he was not even quite gray, and still had\nvery thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once been black. His\neyes were gray, large and luminous, but strikingly prominent. He spoke\nwith a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant's long reddish coat of\ncoarse convict cloth (as it used to be called) and had a stout rope round\nhis waist. His throat and chest were bare. Beneath his coat, his shirt of\nthe coarsest linen showed almost black with dirt, not having been changed\nfor months. They said that he wore irons weighing thirty pounds under his\ncoat. His stockingless feet were thrust in old slippers almost dropping to\npieces.\n\n\"From the little Obdorsk monastery, from St. Sylvester,\" the monk answered\nhumbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive, but rather frightened little eyes\nkept watch on the hermit.\n\n\"I have been at your Sylvester's. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester\nwell?\"\n\nThe monk hesitated.\n\n\"You are a senseless lot! How do you keep the fasts?\"\n\n\"Our dietary is according to the ancient conventual rules. During Lent\nthere are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For Tuesday\nand Thursday we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild berries,\nor salt cabbage and wholemeal stirabout. On Saturday white cabbage soup,\nnoodles with peas, kasha, all with hemp oil. On weekdays we have dried\nfish and kasha with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening,\nsix whole days in Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and\nwater, and that sparingly; if possible not taking food every day, just the\nsame as is ordered for first week in Lent. On Good Friday nothing is\neaten. In the same way on the Saturday we have to fast till three o'clock,\nand then take a little bread and water and drink a single cup of wine. On\nHoly Thursday we drink wine and have something cooked without oil or not\ncooked at all, inasmuch as the Laodicean council lays down for Holy\nThursday: 'It is unseemly by remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to\ndishonor the whole of Lent!' This is how we keep the fast. But what is\nthat compared with you, holy Father,\" added the monk, growing more\nconfident, \"for all the year round, even at Easter, you take nothing but\nbread and water, and what we should eat in two days lasts you full seven.\nIt's truly marvelous--your great abstinence.\"\n\n\"And mushrooms?\" asked Father Ferapont, suddenly.\n\n\"Mushrooms?\" repeated the surprised monk.\n\n\"Yes. I can give up their bread, not needing it at all, and go away into\nthe forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but they can't\ngive up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage to the devil.\nNowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such fasting. Haughty and\nunclean is their judgment.\"\n\n\"Och, true,\" sighed the monk.\n\n\"And have you seen devils among them?\" asked Ferapont.\n\n\"Among them? Among whom?\" asked the monk, timidly.\n\n\"I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven't been\nsince. I saw a devil sitting on one man's chest hiding under his cassock,\nonly his horns poked out; another had one peeping out of his pocket with\nsuch sharp eyes, he was afraid of me; another settled in the unclean belly\nof one, another was hanging round a man's neck, and so he was carrying him\nabout without seeing him.\"\n\n\"You--can see spirits?\" the monk inquired.\n\n\"I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out from\nthe Superior's I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a\nyard and a half or more high, with a thick long gray tail, and the tip of\nhis tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and slammed the\ndoor, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to struggle, and I\nmade the sign of the cross over him three times. And he died on the spot\nlike a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be\nstinking, but they don't see, they don't smell it. It's a year since I\nhave been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a stranger.\"\n\n\"Your words are terrible! But, holy and blessed Father,\" said the monk,\ngrowing bolder and bolder, \"is it true, as they noise abroad even to\ndistant lands about you, that you are in continual communication with the\nHoly Ghost?\"\n\n\"He does fly down at times.\"\n\n\"How does he fly down? In what form?\"\n\n\"As a bird.\"\n\n\"The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove?\"\n\n\"There's the Holy Ghost and there's the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can\nappear as other birds--sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch and\nsometimes as a blue-tit.\"\n\n\"How do you know him from an ordinary tit?\"\n\n\"He speaks.\"\n\n\"How does he speak, in what language?\"\n\n\"Human language.\"\n\n\"And what does he tell you?\"\n\n\"Why, to-day he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me\nunseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk.\"\n\n\"Terrible are your words, most holy and blessed Father,\" the monk shook\nhis head. But there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes.\n\n\"Do you see this tree?\" asked Father Ferapont, after a pause.\n\n\"I do, blessed Father.\"\n\n\"You think it's an elm, but for me it has another shape.\"\n\n\"What sort of shape?\" inquired the monk, after a pause of vain\nexpectation.\n\n\"It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is\nChrist holding out His arms to me and seeking me with those arms, I see it\nclearly and tremble. It's terrible, terrible!\"\n\n\"What is there terrible if it's Christ Himself?\"\n\n\"Why, He'll snatch me up and carry me away.\"\n\n\"Alive?\"\n\n\"In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven't you heard? He will take me in\nHis arms and bear me away.\"\n\nThough the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the\nbrothers, in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at heart\na greater reverence for Father Ferapont than for Father Zossima. He was\nstrongly in favor of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so\nrigid a fast as Father Ferapont should \"see marvels.\" His words seemed\ncertainly queer, but God only could tell what was hidden in those words,\nand were not worse words and acts commonly seen in those who have\nsacrificed their intellects for the glory of God? The pinching of the\ndevil's tail he was ready and eager to believe, and not only in the\nfigurative sense. Besides he had, before visiting the monastery, a strong\nprejudice against the institution of \"elders,\" which he only knew of by\nhearsay and believed to be a pernicious innovation. Before he had been\nlong at the monastery, he had detected the secret murmurings of some\nshallow brothers who disliked the institution. He was, besides, a\nmeddlesome, inquisitive man, who poked his nose into everything. This was\nwhy the news of the fresh \"miracle\" performed by Father Zossima reduced\nhim to extreme perplexity. Alyosha remembered afterwards how their\ninquisitive guest from Obdorsk had been continually flitting to and fro\nfrom one group to another, listening and asking questions among the monks\nthat were crowding within and without the elder's cell. But he did not pay\nmuch attention to him at the time, and only recollected it afterwards.\n\nHe had no thought to spare for it indeed, for when Father Zossima, feeling\ntired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Alyosha as he was closing\nhis eyes, and sent for him. Alyosha ran at once. There was no one else in\nthe cell but Father Paissy, Father Iosif, and the novice Porfiry. The\nelder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at Alyosha, asked him\nsuddenly:\n\n\"Are your people expecting you, my son?\"\n\nAlyosha hesitated.\n\n\"Haven't they need of you? Didn't you promise some one yesterday to see\nthem to-day?\"\n\n\"I did promise--to my father--my brothers--others too.\"\n\n\"You see, you must go. Don't grieve. Be sure I shall not die without your\nbeing by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my son, it\nwill be my last gift to you. To you, dear son, because you love me. But\nnow go to keep your promise.\"\n\nAlyosha immediately obeyed, though it was hard to go. But the promise that\nhe should hear his last word on earth, that it should be the last gift to\nhim, Alyosha, sent a thrill of rapture through his soul. He made haste\nthat he might finish what he had to do in the town and return quickly.\nFather Paissy, too, uttered some words of exhortation which moved and\nsurprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell together.\n\n\"Remember, young man, unceasingly,\" Father Paissy began, without preface,\n\"that the science of this world, which has become a great power, has,\nespecially in the last century, analyzed everything divine handed down to\nus in the holy books. After this cruel analysis the learned of this world\nhave nothing left of all that was sacred of old. But they have only\nanalyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is\nmarvelous. Yet the whole still stands steadfast before their eyes, and the\ngates of hell shall not prevail against it. Has it not lasted nineteen\ncenturies, is it not still a living, a moving power in the individual soul\nand in the masses of people? It is still as strong and living even in the\nsouls of atheists, who have destroyed everything! For even those who have\nrenounced Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow\nthe Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety nor the ardor of\ntheir hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue\nthan the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been attempted, the\nresult has been only grotesque. Remember this especially, young man, since\nyou are being sent into the world by your departing elder. Maybe,\nremembering this great day, you will not forget my words, uttered from the\nheart for your guidance, seeing you are young, and the temptations of the\nworld are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well, now go, my\norphan.\"\n\nWith these words Father Paissy blessed him. As Alyosha left the monastery\nand thought them over, he suddenly realized that he had met a new and\nunexpected friend, a warmly loving teacher, in this austere monk who had\nhitherto treated him sternly. It was as though Father Zossima had\nbequeathed him to him at his death, and \"perhaps that's just what had\npassed between them,\" Alyosha thought suddenly. The philosophic\nreflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to the warmth of\nFather Paissy's heart. He was in haste to arm the boy's mind for conflict\nwith temptation and to guard the young soul left in his charge with the\nstrongest defense he could imagine.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. At His Father's\n\n\nFirst of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that\nhis father had insisted the day before that he should come without his\nbrother Ivan seeing him. \"Why so?\" Alyosha wondered suddenly. \"Even if my\nfather has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most\nlikely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different,\"\nhe decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the\ngarden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge),\ntold him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch had gone out two\nhours ago.\n\n\"And my father?\"\n\n\"He is up, taking his coffee,\" Marfa answered somewhat dryly.\n\nAlyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing\nslippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking\nthrough some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone in\nthe house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up\nearly and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak.\nHis forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the\nnight, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too had swollen\nterribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches,\ngiving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old\nman was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came\nin.\n\n\"The coffee is cold,\" he cried harshly; \"I won't offer you any. I've\nordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one\nto share it. Why have you come?\"\n\n\"To find out how you are,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence.\nYou need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly.\"\n\nHe said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and\nlooked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth time that\nmorning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red handkerchief more\nbecomingly on his forehead.\n\n\"Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one,\" he observed\nsententiously. \"Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?\"\n\n\"He is very bad; he may die to-day,\" answered Alyosha. But his father had\nnot listened, and had forgotten his own question at once.\n\n\"Ivan's gone out,\" he said suddenly. \"He is doing his utmost to carry off\nMitya's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for,\" he added\nmaliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha.\n\n\"Surely he did not tell you so?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago?\nYou don't suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some\nobject in coming.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Why do you say such things?\" said Alyosha, troubled.\n\n\"He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from\nme. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear\nAlexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live,\nthe more I shall need it,\" he continued, pacing from one corner of the\nroom to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose greasy\novercoat made of yellow cotton material. \"I can still pass for a man at\nfive and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I\nget older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come\nto me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up\nmore and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may\nas well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you.\nFor sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it\non the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for\nbeing so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my\ntaste, let me tell you that; and it's not the proper place for a\ngentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep\nand don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul if you\nlike. And if you don't want to, don't, damn you! That's my philosophy.\nIvan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a\nconceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education\neither. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking--that's what\npulls him through.\"\n\nAlyosha listened to him in silence.\n\n\"Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your\nIvan is a scoundrel! And I'll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to.\nFor if you've money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing\nand you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to\nprevent me getting married and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry\nGrushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I\nshould leave him my money if I don't marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries\nGrushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that's what he's\nreckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!\"\n\n\"How cross you are! It's because of yesterday; you had better lie down,\"\nsaid Alyosha.\n\n\"There! you say that,\" the old man observed suddenly, as though it had\nstruck him for the first time, \"and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan\nsaid it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good\nmoments, else you know I am an ill-natured man.\"\n\n\"You are not ill-natured, but distorted,\" said Alyosha with a smile.\n\n\"Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I\ndon't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these\nfashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but\neven now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the\nhair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him\noutright--all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him\nand could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday.\"\n\n\"Then you don't mean to take proceedings?\"\n\n\"Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another\nthing.\"\n\nAnd bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper.\n\n\"If I send the ruffian to prison, she'll hear of it and run to see him at\nonce. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an\ninch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that's her\nway, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won't you\nhave a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I'll pour a quarter of a\nglass of brandy into it, it's delicious, my boy.\"\n\n\"No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me if I may,\" said Alyosha, and\ntaking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock.\n\"And you'd better not have brandy, either,\" he suggested apprehensively,\nlooking into the old man's face.\n\n\"You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them.\nOnly one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard.\"\n\nHe unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the\ncupboard and put the key back in his pocket.\n\n\"That's enough. One glass won't kill me.\"\n\n\"You see you are in a better humor now,\" said Alyosha, smiling.\n\n\"Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a\nscoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya--why is that? He wants to spy\nhow much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I\ndon't recognize Ivan, I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He\nis not one of us in soul. As though I'd leave him anything! I shan't leave\na will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitya like a beetle. I\nsquash black-beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread\non them. And your Mitya will squelch too. _Your_ Mitya, for you love him.\nYes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan\nloved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves\nnobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy.\nThey are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be\ngone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to-day; I\nwanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a\nthousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself\noff altogether for five years or, better still, thirty-five, and without\nGrushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?\"\n\n\"I--I'll ask him,\" muttered Alyosha. \"If you would give him three thousand,\nperhaps he--\"\n\n\"That's nonsense! You needn't ask him now, no need! I've changed my mind.\nIt was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny,\nI want my money myself,\" cried the old man, waving his hand. \"I'll crush\nhim like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him or else he will\nbegin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here, you needn't stay. Is\nthat betrothed of his, Katerina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully\nhidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see\nher yesterday, I believe?\"\n\n\"Nothing will induce her to abandon him.\"\n\n\"There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a\nscoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies,\nvery different from--Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I\nwas better-looking than he at eight and twenty) I'd have been a conquering\nhero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan't have Grushenka, anyway,\nhe shan't! I'll crush him!\"\n\nHis anger had returned with the last words.\n\n\"You can go. There's nothing for you to do here to-day,\" he snapped\nharshly.\n\nAlyosha went up to say good-by to him, and kissed him on the shoulder.\n\n\"What's that for?\" The old man was a little surprised. \"We shall see each\nother again, or do you think we shan't?\"\n\n\"Not at all, I didn't mean anything.\"\n\n\"Nor did I, I did not mean anything,\" said the old man, looking at him.\n\"Listen, listen,\" he shouted after him, \"make haste and come again and\nI'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to-day. Be sure to\ncome! Come to-morrow, do you hear, to-morrow!\"\n\nAnd as soon as Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard\nagain and poured out another half-glass.\n\n\"I won't have more!\" he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked\nthe cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom,\nlay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. A Meeting With The Schoolboys\n\n\n\"Thank goodness he did not ask me about Grushenka,\" thought Alyosha, as he\nleft his father's house and turned towards Madame Hohlakov's, \"or I might\nhave to tell him of my meeting with Grushenka yesterday.\"\n\nAlyosha felt painfully that since yesterday both combatants had renewed\ntheir energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again. \"Father is\nspiteful and angry, he's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of\nDmitri? He too will be harder than yesterday, he too must be spiteful and\nangry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in\nfinding him to-day, whatever happens.\"\n\nBut Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road,\nwhich, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on\nhim. Just after he had crossed the square and turned the corner coming out\ninto Mihailovsky Street, which is divided by a small ditch from the High\nStreet (our whole town is intersected by ditches), he saw a group of\nschoolboys between the ages of nine and twelve, at the bridge. They were\ngoing home from school, some with their bags on their shoulders, others\nwith leather satchels slung across them, some in short jackets, others in\nlittle overcoats. Some even had those high boots with creases round the\nankles, such as little boys spoilt by rich fathers love to wear. The whole\ngroup was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a council.\nAlyosha had never from his Moscow days been able to pass children without\ntaking notice of them, and although he was particularly fond of children\nof three or thereabout, he liked schoolboys of ten and eleven too. And so,\nanxious as he was to-day, he wanted at once to turn aside to talk to them.\nHe looked into their excited rosy faces, and noticed at once that all the\nboys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch some thirty paces away,\nthere was another schoolboy standing by a fence. He too had a satchel at\nhis side. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate-looking and with\nsparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other\nsix, obviously his schoolfellows with whom he had just come out of school,\nbut with whom he had evidently had a feud.\n\nAlyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black\njacket, observed:\n\n\"When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my\nleft side, so as to have my right hand free, but you've got yours on your\nright side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it.\"\n\nAlyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical\nremark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into\nconfidential relations with a child, or still more with a group of\nchildren. One must begin in a serious, businesslike way so as to be on a\nperfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct.\n\n\"But he is left-handed,\" another, a fine healthy-looking boy of eleven,\nanswered promptly. All the others stared at Alyosha.\n\n\"He even throws stones with his left hand,\" observed a third.\n\nAt that instant a stone flew into the group, but only just grazed the\nleft-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy\nstanding the other side of the ditch.\n\n\"Give it him, hit him back, Smurov,\" they all shouted. But Smurov, the\nleft-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once revenged himself; he threw\na stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy the other side\nof the ditch, the pocket of whose coat was visibly bulging with stones,\nflung another stone at the group; this time it flew straight at Alyosha\nand hit him painfully on the shoulder.\n\n\"He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov!\"\nthe boys shouted, laughing. \"Come, all throw at him at once!\" and six\nstones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head and he fell down,\nbut at once leapt up and began ferociously returning their fire. Both\nsides threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full\ntoo.\n\n\"What are you about! Aren't you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you'll kill\nhim,\" cried Alyosha.\n\nHe ran forward and met the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three\nor four ceased throwing for a minute.\n\n\"He began first!\" cried a boy in a red shirt in an angry childish voice.\n\"He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a\npenknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be\nthrashed.\"\n\n\"But what for? I suppose you tease him.\"\n\n\"There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you,\" cried the\nchildren. \"It's you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at\nhim again, don't miss, Smurov!\" and again a fire of stones, and a very\nvicious one, began. The boy the other side of the ditch was hit in the\nchest; he screamed, began to cry and ran away uphill towards Mihailovsky\nStreet. They all shouted: \"Aha, he is funking, he is running away. Wisp of\ntow!\"\n\n\"You don't know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for\nhim,\" said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the\neldest.\n\n\"What's wrong with him?\" asked Alyosha, \"is he a tell-tale or what?\"\n\nThe boys looked at one another as though derisively.\n\n\"Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky?\" the same boy went on. \"Catch him\nup.... You see he's stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you.\"\n\n\"He is looking at you,\" the other boys chimed in.\n\n\"You ask him, does he like a disheveled wisp of tow. Do you hear, ask him\nthat!\"\n\nThere was a general burst of laughter. Alyosha looked at them, and they at\nhim.\n\n\"Don't go near him, he'll hurt you,\" cried Smurov in a warning voice.\n\n\"I shan't ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with\nthat question somehow. But I'll find out from him why you hate him so.\"\n\n\"Find out then, find out,\" cried the boys, laughing.\n\nAlyosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight\ntowards the boy.\n\n\"You'd better look out,\" the boys called after him; \"he won't be afraid of\nyou. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin.\"\n\nThe boy waited for him without budging. Coming up to him, Alyosha saw\nfacing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized weakly\nboy with a thin pale face, with large dark eyes that gazed at him\nvindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he had\nmonstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There\nwas a large patch on the right knee of his trousers, and in his right boot\njust at the toe there was a big hole in the leather, carefully blackened\nwith ink. Both the pockets of his great-coat were weighed down with\nstones. Alyosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at\nhim. The boy, seeing at once from Alyosha's eyes that he wouldn't beat\nhim, became less defiant, and addressed him first.\n\n\"I am alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all, alone!\" he\nsaid suddenly, with flashing eyes.\n\n\"I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly,\" observed Alyosha.\n\n\"But I hit Smurov on the head!\" cried the boy.\n\n\"They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on\npurpose,\" said Alyosha.\n\nThe boy looked darkly at him.\n\n\"I don't know you. Do you know me?\" Alyosha continued.\n\n\"Let me alone!\" the boy cried irritably; but he did not move, as though he\nwere expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his\neyes.\n\n\"Very well, I am going,\" said Alyosha; \"only I don't know you and I don't\ntease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you.\nGood-by!\"\n\n\"Monk in silk trousers!\" cried the boy, following Alyosha with the same\nvindictive and defiant expression, and he threw himself into an attitude\nof defense, feeling sure that now Alyosha would fall upon him; but Alyosha\nturned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps before\nthe biggest stone the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the\nback.\n\n\"So you'll hit a man from behind! They tell the truth, then, when they say\nthat you attack on the sly,\" said Alyosha, turning round again. This time\nthe boy threw a stone savagely right into Alyosha's face; but Alyosha just\nhad time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow.\n\n\"Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?\" he cried.\n\nThe boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Alyosha would attack\nhim. Seeing that even now he would not, his rage was like a little wild\nbeast's; he flew at Alyosha himself, and before Alyosha had time to move,\nthe spiteful child had seized his left hand with both of his and bit his\nmiddle finger. He fixed his teeth in it and it was ten seconds before he\nlet go. Alyosha cried out with pain and pulled his finger away with all\nhis might. The child let go at last and retreated to his former distance.\nAlyosha's finger had been badly bitten to the bone, close to the nail; it\nbegan to bleed. Alyosha took out his handkerchief and bound it tightly\nround his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it. The boy stood\nwaiting all the time. At last Alyosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at\nhim.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said, \"you see how badly you've bitten me. That's enough,\nisn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?\"\n\nThe boy stared in amazement.\n\n\"Though I don't know you and it's the first time I've seen you,\" Alyosha\nwent on with the same serenity, \"yet I must have done something to you--you\nwouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have\nI wronged you, tell me?\"\n\nInstead of answering, the boy broke into a loud tearful wail and ran away.\nAlyosha walked slowly after him towards Mihailovsky Street, and for a long\ntime he saw the child running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning\nhis head, and no doubt still keeping up his tearful wail. He made up his\nmind to find him out as soon as he had time, and to solve this mystery.\nJust now he had not the time.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. At The Hohlakovs'\n\n\nAlyosha soon reached Madame Hohlakov's house, a handsome stone house of\ntwo stories, one of the finest in our town. Though Madame Hohlakov spent\nmost of her time in another province where she had an estate, or in\nMoscow, where she had a house of her own, yet she had a house in our town\ntoo, inherited from her forefathers. The estate in our district was the\nlargest of her three estates, yet she had been very little in our province\nbefore this time. She ran out to Alyosha in the hall.\n\n\"Did you get my letter about the new miracle?\" She spoke rapidly and\nnervously.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you show it to every one? He restored the son to his mother!\"\n\n\"He is dying to-day,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"I have heard, I know, oh, how I long to talk to you, to you or some one,\nabout all this. No, to you, to you! And how sorry I am I can't see him!\nThe whole town is in excitement, they are all suspense. But now--do you\nknow Katerina Ivanovna is here now?\"\n\n\"Ah, that's lucky,\" cried Alyosha. \"Then I shall see her here. She told me\nyesterday to be sure to come and see her to-day.\"\n\n\"I know, I know all. I've heard exactly what happened yesterday--and the\natrocious behavior of that--creature. _C'est tragique_, and if I'd been in\nher place I don't know what I should have done. And your brother Dmitri\nFyodorovitch, what do you think of him?--my goodness! Alexey Fyodorovitch,\nI am forgetting, only fancy; your brother is in there with her, not that\ndreadful brother who was so shocking yesterday, but the other, Ivan\nFyodorovitch, he is sitting with her talking; they are having a serious\nconversation. If you could only imagine what's passing between them\nnow--it's awful, I tell you it's lacerating, it's like some incredible tale\nof horror. They are ruining their lives for no reason any one can see.\nThey both recognize it and revel in it. I've been watching for you! I've\nbeen thirsting for you! It's too much for me, that's the worst of it. I'll\ntell you all about it presently, but now I must speak of something else,\nthe most important thing--I had quite forgotten what's most important. Tell\nme, why has Lise been in hysterics? As soon as she heard you were here,\nshe began to be hysterical!\"\n\n\"_Maman_, it's you who are hysterical now, not I,\" Lise's voice caroled\nthrough a tiny crack of the door at the side. Her voice sounded as though\nshe wanted to laugh, but was doing her utmost to control it. Alyosha at\nonce noticed the crack, and no doubt Lise was peeping through it, but that\nhe could not see.\n\n\"And no wonder, Lise, no wonder ... your caprices will make me hysterical\ntoo. But she is so ill, Alexey Fyodorovitch, she has been so ill all\nnight, feverish and moaning! I could hardly wait for the morning and for\nHerzenstube to come. He says that he can make nothing of it, that we must\nwait. Herzenstube always comes and says that he can make nothing of it. As\nsoon as you approached the house, she screamed, fell into hysterics, and\ninsisted on being wheeled back into this room here.\"\n\n\"Mamma, I didn't know he had come. It wasn't on his account I wanted to be\nwheeled into this room.\"\n\n\"That's not true, Lise, Yulia ran to tell you that Alexey Fyodorovitch was\ncoming. She was on the look-out for you.\"\n\n\"My darling mamma, it's not at all clever of you. But if you want to make\nup for it and say something very clever, dear mamma, you'd better tell our\nhonored visitor, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that he has shown his want of wit by\nventuring to us after what happened yesterday and although every one is\nlaughing at him.\"\n\n\"Lise, you go too far. I declare I shall have to be severe. Who laughs at\nhim? I am so glad he has come, I need him, I can't do without him. Oh,\nAlexey Fyodorovitch, I am exceedingly unhappy!\"\n\n\"But what's the matter with you, mamma, darling?\"\n\n\"Ah, your caprices, Lise, your fidgetiness, your illness, that awful night\nof fever, that awful everlasting Herzenstube, everlasting, everlasting,\nthat's the worst of it! Everything, in fact, everything.... Even that\nmiracle, too! Oh, how it has upset me, how it has shattered me, that\nmiracle, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch! And that tragedy in the drawing-room,\nit's more than I can bear, I warn you. I can't bear it. A comedy, perhaps,\nnot a tragedy. Tell me, will Father Zossima live till to-morrow, will he?\nOh, my God! What is happening to me? Every minute I close my eyes and see\nthat it's all nonsense, all nonsense.\"\n\n\"I should be very grateful,\" Alyosha interrupted suddenly, \"if you could\ngive me a clean rag to bind up my finger with. I have hurt it, and it's\nvery painful.\"\n\nAlyosha unbound his bitten finger. The handkerchief was soaked with blood.\nMadame Hohlakov screamed and shut her eyes.\n\n\"Good heavens, what a wound, how awful!\"\n\nBut as soon as Lise saw Alyosha's finger through the crack, she flung the\ndoor wide open.\n\n\"Come, come here,\" she cried, imperiously. \"No nonsense now! Good heavens,\nwhy did you stand there saying nothing about it all this time? He might\nhave bled to death, mamma! How did you do it? Water, water! You must wash\nit first of all, simply hold it in cold water to stop the pain, and keep\nit there, keep it there.... Make haste, mamma, some water in a slop-basin.\nBut do make haste,\" she finished nervously. She was quite frightened at\nthe sight of Alyosha's wound.\n\n\"Shouldn't we send for Herzenstube?\" cried Madame Hohlakov.\n\n\"Mamma, you'll be the death of me. Your Herzenstube will come and say that\nhe can make nothing of it! Water, water! Mamma, for goodness' sake go\nyourself and hurry Yulia, she is such a slowcoach and never can come\nquickly! Make haste, mamma, or I shall die.\"\n\n\"Why, it's nothing much,\" cried Alyosha, frightened at this alarm.\n\nYulia ran in with water and Alyosha put his finger in it.\n\n\"Some lint, mamma, for mercy's sake, bring some lint and that muddy\ncaustic lotion for wounds, what's it called? We've got some. You know\nwhere the bottle is, mamma; it's in your bedroom in the right-hand\ncupboard, there's a big bottle of it there with the lint.\"\n\n\"I'll bring everything in a minute, Lise, only don't scream and don't\nfuss. You see how bravely Alexey Fyodorovitch bears it. Where did you get\nsuch a dreadful wound, Alexey Fyodorovitch?\"\n\nMadame Hohlakov hastened away. This was all Lise was waiting for.\n\n\"First of all, answer the question, where did you get hurt like this?\" she\nasked Alyosha, quickly. \"And then I'll talk to you about something quite\ndifferent. Well?\"\n\nInstinctively feeling that the time of her mother's absence was precious\nfor her, Alyosha hastened to tell her of his enigmatic meeting with the\nschoolboys in the fewest words possible. Lise clasped her hands at his\nstory.\n\n\"How can you, and in that dress too, associate with schoolboys?\" she cried\nangrily, as though she had a right to control him. \"You are nothing but a\nboy yourself if you can do that, a perfect boy! But you must find out for\nme about that horrid boy and tell me all about it, for there's some\nmystery in it. Now for the second thing, but first a question: does the\npain prevent you talking about utterly unimportant things, but talking\nsensibly?\"\n\n\"Of course not, and I don't feel much pain now.\"\n\n\"That's because your finger is in the water. It must be changed directly,\nfor it will get warm in a minute. Yulia, bring some ice from the cellar\nand another basin of water. Now she is gone, I can speak; will you give me\nthe letter I sent you yesterday, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch--be quick, for\nmamma will be back in a minute and I don't want--\"\n\n\"I haven't got the letter.\"\n\n\"That's not true, you have. I knew you would say that. You've got it in\nthat pocket. I've been regretting that joke all night. Give me back the\nletter at once, give it me.\"\n\n\"I've left it at home.\"\n\n\"But you can't consider me as a child, a little girl, after that silly\njoke! I beg your pardon for that silliness, but you must bring me the\nletter, if you really haven't got it--bring it to-day, you must, you must.\"\n\n\"To-day I can't possibly, for I am going back to the monastery and I\nshan't come and see you for the next two days--three or four perhaps--for\nFather Zossima--\"\n\n\"Four days, what nonsense! Listen. Did you laugh at me very much?\"\n\n\"I didn't laugh at all.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Because I believed all you said.\"\n\n\"You are insulting me!\"\n\n\"Not at all. As soon as I read it, I thought that all that would come to\npass, for as soon as Father Zossima dies, I am to leave the monastery.\nThen I shall go back and finish my studies, and when you reach the legal\nage we will be married. I shall love you. Though I haven't had time to\nthink about it, I believe I couldn't find a better wife than you, and\nFather Zossima tells me I must marry.\"\n\n\"But I am a cripple, wheeled about in a chair,\" laughed Lise, flushing\ncrimson.\n\n\"I'll wheel you about myself, but I'm sure you'll get well by then.\"\n\n\"But you are mad,\" said Lise, nervously, \"to make all this nonsense out of\na joke! Here's mamma, very _a propos_, perhaps. Mamma, how slow you always\nare, how can you be so long! And here's Yulia with the ice!\"\n\n\"Oh, Lise, don't scream, above all things don't scream. That scream drives\nme ... How can I help it when you put the lint in another place? I've been\nhunting and hunting--I do believe you did it on purpose.\"\n\n\"But I couldn't tell that he would come with a bad finger, or else perhaps\nI might have done it on purpose. My darling mamma, you begin to say really\nwitty things.\"\n\n\"Never mind my being witty, but I must say you show nice feeling for\nAlexey Fyodorovitch's sufferings! Oh, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, what's\nkilling me is no one thing in particular, not Herzenstube, but everything\ntogether, that's what is too much for me.\"\n\n\"That's enough, mamma, enough about Herzenstube,\" Lise laughed gayly.\n\"Make haste with the lint and the lotion, mamma. That's simply Goulard's\nwater, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I remember the name now, but it's a splendid\nlotion. Would you believe it, mamma, on the way here he had a fight with\nthe boys in the street, and it was a boy bit his finger, isn't he a child,\na child himself? Is he fit to be married after that? For only fancy, he\nwants to be married, mamma. Just think of him married, wouldn't it be\nfunny, wouldn't it be awful?\"\n\nAnd Lise kept laughing her thin hysterical giggle, looking slyly at\nAlyosha.\n\n\"But why married, Lise? What makes you talk of such a thing? It's quite\nout of place--and perhaps the boy was rabid.\"\n\n\"Why, mamma! As though there were rabid boys!\"\n\n\"Why not, Lise, as though I had said something stupid! Your boy might have\nbeen bitten by a mad dog and he would become mad and bite any one near\nhim. How well she has bandaged it, Alexey Fyodorovitch! I couldn't have\ndone it. Do you still feel the pain?\"\n\n\"It's nothing much now.\"\n\n\"You don't feel afraid of water?\" asked Lise.\n\n\"Come, that's enough, Lise, perhaps I really was rather too quick talking\nof the boy being rabid, and you pounced upon it at once Katerina Ivanovna\nhas only just heard that you are here, Alexey Fyodorovitch, she simply\nrushed at me, she's dying to see you, dying!\"\n\n\"Ach, mamma, go to them yourself. He can't go just now, he is in too much\npain.\"\n\n\"Not at all, I can go quite well,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"What! You are going away? Is that what you say?\"\n\n\"Well, when I've seen them, I'll come back here and we can talk as much as\nyou like. But I should like to see Katerina Ivanovna at once, for I am\nvery anxious to be back at the monastery as soon as I can.\"\n\n\"Mamma, take him away quickly. Alexey Fyodorovitch, don't trouble to come\nand see me afterwards, but go straight back to your monastery and a good\nriddance. I want to sleep, I didn't sleep all night.\"\n\n\"Ah, Lise, you are only making fun, but how I wish you would sleep!\" cried\nMadame Hohlakov.\n\n\"I don't know what I've done.... I'll stay another three minutes, five if\nyou like,\" muttered Alyosha.\n\n\"Even five! Do take him away quickly, mamma, he is a monster.\"\n\n\"Lise, you are crazy. Let us go, Alexey Fyodorovitch, she is too\ncapricious to-day. I am afraid to cross her. Oh, the trouble one has with\nnervous girls! Perhaps she really will be able to sleep after seeing you.\nHow quickly you have made her sleepy, and how fortunate it is!\"\n\n\"Ah, mamma, how sweetly you talk! I must kiss you for it, mamma.\"\n\n\"And I kiss you too, Lise. Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" Madame Hohlakov\nbegan mysteriously and importantly, speaking in a rapid whisper. \"I don't\nwant to suggest anything, I don't want to lift the veil, you will see for\nyourself what's going on. It's appalling. It's the most fantastic farce.\nShe loves your brother, Ivan, and she is doing her utmost to persuade\nherself she loves your brother, Dmitri. It's appalling! I'll go in with\nyou, and if they don't turn me out, I'll stay to the end.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. A Laceration In The Drawing-Room\n\n\nBut in the drawing-room the conversation was already over. Katerina\nIvanovna was greatly excited, though she looked resolute. At the moment\nAlyosha and Madame Hohlakov entered, Ivan Fyodorovitch stood up to take\nleave. His face was rather pale, and Alyosha looked at him anxiously. For\nthis moment was to solve a doubt, a harassing enigma which had for some\ntime haunted Alyosha. During the preceding month it had been several times\nsuggested to him that his brother Ivan was in love with Katerina Ivanovna,\nand, what was more, that he meant \"to carry her off\" from Dmitri. Until\nquite lately the idea seemed to Alyosha monstrous, though it worried him\nextremely. He loved both his brothers, and dreaded such rivalry between\nthem. Meantime, Dmitri had said outright on the previous day that he was\nglad that Ivan was his rival, and that it was a great assistance to him,\nDmitri. In what way did it assist him? To marry Grushenka? But that\nAlyosha considered the worst thing possible. Besides all this, Alyosha had\ntill the evening before implicitly believed that Katerina Ivanovna had a\nsteadfast and passionate love for Dmitri; but he had only believed it till\nthe evening before. He had fancied, too, that she was incapable of loving\na man like Ivan, and that she did love Dmitri, and loved him just as he\nwas, in spite of all the strangeness of such a passion.\n\nBut during yesterday's scene with Grushenka another idea had struck him.\nThe word \"lacerating,\" which Madame Hohlakov had just uttered, almost made\nhim start, because half waking up towards daybreak that night he had cried\nout \"Laceration, laceration,\" probably applying it to his dream. He had\nbeen dreaming all night of the previous day's scene at Katerina\nIvanovna's. Now Alyosha was impressed by Madame Hohlakov's blunt and\npersistent assertion that Katerina Ivanovna was in love with Ivan, and\nonly deceived herself through some sort of pose, from \"self-laceration,\"\nand tortured herself by her pretended love for Dmitri from some fancied\nduty of gratitude. \"Yes,\" he thought, \"perhaps the whole truth lies in\nthose words.\" But in that case what was Ivan's position? Alyosha felt\ninstinctively that a character like Katerina Ivanovna's must dominate, and\nshe could only dominate some one like Dmitri, and never a man like Ivan.\nFor Dmitri might at last submit to her domination \"to his own happiness\"\n(which was what Alyosha would have desired), but Ivan--no, Ivan could not\nsubmit to her, and such submission would not give him happiness. Alyosha\ncould not help believing that of Ivan. And now all these doubts and\nreflections flitted through his mind as he entered the drawing-room.\nAnother idea, too, forced itself upon him: \"What if she loved neither of\nthem--neither Ivan nor Dmitri?\"\n\nIt must be noted that Alyosha felt as it were ashamed of his own thoughts\nand blamed himself when they kept recurring to him during the last month.\n\"What do I know about love and women and how can I decide such questions?\"\nhe thought reproachfully, after such doubts and surmises. And yet it was\nimpossible not to think about it. He felt instinctively that this rivalry\nwas of immense importance in his brothers' lives and that a great deal\ndepended upon it.\n\n\"One reptile will devour the other,\" Ivan had pronounced the day before,\nspeaking in anger of his father and Dmitri. So Ivan looked upon Dmitri as\na reptile, and perhaps had long done so. Was it perhaps since he had known\nKaterina Ivanovna? That phrase had, of course, escaped Ivan unawares\nyesterday, but that only made it more important. If he felt like that,\nwhat chance was there of peace? Were there not, on the contrary, new\ngrounds for hatred and hostility in their family? And with which of them\nwas Alyosha to sympathize? And what was he to wish for each of them? He\nloved them both, but what could he desire for each in the midst of these\nconflicting interests? He might go quite astray in this maze, and\nAlyosha's heart could not endure uncertainty, because his love was always\nof an active character. He was incapable of passive love. If he loved any\none, he set to work at once to help him. And to do so he must know what he\nwas aiming at; he must know for certain what was best for each, and having\nascertained this it was natural for him to help them both. But instead of\na definite aim, he found nothing but uncertainty and perplexity on all\nsides. \"It was lacerating,\" as was said just now. But what could he\nunderstand even in this \"laceration\"? He did not understand the first word\nin this perplexing maze.\n\nSeeing Alyosha, Katerina Ivanovna said quickly and joyfully to Ivan, who\nhad already got up to go, \"A minute! Stay another minute! I want to hear\nthe opinion of this person here whom I trust absolutely. Don't go away,\"\nshe added, addressing Madame Hohlakov. She made Alyosha sit down beside\nher, and Madame Hohlakov sat opposite, by Ivan.\n\n\"You are all my friends here, all I have in the world, my dear friends,\"\nshe began warmly, in a voice which quivered with genuine tears of\nsuffering, and Alyosha's heart warmed to her at once. \"You, Alexey\nFyodorovitch, were witness yesterday of that abominable scene, and saw\nwhat I did. You did not see it, Ivan Fyodorovitch, he did. What he thought\nof me yesterday I don't know. I only know one thing, that if it were\nrepeated to-day, this minute, I should express the same feelings again as\nyesterday--the same feelings, the same words, the same actions. You\nremember my actions, Alexey Fyodorovitch; you checked me in one of them\"\n... (as she said that, she flushed and her eyes shone). \"I must tell you\nthat I can't get over it. Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I don't even know\nwhether I still love _him_. I feel _pity_ for him, and that is a poor sign\nof love. If I loved him, if I still loved him, perhaps I shouldn't be\nsorry for him now, but should hate him.\"\n\nHer voice quivered, and tears glittered on her eyelashes. Alyosha\nshuddered inwardly. \"That girl is truthful and sincere,\" he thought, \"and\nshe does not love Dmitri any more.\"\n\n\"That's true, that's true,\" cried Madame Hohlakov.\n\n\"Wait, dear. I haven't told you the chief, the final decision I came to\nduring the night. I feel that perhaps my decision is a terrible one--for\nme, but I foresee that nothing will induce me to change it--nothing. It\nwill be so all my life. My dear, kind, ever-faithful and generous adviser,\nthe one friend I have in the world, Ivan Fyodorovitch, with his deep\ninsight into the heart, approves and commends my decision. He knows it.\"\n\n\"Yes, I approve of it,\" Ivan assented, in a subdued but firm voice.\n\n\"But I should like Alyosha, too (Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, forgive my\ncalling you simply Alyosha), I should like Alexey Fyodorovitch, too, to\ntell me before my two friends whether I am right. I feel instinctively\nthat you, Alyosha, my dear brother (for you are a dear brother to me),\"\nshe said again ecstatically, taking his cold hand in her hot one, \"I\nforesee that your decision, your approval, will bring me peace, in spite\nof all my sufferings, for, after your words, I shall be calm and submit--I\nfeel that.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you are asking me,\" said Alyosha, flushing. \"I only\nknow that I love you and at this moment wish for your happiness more than\nmy own!... But I know nothing about such affairs,\" something impelled him\nto add hurriedly.\n\n\"In such affairs, Alexey Fyodorovitch, in such affairs, the chief thing is\nhonor and duty and something higher--I don't know what--but higher perhaps\neven than duty. I am conscious of this irresistible feeling in my heart,\nand it compels me irresistibly. But it may all be put in two words. I've\nalready decided, even if he marries that--creature,\" she began solemnly,\n\"whom I never, never can forgive, _even then I will not abandon him_.\nHenceforward I will never, never abandon him!\" she cried, breaking into a\nsort of pale, hysterical ecstasy. \"Not that I would run after him\ncontinually, get in his way and worry him. Oh, no! I will go away to\nanother town--where you like--but I will watch over him all my life--I will\nwatch over him all my life unceasingly. When he becomes unhappy with that\nwoman, and that is bound to happen quite soon, let him come to me and he\nwill find a friend, a sister.... Only a sister, of course, and so for\never; but he will learn at least that that sister is really his sister,\nwho loves him and has sacrificed all her life to him. I will gain my\npoint. I will insist on his knowing me and confiding entirely in me,\nwithout reserve,\" she cried, in a sort of frenzy. \"I will be a god to whom\nhe can pray--and that, at least, he owes me for his treachery and for what\nI suffered yesterday through him. And let him see that all my life I will\nbe true to him and the promise I gave him, in spite of his being untrue\nand betraying me. I will--I will become nothing but a means for his\nhappiness, or--how shall I say?--an instrument, a machine for his happiness,\nand that for my whole life, my whole life, and that he may see that all\nhis life! That's my decision. Ivan Fyodorovitch fully approves me.\"\n\nShe was breathless. She had perhaps intended to express her idea with more\ndignity, art and naturalness, but her speech was too hurried and crude. It\nwas full of youthful impulsiveness, it betrayed that she was still\nsmarting from yesterday's insult, and that her pride craved satisfaction.\nShe felt this herself. Her face suddenly darkened, an unpleasant look came\ninto her eyes. Alyosha at once saw it and felt a pang of sympathy. His\nbrother Ivan made it worse by adding:\n\n\"I've only expressed my own view,\" he said. \"From any one else, this would\nhave been affected and overstrained, but from you--no. Any other woman\nwould have been wrong, but you are right. I don't know how to explain it,\nbut I see that you are absolutely genuine and, therefore, you are right.\"\n\n\"But that's only for the moment. And what does this moment stand for?\nNothing but yesterday's insult.\" Madame Hohlakov obviously had not\nintended to interfere, but she could not refrain from this very just\ncomment.\n\n\"Quite so, quite so,\" cried Ivan, with peculiar eagerness, obviously\nannoyed at being interrupted, \"in any one else this moment would be only\ndue to yesterday's impression and would be only a moment. But with\nKaterina Ivanovna's character, that moment will last all her life. What\nfor any one else would be only a promise is for her an everlasting\nburdensome, grim perhaps, but unflagging duty. And she will be sustained\nby the feeling of this duty being fulfilled. Your life, Katerina Ivanovna,\nwill henceforth be spent in painful brooding over your own feelings, your\nown heroism, and your own suffering; but in the end that suffering will be\nsoftened and will pass into sweet contemplation of the fulfillment of a\nbold and proud design. Yes, proud it certainly is, and desperate in any\ncase, but a triumph for you. And the consciousness of it will at last be a\nsource of complete satisfaction and will make you resigned to everything\nelse.\"\n\nThis was unmistakably said with some malice and obviously with intention;\neven perhaps with no desire to conceal that he spoke ironically and with\nintention.\n\n\"Oh, dear, how mistaken it all is!\" Madame Hohlakov cried again.\n\n\"Alexey Fyodorovitch, you speak. I want dreadfully to know what you will\nsay!\" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and burst into tears. Alyosha got up from\nthe sofa.\n\n\"It's nothing, nothing!\" she went on through her tears. \"I'm upset, I\ndidn't sleep last night. But by the side of two such friends as you and\nyour brother I still feel strong--for I know--you two will never desert me.\"\n\n\"Unluckily I am obliged to return to Moscow--perhaps to-morrow--and to leave\nyou for a long time--And, unluckily, it's unavoidable,\" Ivan said suddenly.\n\n\"To-morrow--to Moscow!\" her face was suddenly contorted; \"but--but, dear me,\nhow fortunate!\" she cried in a voice suddenly changed. In one instant\nthere was no trace left of her tears. She underwent an instantaneous\ntransformation, which amazed Alyosha. Instead of a poor, insulted girl,\nweeping in a sort of \"laceration,\" he saw a woman completely self-\npossessed and even exceedingly pleased, as though something agreeable had\njust happened.\n\n\"Oh, not fortunate that I am losing you, of course not,\" she corrected\nherself suddenly, with a charming society smile. \"Such a friend as you are\ncould not suppose that. I am only too unhappy at losing you.\" She rushed\nimpulsively at Ivan, and seizing both his hands, pressed them warmly. \"But\nwhat is fortunate is that you will be able in Moscow to see auntie and\nAgafya and to tell them all the horror of my present position. You can\nspeak with complete openness to Agafya, but spare dear auntie. You will\nknow how to do that. You can't think how wretched I was yesterday and this\nmorning, wondering how I could write them that dreadful letter--for one can\nnever tell such things in a letter.... Now it will be easy for me to\nwrite, for you will see them and explain everything. Oh, how glad I am!\nBut I am only glad of that, believe me. Of course, no one can take your\nplace.... I will run at once to write the letter,\" she finished suddenly,\nand took a step as though to go out of the room.\n\n\"And what about Alyosha and his opinion, which you were so desperately\nanxious to hear?\" cried Madame Hohlakov. There was a sarcastic, angry note\nin her voice.\n\n\"I had not forgotten that,\" cried Katerina Ivanovna, coming to a sudden\nstandstill, \"and why are you so antagonistic at such a moment?\" she added,\nwith warm and bitter reproachfulness. \"What I said, I repeat. I must have\nhis opinion. More than that, I must have his decision! As he says, so it\nshall be. You see how anxious I am for your words, Alexey Fyodorovitch....\nBut what's the matter?\"\n\n\"I couldn't have believed it. I can't understand it!\" Alyosha cried\nsuddenly in distress.\n\n\"What? What?\"\n\n\"He is going to Moscow, and you cry out that you are glad. You said that\non purpose! And you begin explaining that you are not glad of that but\nsorry to be--losing a friend. But that was acting, too--you were playing a\npart--as in a theater!\"\n\n\"In a theater? What? What do you mean?\" exclaimed Katerina Ivanovna,\nprofoundly astonished, flushing crimson, and frowning.\n\n\"Though you assure him you are sorry to lose a friend in him, you persist\nin telling him to his face that it's fortunate he is going,\" said Alyosha\nbreathlessly. He was standing at the table and did not sit down.\n\n\"What are you talking about? I don't understand.\"\n\n\"I don't understand myself.... I seemed to see in a flash ... I know I am\nnot saying it properly, but I'll say it all the same,\" Alyosha went on in\nthe same shaking and broken voice. \"What I see is that perhaps you don't\nlove Dmitri at all ... and never have, from the beginning.... And Dmitri,\ntoo, has never loved you ... and only esteems you.... I really don't know\nhow I dare to say all this, but somebody must tell the truth ... for\nnobody here will tell the truth.\"\n\n\"What truth?\" cried Katerina Ivanovna, and there was an hysterical ring in\nher voice.\n\n\"I'll tell you,\" Alyosha went on with desperate haste, as though he were\njumping from the top of a house. \"Call Dmitri; I will fetch him--and let\nhim come here and take your hand and take Ivan's and join your hands. For\nyou're torturing Ivan, simply because you love him--and torturing him,\nbecause you love Dmitri through 'self-laceration'--with an unreal\nlove--because you've persuaded yourself.\"\n\nAlyosha broke off and was silent.\n\n\"You ... you ... you are a little religious idiot--that's what you are!\"\nKaterina Ivanovna snapped. Her face was white and her lips were moving\nwith anger.\n\nIvan suddenly laughed and got up. His hat was in his hand.\n\n\"You are mistaken, my good Alyosha,\" he said, with an expression Alyosha\nhad never seen in his face before--an expression of youthful sincerity and\nstrong, irresistibly frank feeling. \"Katerina Ivanovna has never cared for\nme! She has known all the time that I cared for her--though I never said a\nword of my love to her--she knew, but she didn't care for me. I have never\nbeen her friend either, not for one moment; she is too proud to need my\nfriendship. She kept me at her side as a means of revenge. She revenged\nwith me and on me all the insults which she has been continually receiving\nfrom Dmitri ever since their first meeting. For even that first meeting\nhas rankled in her heart as an insult--that's what her heart is like! She\nhas talked to me of nothing but her love for him. I am going now; but,\nbelieve me, Katerina Ivanovna, you really love him. And the more he\ninsults you, the more you love him--that's your 'laceration.' You love him\njust as he is; you love him for insulting you. If he reformed, you'd give\nhim up at once and cease to love him. But you need him so as to\ncontemplate continually your heroic fidelity and to reproach him for\ninfidelity. And it all comes from your pride. Oh, there's a great deal of\nhumiliation and self-abasement about it, but it all comes from pride.... I\nam too young and I've loved you too much. I know that I ought not to say\nthis, that it would be more dignified on my part simply to leave you, and\nit would be less offensive for you. But I am going far away, and shall\nnever come back.... It is for ever. I don't want to sit beside a\n'laceration.'... But I don't know how to speak now. I've said\neverything.... Good-by, Katerina Ivanovna; you can't be angry with me, for\nI am a hundred times more severely punished than you, if only by the fact\nthat I shall never see you again. Good-by! I don't want your hand. You\nhave tortured me too deliberately for me to be able to forgive you at this\nmoment. I shall forgive you later, but now I don't want your hand. 'Den\nDank, Dame, begehr ich nicht,' \" he added, with a forced smile, showing,\nhowever, that he could read Schiller, and read him till he knew him by\nheart--which Alyosha would never have believed. He went out of the room\nwithout saying good-by even to his hostess, Madame Hohlakov. Alyosha\nclasped his hands.\n\n\"Ivan!\" he cried desperately after him. \"Come back, Ivan! No, nothing will\ninduce him to come back now!\" he cried again, regretfully realizing it;\n\"but it's my fault, my fault. I began it! Ivan spoke angrily, wrongly.\nUnjustly and angrily. He must come back here, come back,\" Alyosha kept\nexclaiming frantically.\n\nKaterina Ivanovna went suddenly into the next room.\n\n\"You have done no harm. You behaved beautifully, like an angel,\" Madame\nHohlakov whispered rapidly and ecstatically to Alyosha. \"I will do my\nutmost to prevent Ivan Fyodorovitch from going.\"\n\nHer face beamed with delight, to the great distress of Alyosha, but\nKaterina Ivanovna suddenly returned. She had two hundred-rouble notes in\nher hand.\n\n\"I have a great favor to ask of you, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" she began,\naddressing Alyosha with an apparently calm and even voice, as though\nnothing had happened. \"A week--yes, I think it was a week ago--Dmitri\nFyodorovitch was guilty of a hasty and unjust action--a very ugly action.\nThere is a low tavern here, and in it he met that discharged officer, that\ncaptain, whom your father used to employ in some business. Dmitri\nFyodorovitch somehow lost his temper with this captain, seized him by the\nbeard and dragged him out into the street and for some distance along it,\nin that insulting fashion. And I am told that his son, a boy, quite a\nchild, who is at the school here, saw it and ran beside them crying and\nbegging for his father, appealing to every one to defend him, while every\none laughed. You must forgive me, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I cannot think\nwithout indignation of that disgraceful action of _his_ ... one of those\nactions of which only Dmitri Fyodorovitch would be capable in his anger\n... and in his passions! I can't describe it even.... I can't find my\nwords. I've made inquiries about his victim, and find he is quite a poor\nman. His name is Snegiryov. He did something wrong in the army and was\ndischarged. I can't tell you what. And now he has sunk into terrible\ndestitution, with his family--an unhappy family of sick children, and, I\nbelieve, an insane wife. He has been living here a long time; he used to\nwork as a copying clerk, but now he is getting nothing. I thought if you\n... that is I thought ... I don't know. I am so confused. You see, I\nwanted to ask you, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, to go to him, to find some\nexcuse to go to them--I mean to that captain--oh, goodness, how badly I\nexplain it!--and delicately, carefully, as only you know how to\" (Alyosha\nblushed), \"manage to give him this assistance, these two hundred roubles.\nHe will be sure to take it.... I mean, persuade him to take it.... Or,\nrather, what do I mean? You see it's not by way of compensation to prevent\nhim from taking proceedings (for I believe he meant to), but simply a\ntoken of sympathy, of a desire to assist him from me, Dmitri\nFyodorovitch's betrothed, not from himself.... But you know.... I would go\nmyself, but you'll know how to do it ever so much better. He lives in Lake\nStreet, in the house of a woman called Kalmikov.... For God's sake, Alexey\nFyodorovitch, do it for me, and now ... now I am rather ... tired. Good-\nby!\"\n\nShe turned and disappeared behind the portiere so quickly that Alyosha had\nnot time to utter a word, though he wanted to speak. He longed to beg her\npardon, to blame himself, to say something, for his heart was full and he\ncould not bear to go out of the room without it. But Madame Hohlakov took\nhim by the hand and drew him along with her. In the hall she stopped him\nagain as before.\n\n\"She is proud, she is struggling with herself; but kind, charming,\ngenerous,\" she exclaimed, in a half-whisper. \"Oh, how I love her,\nespecially sometimes, and how glad I am again of everything! Dear Alexey\nFyodorovitch, you didn't know, but I must tell you, that we all, all--both\nher aunts, I and all of us, Lise, even--have been hoping and praying for\nnothing for the last month but that she may give up your favorite Dmitri,\nwho takes no notice of her and does not care for her, and may marry Ivan\nFyodorovitch--such an excellent and cultivated young man, who loves her\nmore than anything in the world. We are in a regular plot to bring it\nabout, and I am even staying on here perhaps on that account.\"\n\n\"But she has been crying--she has been wounded again,\" cried Alyosha.\n\n\"Never trust a woman's tears, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I am never for the\nwomen in such cases. I am always on the side of the men.\"\n\n\"Mamma, you are spoiling him,\" Lise's little voice cried from behind the\ndoor.\n\n\"No, it was all my fault. I am horribly to blame,\" Alyosha repeated\nunconsoled, hiding his face in his hands in an agony of remorse for his\nindiscretion.\n\n\"Quite the contrary; you behaved like an angel, like an angel. I am ready\nto say so a thousand times over.\"\n\n\"Mamma, how has he behaved like an angel?\" Lise's voice was heard again.\n\n\"I somehow fancied all at once,\" Alyosha went on as though he had not\nheard Lise, \"that she loved Ivan, and so I said that stupid thing.... What\nwill happen now?\"\n\n\"To whom, to whom?\" cried Lise. \"Mamma, you really want to be the death of\nme. I ask you and you don't answer.\"\n\nAt the moment the maid ran in.\n\n\"Katerina Ivanovna is ill.... She is crying, struggling ... hysterics.\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\" cried Lise, in a tone of real anxiety. \"Mamma, I\nshall be having hysterics, and not she!\"\n\n\"Lise, for mercy's sake, don't scream, don't persecute me. At your age one\ncan't know everything that grown-up people know. I'll come and tell you\neverything you ought to know. Oh, mercy on us! I am coming, I am\ncoming.... Hysterics is a good sign, Alexey Fyodorovitch; it's an\nexcellent thing that she is hysterical. That's just as it ought to be. In\nsuch cases I am always against the woman, against all these feminine tears\nand hysterics. Run and say, Yulia, that I'll fly to her. As for Ivan\nFyodorovitch's going away like that, it's her own fault. But he won't go\naway. Lise, for mercy's sake, don't scream! Oh, yes; you are not\nscreaming. It's I am screaming. Forgive your mamma; but I am delighted,\ndelighted, delighted! Did you notice, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how young, how\nyoung Ivan Fyodorovitch was just now when he went out, when he said all\nthat and went out? I thought he was so learned, such a _savant_, and all\nof a sudden he behaved so warmly, openly, and youthfully, with such\nyouthful inexperience, and it was all so fine, like you.... And the way he\nrepeated that German verse, it was just like you! But I must fly, I must\nfly! Alexey Fyodorovitch, make haste to carry out her commission, and then\nmake haste back. Lise, do you want anything now? For mercy's sake, don't\nkeep Alexey Fyodorovitch a minute. He will come back to you at once.\"\n\nMadame Hohlakov at last ran off. Before leaving, Alyosha would have opened\nthe door to see Lise.\n\n\"On no account,\" cried Lise. \"On no account now. Speak through the door.\nHow have you come to be an angel? That's the only thing I want to know.\"\n\n\"For an awful piece of stupidity, Lise! Good-by!\"\n\n\"Don't dare to go away like that!\" Lise was beginning.\n\n\"Lise, I have a real sorrow! I'll be back directly, but I have a great,\ngreat sorrow!\"\n\nAnd he ran out of the room.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. A Laceration In The Cottage\n\n\nHe certainly was really grieved in a way he had seldom been before. He had\nrushed in like a fool, and meddled in what? In a love-affair. \"But what do\nI know about it? What can I tell about such things?\" he repeated to\nhimself for the hundredth time, flushing crimson. \"Oh, being ashamed would\nbe nothing; shame is only the punishment I deserve. The trouble is I shall\ncertainly have caused more unhappiness.... And Father Zossima sent me to\nreconcile and bring them together. Is this the way to bring them\ntogether?\" Then he suddenly remembered how he had tried to join their\nhands, and he felt fearfully ashamed again. \"Though I acted quite\nsincerely, I must be more sensible in the future,\" he concluded suddenly,\nand did not even smile at his conclusion.\n\nKaterina Ivanovna's commission took him to Lake Street, and his brother\nDmitri lived close by, in a turning out of Lake Street. Alyosha decided to\ngo to him in any case before going to the captain, though he had a\npresentiment that he would not find his brother. He suspected that he\nwould intentionally keep out of his way now, but he must find him anyhow.\nTime was passing: the thought of his dying elder had not left Alyosha for\none minute from the time he set off from the monastery.\n\nThere was one point which interested him particularly about Katerina\nIvanovna's commission; when she had mentioned the captain's son, the\nlittle schoolboy who had run beside his father crying, the idea had at\nonce struck Alyosha that this must be the schoolboy who had bitten his\nfinger when he, Alyosha, asked him what he had done to hurt him. Now\nAlyosha felt practically certain of this, though he could not have said\nwhy. Thinking of another subject was a relief, and he resolved to think no\nmore about the \"mischief\" he had done, and not to torture himself with\nremorse, but to do what he had to do, let come what would. At that thought\nhe was completely comforted. Turning to the street where Dmitri lodged, he\nfelt hungry, and taking out of his pocket the roll he had brought from his\nfather's, he ate it. It made him feel stronger.\n\nDmitri was not at home. The people of the house, an old cabinet-maker, his\nson, and his old wife, looked with positive suspicion at Alyosha. \"He\nhasn't slept here for the last three nights. Maybe he has gone away,\" the\nold man said in answer to Alyosha's persistent inquiries. Alyosha saw that\nhe was answering in accordance with instructions. When he asked whether he\nwere not at Grushenka's or in hiding at Foma's (Alyosha spoke so freely on\npurpose), all three looked at him in alarm. \"They are fond of him, they\nare doing their best for him,\" thought Alyosha. \"That's good.\"\n\nAt last he found the house in Lake Street. It was a decrepit little house,\nsunk on one side, with three windows looking into the street, and with a\nmuddy yard, in the middle of which stood a solitary cow. He crossed the\nyard and found the door opening into the passage. On the left of the\npassage lived the old woman of the house with her old daughter. Both\nseemed to be deaf. In answer to his repeated inquiry for the captain, one\nof them at last understood that he was asking for their lodgers, and\npointed to a door across the passage. The captain's lodging turned out to\nbe a simple cottage room. Alyosha had his hand on the iron latch to open\nthe door, when he was struck by the strange hush within. Yet he knew from\nKaterina Ivanovna's words that the man had a family. \"Either they are all\nasleep or perhaps they have heard me coming and are waiting for me to open\nthe door. I'd better knock first,\" and he knocked. An answer came, but not\nat once, after an interval of perhaps ten seconds.\n\n\"Who's there?\" shouted some one in a loud and very angry voice.\n\nThen Alyosha opened the door and crossed the threshold. He found himself\nin a regular peasant's room. Though it was large, it was cumbered up with\ndomestic belongings of all sorts, and there were several people in it. On\nthe left was a large Russian stove. From the stove to the window on the\nleft was a string running across the room, and on it there were rags\nhanging. There was a bedstead against the wall on each side, right and\nleft, covered with knitted quilts. On the one on the left was a pyramid of\nfour print-covered pillows, each smaller than the one beneath. On the\nother there was only one very small pillow. The opposite corner was\nscreened off by a curtain or a sheet hung on a string. Behind this curtain\ncould be seen a bed made up on a bench and a chair. The rough square table\nof plain wood had been moved into the middle window. The three windows,\nwhich consisted each of four tiny greenish mildewy panes, gave little\nlight, and were close shut, so that the room was not very light and rather\nstuffy. On the table was a frying-pan with the remains of some fried eggs,\na half-eaten piece of bread, and a small bottle with a few drops of vodka.\n\nA woman of genteel appearance, wearing a cotton gown, was sitting on a\nchair by the bed on the left. Her face was thin and yellow, and her sunken\ncheeks betrayed at the first glance that she was ill. But what struck\nAlyosha most was the expression in the poor woman's eyes--a look of\nsurprised inquiry and yet of haughty pride. And while he was talking to\nher husband, her big brown eyes moved from one speaker to the other with\nthe same haughty and questioning expression. Beside her at the window\nstood a young girl, rather plain, with scanty reddish hair, poorly but\nvery neatly dressed. She looked disdainfully at Alyosha as he came in.\nBeside the other bed was sitting another female figure. She was a very sad\nsight, a young girl of about twenty, but hunchback and crippled \"with\nwithered legs,\" as Alyosha was told afterwards. Her crutches stood in the\ncorner close by. The strikingly beautiful and gentle eyes of this poor\ngirl looked with mild serenity at Alyosha. A man of forty-five was sitting\nat the table, finishing the fried eggs. He was spare, small and weakly\nbuilt. He had reddish hair and a scanty light-colored beard, very much\nlike a wisp of tow (this comparison and the phrase \"a wisp of tow\" flashed\nat once into Alyosha's mind for some reason, he remembered it afterwards).\nIt was obviously this gentleman who had shouted to him, as there was no\nother man in the room. But when Alyosha went in, he leapt up from the\nbench on which he was sitting, and, hastily wiping his mouth with a ragged\nnapkin, darted up to Alyosha.\n\n\"It's a monk come to beg for the monastery. A nice place to come to!\" the\ngirl standing in the left corner said aloud. The man spun round instantly\ntowards her and answered her in an excited and breaking voice:\n\n\"No, Varvara, you are wrong. Allow me to ask,\" he turned again to Alyosha,\n\"what has brought you to--our retreat?\"\n\nAlyosha looked attentively at him. It was the first time he had seen him.\nThere was something angular, flurried and irritable about him. Though he\nhad obviously just been drinking, he was not drunk. There was\nextraordinary impudence in his expression, and yet, strange to say, at the\nsame time there was fear. He looked like a man who had long been kept in\nsubjection and had submitted to it, and now had suddenly turned and was\ntrying to assert himself. Or, better still, like a man who wants\ndreadfully to hit you but is horribly afraid you will hit him. In his\nwords and in the intonation of his shrill voice there was a sort of crazy\nhumor, at times spiteful and at times cringing, and continually shifting\nfrom one tone to another. The question about \"our retreat\" he had asked as\nit were quivering all over, rolling his eyes, and skipping up so close to\nAlyosha that he instinctively drew back a step. He was dressed in a very\nshabby dark cotton coat, patched and spotted. He wore checked trousers of\nan extremely light color, long out of fashion, and of very thin material.\nThey were so crumpled and so short that he looked as though he had grown\nout of them like a boy.\n\n\"I am Alexey Karamazov,\" Alyosha began in reply.\n\n\"I quite understand that, sir,\" the gentleman snapped out at once to\nassure him that he knew who he was already. \"I am Captain Snegiryov, sir,\nbut I am still desirous to know precisely what has led you--\"\n\n\"Oh, I've come for nothing special. I wanted to have a word with you--if\nonly you allow me.\"\n\n\"In that case, here is a chair, sir; kindly be seated. That's what they\nused to say in the old comedies, 'kindly be seated,' \" and with a rapid\ngesture he seized an empty chair (it was a rough wooden chair, not\nupholstered) and set it for him almost in the middle of the room; then,\ntaking another similar chair for himself, he sat down facing Alyosha, so\nclose to him that their knees almost touched.\n\n\"Nikolay Ilyitch Snegiryov, sir, formerly a captain in the Russian\ninfantry, put to shame for his vices, but still a captain. Though I might\nnot be one now for the way I talk; for the last half of my life I've\nlearnt to say 'sir.' It's a word you use when you've come down in the\nworld.\"\n\n\"That's very true,\" smiled Alyosha. \"But is it used involuntarily or on\npurpose?\"\n\n\"As God's above, it's involuntary, and I usen't to use it! I didn't use\nthe word 'sir' all my life, but as soon as I sank into low water I began\nto say 'sir.' It's the work of a higher power. I see you are interested in\ncontemporary questions, but how can I have excited your curiosity, living\nas I do in surroundings impossible for the exercise of hospitality?\"\n\n\"I've come--about that business.\"\n\n\"About what business?\" the captain interrupted impatiently.\n\n\"About your meeting with my brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" Alyosha blurted\nout awkwardly.\n\n\"What meeting, sir? You don't mean that meeting? About my 'wisp of tow,'\nthen?\" He moved closer so that his knees positively knocked against\nAlyosha. His lips were strangely compressed like a thread.\n\n\"What wisp of tow?\" muttered Alyosha.\n\n\"He is come to complain of me, father!\" cried a voice familiar to\nAlyosha--the voice of the schoolboy--from behind the curtain. \"I bit his\nfinger just now.\" The curtain was pulled, and Alyosha saw his assailant\nlying on a little bed made up on the bench and the chair in the corner\nunder the ikons. The boy lay covered by his coat and an old wadded quilt.\nHe was evidently unwell, and, judging by his glittering eyes, he was in a\nfever. He looked at Alyosha without fear, as though he felt he was at home\nand could not be touched.\n\n\"What! Did he bite your finger?\" The captain jumped up from his chair.\n\"Was it your finger he bit?\"\n\n\"Yes. He was throwing stones with other schoolboys. There were six of them\nagainst him alone. I went up to him, and he threw a stone at me and then\nanother at my head. I asked him what I had done to him. And then he rushed\nat me and bit my finger badly, I don't know why.\"\n\n\"I'll thrash him, sir, at once--this minute!\" The captain jumped up from\nhis seat.\n\n\"But I am not complaining at all, I am simply telling you ... I don't want\nhim to be thrashed. Besides, he seems to be ill.\"\n\n\"And do you suppose I'd thrash him? That I'd take my Ilusha and thrash him\nbefore you for your satisfaction? Would you like it done at once, sir?\"\nsaid the captain, suddenly turning to Alyosha, as though he were going to\nattack him. \"I am sorry about your finger, sir; but instead of thrashing\nIlusha, would you like me to chop off my four fingers with this knife here\nbefore your eyes to satisfy your just wrath? I should think four fingers\nwould be enough to satisfy your thirst for vengeance. You won't ask for\nthe fifth one too?\" He stopped short with a catch in his throat. Every\nfeature in his face was twitching and working; he looked extremely\ndefiant. He was in a sort of frenzy.\n\n\"I think I understand it all now,\" said Alyosha gently and sorrowfully,\nstill keeping his seat. \"So your boy is a good boy, he loves his father,\nand he attacked me as the brother of your assailant.... Now I understand\nit,\" he repeated thoughtfully. \"But my brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch regrets\nhis action, I know that, and if only it is possible for him to come to\nyou, or better still, to meet you in that same place, he will ask your\nforgiveness before every one--if you wish it.\"\n\n\"After pulling out my beard, you mean, he will ask my forgiveness? And he\nthinks that will be a satisfactory finish, doesn't he?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! On the contrary, he will do anything you like and in any way you\nlike.\"\n\n\"So if I were to ask his highness to go down on his knees before me in\nthat very tavern--'The Metropolis' it's called--or in the market-place, he\nwould do it?\"\n\n\"Yes, he would even go down on his knees.\"\n\n\"You've pierced me to the heart, sir. Touched me to tears and pierced me\nto the heart! I am only too sensible of your brother's generosity. Allow\nme to introduce my family, my two daughters and my son--my litter. If I\ndie, who will care for them, and while I live who but they will care for a\nwretch like me? That's a great thing the Lord has ordained for every man\nof my sort, sir. For there must be some one able to love even a man like\nme.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's perfectly true!\" exclaimed Alyosha.\n\n\"Oh, do leave off playing the fool! Some idiot comes in, and you put us to\nshame!\" cried the girl by the window, suddenly turning to her father with\na disdainful and contemptuous air.\n\n\"Wait a little, Varvara!\" cried her father, speaking peremptorily but\nlooking at her quite approvingly. \"That's her character,\" he said,\naddressing Alyosha again.\n\n\n    \"And in all nature there was naught\n    That could find favor in his eyes--\n\n\nor rather in the feminine: that could find favor in her eyes. But now let\nme present you to my wife, Arina Petrovna. She is crippled, she is forty-\nthree; she can move, but very little. She is of humble origin. Arina\nPetrovna, compose your countenance. This is Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov.\nGet up, Alexey Fyodorovitch.\" He took him by the hand and with unexpected\nforce pulled him up. \"You must stand up to be introduced to a lady. It's\nnot the Karamazov, mamma, who ... h'm ... etcetera, but his brother,\nradiant with modest virtues. Come, Arina Petrovna, come, mamma, first your\nhand to be kissed.\"\n\nAnd he kissed his wife's hand respectfully and even tenderly. The girl at\nthe window turned her back indignantly on the scene; an expression of\nextraordinary cordiality came over the haughtily inquiring face of the\nwoman.\n\n\"Good morning! Sit down, Mr. Tchernomazov,\" she said.\n\n\"Karamazov, mamma, Karamazov. We are of humble origin,\" he whispered\nagain.\n\n\"Well, Karamazov, or whatever it is, but I always think of\nTchernomazov.... Sit down. Why has he pulled you up? He calls me crippled,\nbut I am not, only my legs are swollen like barrels, and I am shriveled up\nmyself. Once I used to be so fat, but now it's as though I had swallowed a\nneedle.\"\n\n\"We are of humble origin,\" the captain muttered again.\n\n\"Oh, father, father!\" the hunchback girl, who had till then been silent on\nher chair, said suddenly, and she hid her eyes in her handkerchief.\n\n\"Buffoon!\" blurted out the girl at the window.\n\n\"Have you heard our news?\" said the mother, pointing at her daughters.\n\"It's like clouds coming over; the clouds pass and we have music again.\nWhen we were with the army, we used to have many such guests. I don't mean\nto make any comparisons; every one to their taste. The deacon's wife used\nto come then and say, 'Alexandr Alexandrovitch is a man of the noblest\nheart, but Nastasya Petrovna,' she would say, 'is of the brood of hell.'\n'Well,' I said, 'that's a matter of taste; but you are a little spitfire.'\n'And you want keeping in your place,' says she. 'You black sword,' said I,\n'who asked you to teach me?' 'But my breath,' says she, 'is clean, and\nyours is unclean.' 'You ask all the officers whether my breath is\nunclean.' And ever since then I had it in my mind. Not long ago I was\nsitting here as I am now, when I saw that very general come in who came\nhere for Easter, and I asked him: 'Your Excellency,' said I, 'can a lady's\nbreath be unpleasant?' 'Yes,' he answered; 'you ought to open a window-\npane or open the door, for the air is not fresh here.' And they all go on\nlike that! And what is my breath to them? The dead smell worse still! 'I\nwon't spoil the air,' said I, 'I'll order some slippers and go away.' My\ndarlings, don't blame your own mother! Nikolay Ilyitch, how is it I can't\nplease you? There's only Ilusha who comes home from school and loves me.\nYesterday he brought me an apple. Forgive your own mother--forgive a poor\nlonely creature! Why has my breath become unpleasant to you?\"\n\nAnd the poor mad woman broke into sobs, and tears streamed down her\ncheeks. The captain rushed up to her.\n\n\"Mamma, mamma, my dear, give over! You are not lonely. Every one loves\nyou, every one adores you.\" He began kissing both her hands again and\ntenderly stroking her face; taking the dinner-napkin, he began wiping away\nher tears. Alyosha fancied that he too had tears in his eyes. \"There, you\nsee, you hear?\" he turned with a sort of fury to Alyosha, pointing to the\npoor imbecile.\n\n\"I see and hear,\" muttered Alyosha.\n\n\"Father, father, how can you--with him! Let him alone!\" cried the boy,\nsitting up in his bed and gazing at his father with glowing eyes.\n\n\"Do give over fooling, showing off your silly antics which never lead to\nanything!\" shouted Varvara, stamping her foot with passion.\n\n\"Your anger is quite just this time, Varvara, and I'll make haste to\nsatisfy you. Come, put on your cap, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and I'll put on\nmine. We will go out. I have a word to say to you in earnest, but not\nwithin these walls. This girl sitting here is my daughter Nina; I forgot\nto introduce her to you. She is a heavenly angel incarnate ... who has\nflown down to us mortals,... if you can understand.\"\n\n\"There he is shaking all over, as though he is in convulsions!\" Varvara\nwent on indignantly.\n\n\"And she there stamping her foot at me and calling me a fool just now, she\nis a heavenly angel incarnate too, and she has good reason to call me so.\nCome along, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we must make an end.\"\n\nAnd, snatching Alyosha's hand, he drew him out of the room into the\nstreet.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. And In The Open Air\n\n\n\"The air is fresh, but in my apartment it is not so in any sense of the\nword. Let us walk slowly, sir. I should be glad of your kind interest.\"\n\n\"I too have something important to say to you,\" observed Alyosha, \"only I\ndon't know how to begin.\"\n\n\"To be sure you must have business with me. You would never have looked in\nupon me without some object. Unless you come simply to complain of the\nboy, and that's hardly likely. And, by the way, about the boy: I could not\nexplain to you in there, but here I will describe that scene to you. My\ntow was thicker a week ago--I mean my beard. That's the nickname they give\nto my beard, the schoolboys most of all. Well, your brother Dmitri\nFyodorovitch was pulling me by my beard, I'd done nothing, he was in a\ntowering rage and happened to come upon me. He dragged me out of the\ntavern into the market-place; at that moment the boys were coming out of\nschool, and with them Ilusha. As soon as he saw me in such a state he\nrushed up to me. 'Father,' he cried, 'father!' He caught hold of me,\nhugged me, tried to pull me away, crying to my assailant, 'Let go, let go,\nit's my father, forgive him!'--yes, he actually cried 'forgive him.' He\nclutched at that hand, that very hand, in his little hands and kissed\nit.... I remember his little face at that moment, I haven't forgotten it\nand I never shall!\"\n\n\"I swear,\" cried Alyosha, \"that my brother will express his most deep and\nsincere regret, even if he has to go down on his knees in that same\nmarket-place.... I'll make him or he is no brother of mine!\"\n\n\"Aha, then it's only a suggestion! And it does not come from him but\nsimply from the generosity of your own warm heart. You should have said\nso. No, in that case allow me to tell you of your brother's highly\nchivalrous soldierly generosity, for he did give expression to it at the\ntime. He left off dragging me by my beard and released me: 'You are an\nofficer,' he said, 'and I am an officer, if you can find a decent man to\nbe your second send me your challenge. I will give satisfaction, though\nyou are a scoundrel.' That's what he said. A chivalrous spirit indeed! I\nretired with Ilusha, and that scene is a family record imprinted for ever\non Ilusha's soul. No, it's not for us to claim the privileges of noblemen.\nJudge for yourself. You've just been in our mansion, what did you see\nthere? Three ladies, one a cripple and weak-minded, another a cripple and\nhunchback and the third not crippled but far too clever. She is a student,\ndying to get back to Petersburg, to work for the emancipation of the\nRussian woman on the banks of the Neva. I won't speak of Ilusha, he is\nonly nine. I am alone in the world, and if I die, what will become of all\nof them? I simply ask you that. And if I challenge him and he kills me on\nthe spot, what then? What will become of them? And worse still, if he\ndoesn't kill me but only cripples me: I couldn't work, but I should still\nbe a mouth to feed. Who would feed it and who would feed them all? Must I\ntake Ilusha from school and send him to beg in the streets? That's what it\nmeans for me to challenge him to a duel. It's silly talk and nothing\nelse.\"\n\n\"He will beg your forgiveness, he will bow down at your feet in the middle\nof the market-place,\" cried Alyosha again, with glowing eyes.\n\n\"I did think of prosecuting him,\" the captain went on, \"but look in our\ncode, could I get much compensation for a personal injury? And then\nAgrafena Alexandrovna(3) sent for me and shouted at me: 'Don't dare to\ndream of it! If you proceed against him, I'll publish it to all the world\nthat he beat you for your dishonesty, and then you will be prosecuted.' I\ncall God to witness whose was the dishonesty and by whose commands I\nacted, wasn't it by her own and Fyodor Pavlovitch's? 'And what's more,'\nshe went on, 'I'll dismiss you for good and you'll never earn another\npenny from me. I'll speak to my merchant too' (that's what she calls her\nold man) 'and he will dismiss you!' And if he dismisses me, what can I\nearn then from any one? Those two are all I have to look to, for your\nFyodor Pavlovitch has not only given over employing me, for another\nreason, but he means to make use of papers I've signed to go to law\nagainst me. And so I kept quiet, and you have seen our retreat. But now\nlet me ask you: did Ilusha hurt your finger much? I didn't like to go into\nit in our mansion before him.\"\n\n\"Yes, very much, and he was in a great fury. He was avenging you on me as\na Karamazov, I see that now. But if only you had seen how he was throwing\nstones at his school-fellows! It's very dangerous. They might kill him.\nThey are children and stupid. A stone may be thrown and break somebody's\nhead.\"\n\n\"That's just what has happened. He has been bruised by a stone to-day. Not\non the head but on the chest, just above the heart. He came home crying\nand groaning and now he is ill.\"\n\n\"And you know he attacks them first. He is bitter against them on your\naccount. They say he stabbed a boy called Krassotkin with a pen-knife not\nlong ago.\"\n\n\"I've heard about that too, it's dangerous. Krassotkin is an official\nhere, we may hear more about it.\"\n\n\"I would advise you,\" Alyosha went on warmly, \"not to send him to school\nat all for a time till he is calmer ... and his anger is passed.\"\n\n\"Anger!\" the captain repeated, \"that's just what it is. He is a little\ncreature, but it's a mighty anger. You don't know all, sir. Let me tell\nyou more. Since that incident all the boys have been teasing him about the\n'wisp of tow.' Schoolboys are a merciless race, individually they are\nangels, but together, especially in schools, they are often merciless.\nTheir teasing has stirred up a gallant spirit in Ilusha. An ordinary boy,\na weak son, would have submitted, have felt ashamed of his father, sir,\nbut he stood up for his father against them all. For his father and for\ntruth and justice. For what he suffered when he kissed your brother's hand\nand cried to him 'Forgive father, forgive him,'--that only God knows--and I,\nhis father. For our children--not your children, but ours--the children of\nthe poor gentlemen looked down upon by every one--know what justice means,\nsir, even at nine years old. How should the rich know? They don't explore\nsuch depths once in their lives. But at that moment in the square when he\nkissed his hand, at that moment my Ilusha had grasped all that justice\nmeans. That truth entered into him and crushed him for ever, sir,\" the\ncaptain said hotly again with a sort of frenzy, and he struck his right\nfist against his left palm as though he wanted to show how \"the truth\"\ncrushed Ilusha. \"That very day, sir, he fell ill with fever and was\ndelirious all night. All that day he hardly said a word to me, but I\nnoticed he kept watching me from the corner, though he turned to the\nwindow and pretended to be learning his lessons. But I could see his mind\nwas not on his lessons. Next day I got drunk to forget my troubles, sinful\nman as I am, and I don't remember much. Mamma began crying, too--I am very\nfond of mamma--well, I spent my last penny drowning my troubles. Don't\ndespise me for that, sir, in Russia men who drink are the best. The best\nmen amongst us are the greatest drunkards. I lay down and I don't remember\nabout Ilusha, though all that day the boys had been jeering at him at\nschool. 'Wisp of tow,' they shouted, 'your father was pulled out of the\ntavern by his wisp of tow, you ran by and begged forgiveness.' \"\n\n\"On the third day when he came back from school, I saw he looked pale and\nwretched. 'What is it?' I asked. He wouldn't answer. Well, there's no\ntalking in our mansion without mamma and the girls taking part in it.\nWhat's more, the girls had heard about it the very first day. Varvara had\nbegun snarling. 'You fools and buffoons, can you ever do anything\nrational?' 'Quite so,' I said, 'can we ever do anything rational?' For the\ntime I turned it off like that. So in the evening I took the boy out for a\nwalk, for you must know we go for a walk every evening, always the same\nway, along which we are going now--from our gate to that great stone which\nlies alone in the road under the hurdle, which marks the beginning of the\ntown pasture. A beautiful and lonely spot, sir. Ilusha and I walked along\nhand in hand as usual. He has a little hand, his fingers are thin and\ncold--he suffers with his chest, you know. 'Father,' said he, 'father!'\n'Well?' said I. I saw his eyes flashing. 'Father, how he treated you\nthen!' 'It can't be helped, Ilusha,' I said. 'Don't forgive him, father,\ndon't forgive him! At school they say that he has paid you ten roubles for\nit.' 'No, Ilusha,' said I, 'I would not take money from him for anything.'\nThen he began trembling all over, took my hand in both his and kissed it\nagain. 'Father,' he said, 'father, challenge him to a duel, at school they\nsay you are a coward and won't challenge him, and that you'll accept ten\nroubles from him.' 'I can't challenge him to a duel, Ilusha,' I answered.\nAnd I told briefly what I've just told you. He listened. 'Father,' he\nsaid, 'anyway don't forgive it. When I grow up I'll call him out myself\nand kill him.' His eyes shone and glowed. And of course I am his father,\nand I had to put in a word: 'It's a sin to kill,' I said, 'even in a\nduel.' 'Father,' he said, 'when I grow up, I'll knock him down, knock the\nsword out of his hand, I'll fall on him, wave my sword over him and say:\n\"I could kill you, but I forgive you, so there!\" ' You see what the\nworkings of his little mind have been during these two days; he must have\nbeen planning that vengeance all day, and raving about it at night.\n\n\"But he began to come home from school badly beaten, I found out about it\nthe day before yesterday, and you are right, I won't send him to that\nschool any more. I heard that he was standing up against all the class\nalone and defying them all, that his heart was full of resentment, of\nbitterness--I was alarmed about him. We went for another walk. 'Father,' he\nasked, 'are the rich people stronger than any one else on earth?' 'Yes,\nIlusha,' I said, 'there are no people on earth stronger than the rich.'\n'Father,' he said, 'I will get rich, I will become an officer and conquer\neverybody. The Tsar will reward me, I will come back here and then no one\nwill dare--' Then he was silent and his lips still kept trembling.\n'Father,' he said, 'what a horrid town this is.' 'Yes, Ilusha,' I said,\n'it isn't a very nice town.' 'Father, let us move into another town, a\nnice one,' he said, 'where people don't know about us.' 'We will move, we\nwill, Ilusha,' said I, 'only I must save up for it.' I was glad to be able\nto turn his mind from painful thoughts, and we began to dream of how we\nwould move to another town, how we would buy a horse and cart. 'We will\nput mamma and your sisters inside, we will cover them up and we'll walk,\nyou shall have a lift now and then, and I'll walk beside, for we must take\ncare of our horse, we can't all ride. That's how we'll go.' He was\nenchanted at that, most of all at the thought of having a horse and\ndriving him. For of course a Russian boy is born among horses. We\nchattered a long while. Thank God, I thought, I have diverted his mind and\ncomforted him.\n\n\"That was the day before yesterday, in the evening, but last night\neverything was changed. He had gone to school in the morning, he came back\ndepressed, terribly depressed. In the evening I took him by the hand and\nwe went for a walk; he would not talk. There was a wind blowing and no\nsun, and a feeling of autumn; twilight was coming on. We walked along,\nboth of us depressed. 'Well, my boy,' said I, 'how about our setting off\non our travels?' I thought I might bring him back to our talk of the day\nbefore. He didn't answer, but I felt his fingers trembling in my hand. Ah,\nI thought, it's a bad job; there's something fresh. We had reached the\nstone where we are now. I sat down on the stone. And in the air there were\nlots of kites flapping and whirling. There were as many as thirty in\nsight. Of course, it's just the season for the kites. 'Look, Ilusha,' said\nI, 'it's time we got out our last year's kite again. I'll mend it, where\nhave you put it away?' My boy made no answer. He looked away and turned\nsideways to me. And then a gust of wind blew up the sand. He suddenly fell\non me, threw both his little arms round my neck and held me tight. You\nknow, when children are silent and proud, and try to keep back their tears\nwhen they are in great trouble and suddenly break down, their tears fall\nin streams. With those warm streams of tears, he suddenly wetted my face.\nHe sobbed and shook as though he were in convulsions, and squeezed up\nagainst me as I sat on the stone. 'Father,' he kept crying, 'dear father,\nhow he insulted you!' And I sobbed too. We sat shaking in each other's\narms. 'Ilusha,' I said to him, 'Ilusha darling.' No one saw us then. God\nalone saw us, I hope He will record it to my credit. You must thank your\nbrother, Alexey Fyodorovitch. No, sir, I won't thrash my boy for your\nsatisfaction.\"\n\nHe had gone back to his original tone of resentful buffoonery. Alyosha\nfelt though that he trusted him, and that if there had been some one else\nin his, Alyosha's place, the man would not have spoken so openly and would\nnot have told what he had just told. This encouraged Alyosha, whose heart\nwas trembling on the verge of tears.\n\n\"Ah, how I would like to make friends with your boy!\" he cried. \"If you\ncould arrange it--\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" muttered the captain.\n\n\"But now listen to something quite different!\" Alyosha went on. \"I have a\nmessage for you. That same brother of mine, Dmitri, has insulted his\nbetrothed, too, a noble-hearted girl of whom you have probably heard. I\nhave a right to tell you of her wrong; I ought to do so, in fact, for\nhearing of the insult done to you and learning all about your unfortunate\nposition, she commissioned me at once--just now--to bring you this help from\nher--but only from her alone, not from Dmitri, who has abandoned her. Nor\nfrom me, his brother, nor from any one else, but from her, only from her!\nShe entreats you to accept her help.... You have both been insulted by the\nsame man. She thought of you only when she had just received a similar\ninsult from him--similar in its cruelty, I mean. She comes like a sister to\nhelp a brother in misfortune.... She told me to persuade you to take these\ntwo hundred roubles from her, as from a sister, knowing that you are in\nsuch need. No one will know of it, it can give rise to no unjust slander.\nThere are the two hundred roubles, and I swear you must take them\nunless--unless all men are to be enemies on earth! But there are brothers\neven on earth.... You have a generous heart ... you must see that, you\nmust,\" and Alyosha held out two new rainbow-colored hundred-rouble notes.\n\nThey were both standing at the time by the great stone close to the fence,\nand there was no one near. The notes seemed to produce a tremendous\nimpression on the captain. He started, but at first only from\nastonishment. Such an outcome of their conversation was the last thing he\nexpected. Nothing could have been farther from his dreams than help from\nany one--and such a sum!\n\nHe took the notes, and for a minute he was almost unable to answer, quite\na new expression came into his face.\n\n\"That for me? So much money--two hundred roubles! Good heavens! Why, I\nhaven't seen so much money for the last four years! Mercy on us! And she\nsays she is a sister.... And is that the truth?\"\n\n\"I swear that all I told you is the truth,\" cried Alyosha.\n\nThe captain flushed red.\n\n\"Listen, my dear, listen. If I take it, I shan't be behaving like a\nscoundrel? In your eyes, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I shan't be a scoundrel? No,\nAlexey Fyodorovitch, listen, listen,\" he hurried, touching Alyosha with\nboth his hands. \"You are persuading me to take it, saying that it's a\nsister sends it, but inwardly, in your heart won't you feel contempt for\nme if I take it, eh?\"\n\n\"No, no, on my salvation I swear I shan't! And no one will ever know but\nme--I, you and she, and one other lady, her great friend.\"\n\n\"Never mind the lady! Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch, at a moment like this\nyou must listen, for you can't understand what these two hundred roubles\nmean to me now.\" The poor fellow went on rising gradually into a sort of\nincoherent, almost wild enthusiasm. He was thrown off his balance and\ntalked extremely fast, as though afraid he would not be allowed to say all\nhe had to say.\n\n\"Besides its being honestly acquired from a 'sister,' so highly respected\nand revered, do you know that now I can look after mamma and Nina, my\nhunchback angel daughter? Doctor Herzenstube came to me in the kindness of\nhis heart and was examining them both for a whole hour. 'I can make\nnothing of it,' said he, but he prescribed a mineral water which is kept\nat a chemist's here. He said it would be sure to do her good, and he\nordered baths, too, with some medicine in them. The mineral water costs\nthirty copecks, and she'd need to drink forty bottles perhaps; so I took\nthe prescription and laid it on the shelf under the ikons, and there it\nlies. And he ordered hot baths for Nina with something dissolved in them,\nmorning and evening. But how can we carry out such a cure in our mansion,\nwithout servants, without help, without a bath, and without water? Nina is\nrheumatic all over, I don't think I told you that. All her right side\naches at night, she is in agony, and, would you believe it, the angel\nbears it without groaning for fear of waking us. We eat what we can get,\nand she'll only take the leavings, what you'd scarcely give to a dog. 'I\nam not worth it, I am taking it from you, I am a burden on you,' that's\nwhat her angel eyes try to express. We wait on her, but she doesn't like\nit. 'I am a useless cripple, no good to any one.' As though she were not\nworth it, when she is the saving of all of us with her angelic sweetness.\nWithout her, without her gentle word it would be hell among us! She\nsoftens even Varvara. And don't judge Varvara harshly either, she is an\nangel too, she, too, has suffered wrong. She came to us for the summer,\nand she brought sixteen roubles she had earned by lessons and saved up, to\ngo back with to Petersburg in September, that is now. But we took her\nmoney and lived on it, so now she has nothing to go back with. Though\nindeed she couldn't go back, for she has to work for us like a slave. She\nis like an overdriven horse with all of us on her back. She waits on us\nall, mends and washes, sweeps the floor, puts mamma to bed. And mamma is\ncapricious and tearful and insane! And now I can get a servant with this\nmoney, you understand, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I can get medicines for the\ndear creatures, I can send my student to Petersburg, I can buy beef, I can\nfeed them properly. Good Lord, but it's a dream!\"\n\nAlyosha was delighted that he had brought him such happiness and that the\npoor fellow had consented to be made happy.\n\n\"Stay, Alexey Fyodorovitch, stay,\" the captain began to talk with frenzied\nrapidity, carried away by a new day-dream. \"Do you know that Ilusha and I\nwill perhaps really carry out our dream. We will buy a horse and cart, a\nblack horse, he insists on its being black, and we will set off as we\npretended the other day. I have an old friend, a lawyer in K. province,\nand I heard through a trustworthy man that if I were to go he'd give me a\nplace as clerk in his office, so, who knows, maybe he would. So I'd just\nput mamma and Nina in the cart, and Ilusha could drive, and I'd walk, I'd\nwalk.... Why, if I only succeed in getting one debt paid that's owing me,\nI should have perhaps enough for that too!\"\n\n\"There would be enough!\" cried Alyosha. \"Katerina Ivanovna will send you\nas much more as you need, and you know, I have money too, take what you\nwant, as you would from a brother, from a friend, you can give it back\nlater.... (You'll get rich, you'll get rich!) And you know you couldn't\nhave a better idea than to move to another province! It would be the\nsaving of you, especially of your boy--and you ought to go quickly, before\nthe winter, before the cold. You must write to us when you are there, and\nwe will always be brothers.... No, it's not a dream!\"\n\nAlyosha could have hugged him, he was so pleased. But glancing at him he\nstopped short. The man was standing with his neck outstretched and his\nlips protruding, with a pale and frenzied face. His lips were moving as\nthough trying to articulate something; no sound came, but still his lips\nmoved. It was uncanny.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Alyosha, startled.\n\n\"Alexey Fyodorovitch ... I ... you,\" muttered the captain, faltering,\nlooking at him with a strange, wild, fixed stare, and an air of desperate\nresolution. At the same time there was a sort of grin on his lips. \"I ...\nyou, sir ... wouldn't you like me to show you a little trick I know?\" he\nmurmured, suddenly, in a firm rapid whisper, his voice no longer\nfaltering.\n\n\"What trick?\"\n\n\"A pretty trick,\" whispered the captain. His mouth was twisted on the left\nside, his left eye was screwed up. He still stared at Alyosha.\n\n\"What is the matter? What trick?\" Alyosha cried, now thoroughly alarmed.\n\n\"Why, look,\" squealed the captain suddenly, and showing him the two notes\nwhich he had been holding by one corner between his thumb and forefinger\nduring the conversation, he crumpled them up savagely and squeezed them\ntight in his right hand. \"Do you see, do you see?\" he shrieked, pale and\ninfuriated. And suddenly flinging up his hand, he threw the crumpled notes\non the sand. \"Do you see?\" he shrieked again, pointing to them. \"Look\nthere!\"\n\nAnd with wild fury he began trampling them under his heel, gasping and\nexclaiming as he did so:\n\n\"So much for your money! So much for your money! So much for your money!\nSo much for your money!\"\n\nSuddenly he darted back and drew himself up before Alyosha, and his whole\nfigure expressed unutterable pride.\n\n\"Tell those who sent you that the wisp of tow does not sell his honor,\" he\ncried, raising his arm in the air. Then he turned quickly and began to\nrun; but he had not run five steps before he turned completely round and\nkissed his hand to Alyosha. He ran another five paces and then turned\nround for the last time. This time his face was not contorted with\nlaughter, but quivering all over with tears. In a tearful, faltering,\nsobbing voice he cried:\n\n\"What should I say to my boy if I took money from you for our shame?\"\n\nAnd then he ran on without turning. Alyosha looked after him,\ninexpressibly grieved. Oh, he saw that till the very last moment the man\nhad not known he would crumple up and fling away the notes. He did not\nturn back. Alyosha knew he would not. He would not follow him and call him\nback, he knew why. When he was out of sight, Alyosha picked up the two\nnotes. They were very much crushed and crumpled, and had been pressed into\nthe sand, but were uninjured and even rustled like new ones when Alyosha\nunfolded them and smoothed them out. After smoothing them out, he folded\nthem up, put them in his pocket and went to Katerina Ivanovna to report on\nthe success of her commission.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook V. Pro And Contra Chapter I. The Engagement\n\n\nMadame Hohlakov was again the first to meet Alyosha. She was flustered;\nsomething important had happened. Katerina Ivanovna's hysterics had ended\nin a fainting fit, and then \"a terrible, awful weakness had followed, she\nlay with her eyes turned up and was delirious. Now she was in a fever.\nThey had sent for Herzenstube; they had sent for the aunts. The aunts were\nalready here, but Herzenstube had not yet come. They were all sitting in\nher room, waiting. She was unconscious now, and what if it turned to brain\nfever!\"\n\nMadame Hohlakov looked gravely alarmed. \"This is serious, serious,\" she\nadded at every word, as though nothing that had happened to her before had\nbeen serious. Alyosha listened with distress, and was beginning to\ndescribe his adventures, but she interrupted him at the first words. She\nhad not time to listen. She begged him to sit with Lise and wait for her\nthere.\n\n\"Lise,\" she whispered almost in his ear, \"Lise has greatly surprised me\njust now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch. She touched me, too, and so my heart\nforgives her everything. Only fancy, as soon as you had gone, she began to\nbe truly remorseful for having laughed at you to-day and yesterday, though\nshe was not laughing at you, but only joking. But she was seriously sorry\nfor it, almost ready to cry, so that I was quite surprised. She has never\nbeen really sorry for laughing at me, but has only made a joke of it. And\nyou know she is laughing at me every minute. But this time she was in\nearnest. She thinks a great deal of your opinion, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and\ndon't take offense or be wounded by her if you can help it. I am never\nhard upon her, for she's such a clever little thing. Would you believe it?\nShe said just now that you were a friend of her childhood, 'the greatest\nfriend of her childhood'--just think of that--'greatest friend'--and what\nabout me? She has very strong feelings and memories, and, what's more, she\nuses these phrases, most unexpected words, which come out all of a sudden\nwhen you least expect them. She spoke lately about a pine-tree, for\ninstance: there used to be a pine-tree standing in our garden in her early\nchildhood. Very likely it's standing there still; so there's no need to\nspeak in the past tense. Pine-trees are not like people, Alexey\nFyodorovitch, they don't change quickly. 'Mamma,' she said, 'I remember\nthis pine-tree as in a dream,' only she said something so original about\nit that I can't repeat it. Besides, I've forgotten it. Well, good-by! I am\nso worried I feel I shall go out of my mind. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I've\nbeen out of my mind twice in my life. Go to Lise, cheer her up, as you\nalways can so charmingly. Lise,\" she cried, going to her door, \"here I've\nbrought you Alexey Fyodorovitch, whom you insulted so. He is not at all\nangry, I assure you; on the contrary, he is surprised that you could\nsuppose so.\"\n\n\"_Merci, maman._ Come in, Alexey Fyodorovitch.\"\n\nAlyosha went in. Lise looked rather embarrassed, and at once flushed\ncrimson. She was evidently ashamed of something, and, as people always do\nin such cases, she began immediately talking of other things, as though\nthey were of absorbing interest to her at the moment.\n\n\"Mamma has just told me all about the two hundred roubles, Alexey\nFyodorovitch, and your taking them to that poor officer ... and she told\nme all the awful story of how he had been insulted ... and you know,\nalthough mamma muddles things ... she always rushes from one thing to\nanother ... I cried when I heard. Well, did you give him the money and how\nis that poor man getting on?\"\n\n\"The fact is I didn't give it to him, and it's a long story,\" answered\nAlyosha, as though he, too, could think of nothing but his regret at\nhaving failed, yet Lise saw perfectly well that he, too, looked away, and\nthat he, too, was trying to talk of other things.\n\nAlyosha sat down to the table and began to tell his story, but at the\nfirst words he lost his embarrassment and gained the whole of Lise's\nattention as well. He spoke with deep feeling, under the influence of the\nstrong impression he had just received, and he succeeded in telling his\nstory well and circumstantially. In old days in Moscow he had been fond of\ncoming to Lise and describing to her what had just happened to him, what\nhe had read, or what he remembered of his childhood. Sometimes they had\nmade day-dreams and woven whole romances together--generally cheerful and\namusing ones. Now they both felt suddenly transported to the old days in\nMoscow, two years before. Lise was extremely touched by his story. Alyosha\ndescribed Ilusha with warm feeling. When he finished describing how the\nluckless man trampled on the money, Lise could not help clasping her hands\nand crying out:\n\n\"So you didn't give him the money! So you let him run away! Oh, dear, you\nought to have run after him!\"\n\n\"No, Lise; it's better I didn't run after him,\" said Alyosha, getting up\nfrom his chair and walking thoughtfully across the room.\n\n\"How so? How is it better? Now they are without food and their case is\nhopeless?\"\n\n\"Not hopeless, for the two hundred roubles will still come to them. He'll\ntake the money to-morrow. To-morrow he will be sure to take it,\" said\nAlyosha, pacing up and down, pondering. \"You see, Lise,\" he went on,\nstopping suddenly before her, \"I made one blunder, but that, even that, is\nall for the best.\"\n\n\"What blunder, and why is it for the best?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you. He is a man of weak and timorous character; he has\nsuffered so much and is very good-natured. I keep wondering why he took\noffense so suddenly, for I assure you, up to the last minute, he did not\nknow that he was going to trample on the notes. And I think now that there\nwas a great deal to offend him ... and it could not have been otherwise in\nhis position.... To begin with, he was sore at having been so glad of the\nmoney in my presence and not having concealed it from me. If he had been\npleased, but not so much; if he had not shown it; if he had begun\naffecting scruples and difficulties, as other people do when they take\nmoney, he might still endure to take it. But he was too genuinely\ndelighted, and that was mortifying. Ah, Lise, he is a good and truthful\nman--that's the worst of the whole business. All the while he talked, his\nvoice was so weak, so broken, he talked so fast, so fast, he kept laughing\nsuch a laugh, or perhaps he was crying--yes, I am sure he was crying, he\nwas so delighted--and he talked about his daughters--and about the situation\nhe could get in another town.... And when he had poured out his heart, he\nfelt ashamed at having shown me his inmost soul like that. So he began to\nhate me at once. He is one of those awfully sensitive poor people. What\nhad made him feel most ashamed was that he had given in too soon and\naccepted me as a friend, you see. At first he almost flew at me and tried\nto intimidate me, but as soon as he saw the money he had begun embracing\nme; he kept touching me with his hands. This must have been how he came to\nfeel it all so humiliating, and then I made that blunder, a very important\none. I suddenly said to him that if he had not money enough to move to\nanother town, we would give it to him, and, indeed, I myself would give\nhim as much as he wanted out of my own money. That struck him all at once.\nWhy, he thought, did I put myself forward to help him? You know, Lise,\nit's awfully hard for a man who has been injured, when other people look\nat him as though they were his benefactors.... I've heard that; Father\nZossima told me so. I don't know how to put it, but I have often seen it\nmyself. And I feel like that myself, too. And the worst of it was that\nthough he did not know, up to the very last minute, that he would trample\non the notes, he had a kind of presentiment of it, I am sure of that.\nThat's just what made him so ecstatic, that he had that presentiment....\nAnd though it's so dreadful, it's all for the best. In fact, I believe\nnothing better could have happened.\"\n\n\"Why, why could nothing better have happened?\" cried Lise, looking with\ngreat surprise at Alyosha.\n\n\"Because if he had taken the money, in an hour after getting home, he\nwould be crying with mortification, that's just what would have happened.\nAnd most likely he would have come to me early to-morrow, and perhaps have\nflung the notes at me and trampled upon them as he did just now. But now\nhe has gone home awfully proud and triumphant, though he knows he has\n'ruined himself.' So now nothing could be easier than to make him accept\nthe two hundred roubles by to-morrow, for he has already vindicated his\nhonor, tossed away the money, and trampled it under foot.... He couldn't\nknow when he did it that I should bring it to him again to-morrow, and yet\nhe is in terrible need of that money. Though he is proud of himself now,\nyet even to-day he'll be thinking what a help he has lost. He will think\nof it more than ever at night, will dream of it, and by to-morrow morning\nhe may be ready to run to me to ask forgiveness. It's just then that I'll\nappear. 'Here, you are a proud man,' I shall say: 'you have shown it; but\nnow take the money and forgive us!' And then he will take it!\"\n\nAlyosha was carried away with joy as he uttered his last words, \"And then\nhe will take it!\" Lise clapped her hands.\n\n\"Ah, that's true! I understand that perfectly now. Ah, Alyosha, how do you\nknow all this? So young and yet he knows what's in the heart.... I should\nnever have worked it out.\"\n\n\"The great thing now is to persuade him that he is on an equal footing\nwith us, in spite of his taking money from us,\" Alyosha went on in his\nexcitement, \"and not only on an equal, but even on a higher footing.\"\n\n\" 'On a higher footing' is charming, Alexey Fyodorovitch; but go on, go\non!\"\n\n\"You mean there isn't such an expression as 'on a higher footing'; but\nthat doesn't matter because--\"\n\n\"Oh, no, of course it doesn't matter. Forgive me, Alyosha, dear.... You\nknow, I scarcely respected you till now--that is I respected you but on an\nequal footing; but now I shall begin to respect you on a higher footing.\nDon't be angry, dear, at my joking,\" she put in at once, with strong\nfeeling. \"I am absurd and small, but you, you! Listen, Alexey\nFyodorovitch. Isn't there in all our analysis--I mean your analysis ... no,\nbetter call it ours--aren't we showing contempt for him, for that poor\nman--in analyzing his soul like this, as it were, from above, eh? In\ndeciding so certainly that he will take the money?\"\n\n\"No, Lise, it's not contempt,\" Alyosha answered, as though he had prepared\nhimself for the question. \"I was thinking of that on the way here. How can\nit be contempt when we are all like him, when we are all just the same as\nhe is? For you know we are just the same, no better. If we are better, we\nshould have been just the same in his place.... I don't know about you,\nLise, but I consider that I have a sordid soul in many ways, and his soul\nis not sordid; on the contrary, full of fine feeling.... No, Lise, I have\nno contempt for him. Do you know, Lise, my elder told me once to care for\nmost people exactly as one would for children, and for some of them as one\nwould for the sick in hospitals.\"\n\n\"Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, dear, let us care for people as we would for the\nsick!\"\n\n\"Let us, Lise; I am ready. Though I am not altogether ready in myself. I\nam sometimes very impatient and at other times I don't see things. It's\ndifferent with you.\"\n\n\"Ah, I don't believe it! Alexey Fyodorovitch, how happy I am!\"\n\n\"I am so glad you say so, Lise.\"\n\n\"Alexey Fyodorovitch, you are wonderfully good, but you are sometimes sort\nof formal.... And yet you are not a bit formal really. Go to the door,\nopen it gently, and see whether mamma is listening,\" said Lise, in a\nnervous, hurried whisper.\n\nAlyosha went, opened the door, and reported that no one was listening.\n\n\"Come here, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" Lise went on, flushing redder and\nredder. \"Give me your hand--that's right. I have to make a great\nconfession, I didn't write to you yesterday in joke, but in earnest,\" and\nshe hid her eyes with her hand. It was evident that she was greatly\nashamed of the confession.\n\nSuddenly she snatched his hand and impulsively kissed it three times.\n\n\"Ah, Lise, what a good thing!\" cried Alyosha joyfully. \"You know, I was\nperfectly sure you were in earnest.\"\n\n\"Sure? Upon my word!\" She put aside his hand, but did not leave go of it,\nblushing hotly, and laughing a little happy laugh. \"I kiss his hand and he\nsays, 'What a good thing!' \"\n\nBut her reproach was undeserved. Alyosha, too, was greatly overcome.\n\n\"I should like to please you always, Lise, but I don't know how to do it,\"\nhe muttered, blushing too.\n\n\"Alyosha, dear, you are cold and rude. Do you see? He has chosen me as his\nwife and is quite settled about it. He is sure I was in earnest. What a\nthing to say! Why, that's impertinence--that's what it is.\"\n\n\"Why, was it wrong of me to feel sure?\" Alyosha asked, laughing suddenly.\n\n\"Ah, Alyosha, on the contrary, it was delightfully right,\" cried Lise,\nlooking tenderly and happily at him.\n\nAlyosha stood still, holding her hand in his. Suddenly he stooped down and\nkissed her on her lips.\n\n\"Oh, what are you doing?\" cried Lise. Alyosha was terribly abashed.\n\n\"Oh, forgive me if I shouldn't.... Perhaps I'm awfully stupid.... You said\nI was cold, so I kissed you.... But I see it was stupid.\"\n\nLise laughed, and hid her face in her hands. \"And in that dress!\" she\nejaculated in the midst of her mirth. But she suddenly ceased laughing and\nbecame serious, almost stern.\n\n\"Alyosha, we must put off kissing. We are not ready for that yet, and we\nshall have a long time to wait,\" she ended suddenly. \"Tell me rather why\nyou who are so clever, so intellectual, so observant, choose a little\nidiot, an invalid like me? Ah, Alyosha, I am awfully happy, for I don't\ndeserve you a bit.\"\n\n\"You do, Lise. I shall be leaving the monastery altogether in a few days.\nIf I go into the world, I must marry. I know that. _He_ told me to marry,\ntoo. Whom could I marry better than you--and who would have me except you?\nI have been thinking it over. In the first place, you've known me from a\nchild and you've a great many qualities I haven't. You are more light-\nhearted than I am; above all, you are more innocent than I am. I have been\nbrought into contact with many, many things already.... Ah, you don't\nknow, but I, too, am a Karamazov. What does it matter if you do laugh and\nmake jokes, and at me, too? Go on laughing. I am so glad you do. You laugh\nlike a little child, but you think like a martyr.\"\n\n\"Like a martyr? How?\"\n\n\"Yes, Lise, your question just now: whether we weren't showing contempt\nfor that poor man by dissecting his soul--that was the question of a\nsufferer.... You see, I don't know how to express it, but any one who\nthinks of such questions is capable of suffering. Sitting in your invalid\nchair you must have thought over many things already.\"\n\n\"Alyosha, give me your hand. Why are you taking it away?\" murmured Lise in\na failing voice, weak with happiness. \"Listen, Alyosha. What will you wear\nwhen you come out of the monastery? What sort of suit? Don't laugh, don't\nbe angry, it's very, very important to me.\"\n\n\"I haven't thought about the suit, Lise; but I'll wear whatever you like.\"\n\n\"I should like you to have a dark blue velvet coat, a white pique\nwaistcoat, and a soft gray felt hat.... Tell me, did you believe that I\ndidn't care for you when I said I didn't mean what I wrote?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't believe it.\"\n\n\"Oh, you insupportable person, you are incorrigible.\"\n\n\"You see, I knew that you--seemed to care for me, but I pretended to\nbelieve that you didn't care for me to make it--easier for you.\"\n\n\"That makes it worse! Worse and better than all! Alyosha, I am awfully\nfond of you. Just before you came this morning, I tried my fortune. I\ndecided I would ask you for my letter, and if you brought it out calmly\nand gave it to me (as might have been expected from you) it would mean\nthat you did not love me at all, that you felt nothing, and were simply a\nstupid boy, good for nothing, and that I am ruined. But you left the\nletter at home and that cheered me. You left it behind on purpose, so as\nnot to give it back, because you knew I would ask for it? That was it,\nwasn't it?\"\n\n\"Ah, Lise, it was not so a bit. The letter is with me now, and it was this\nmorning, in this pocket. Here it is.\"\n\nAlyosha pulled the letter out laughing, and showed it her at a distance.\n\n\"But I am not going to give it to you. Look at it from here.\"\n\n\"Why, then you told a lie? You, a monk, told a lie!\"\n\n\"I told a lie if you like,\" Alyosha laughed, too. \"I told a lie so as not\nto give you back the letter. It's very precious to me,\" he added suddenly,\nwith strong feeling, and again he flushed. \"It always will be, and I won't\ngive it up to any one!\"\n\nLise looked at him joyfully. \"Alyosha,\" she murmured again, \"look at the\ndoor. Isn't mamma listening?\"\n\n\"Very well, Lise, I'll look; but wouldn't it be better not to look? Why\nsuspect your mother of such meanness?\"\n\n\"What meanness? As for her spying on her daughter, it's her right, it's\nnot meanness!\" cried Lise, firing up. \"You may be sure, Alexey\nFyodorovitch, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself I\nshall certainly spy on her!\"\n\n\"Really, Lise? That's not right.\"\n\n\"Oh, my goodness! What has meanness to do with it? If she were listening\nto some ordinary worldly conversation, it would be meanness, but when her\nown daughter is shut up with a young man.... Listen, Alyosha, do you know\nI shall spy upon you as soon as we are married, and let me tell you I\nshall open all your letters and read them, so you may as well be\nprepared.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, if so--\" muttered Alyosha, \"only it's not right.\"\n\n\"Ah, how contemptuous! Alyosha, dear, we won't quarrel the very first day.\nI'd better tell you the whole truth. Of course, it's very wrong to spy on\npeople, and, of course, I am not right and you are, only I shall spy on\nyou all the same.\"\n\n\"Do, then; you won't find out anything,\" laughed Alyosha.\n\n\"And, Alyosha, will you give in to me? We must decide that too.\"\n\n\"I shall be delighted to, Lise, and certain to, only not in the most\nimportant things. Even if you don't agree with me, I shall do my duty in\nthe most important things.\"\n\n\"That's right; but let me tell you I am ready to give in to you not only\nin the most important matters, but in everything. And I am ready to vow to\ndo so now--in everything, and for all my life!\" cried Lise fervently, \"and\nI'll do it gladly, gladly! What's more, I'll swear never to spy on you,\nnever once, never to read one of your letters. For you are right and I am\nnot. And though I shall be awfully tempted to spy, I know that I won't do\nit since you consider it dishonorable. You are my conscience now....\nListen, Alexey Fyodorovitch, why have you been so sad lately--both\nyesterday and to-day? I know you have a lot of anxiety and trouble, but I\nsee you have some special grief besides, some secret one, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Yes, Lise, I have a secret one, too,\" answered Alyosha mournfully. \"I see\nyou love me, since you guessed that.\"\n\n\"What grief? What about? Can you tell me?\" asked Lise with timid entreaty.\n\n\"I'll tell you later, Lise--afterwards,\" said Alyosha, confused. \"Now you\nwouldn't understand it perhaps--and perhaps I couldn't explain it.\"\n\n\"I know your brothers and your father are worrying you, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, my brothers too,\" murmured Alyosha, pondering.\n\n\"I don't like your brother Ivan, Alyosha,\" said Lise suddenly.\n\nHe noticed this remark with some surprise, but did not answer it.\n\n\"My brothers are destroying themselves,\" he went on, \"my father, too. And\nthey are destroying others with them. It's 'the primitive force of the\nKaramazovs,' as Father Paissy said the other day, a crude, unbridled,\nearthly force. Does the spirit of God move above that force? Even that I\ndon't know. I only know that I, too, am a Karamazov.... Me a monk, a monk!\nAm I a monk, Lise? You said just now that I was.\"\n\n\"Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"And perhaps I don't even believe in God.\"\n\n\"You don't believe? What is the matter?\" said Lise quietly and gently. But\nAlyosha did not answer. There was something too mysterious, too subjective\nin these last words of his, perhaps obscure to himself, but yet torturing\nhim.\n\n\"And now on the top of it all, my friend, the best man in the world, is\ngoing, is leaving the earth! If you knew, Lise, how bound up in soul I am\nwith him! And then I shall be left alone.... I shall come to you, Lise....\nFor the future we will be together.\"\n\n\"Yes, together, together! Henceforward we shall be always together, all\nour lives! Listen, kiss me, I allow you.\"\n\nAlyosha kissed her.\n\n\"Come, now go. Christ be with you!\" and she made the sign of the cross\nover him. \"Make haste back to _him_ while he is alive. I see I've kept you\ncruelly. I'll pray to-day for him and you. Alyosha, we shall be happy!\nShall we be happy, shall we?\"\n\n\"I believe we shall, Lise.\"\n\nAlyosha thought it better not to go in to Madame Hohlakov and was going\nout of the house without saying good-by to her. But no sooner had he\nopened the door than he found Madame Hohlakov standing before him. From\nthe first word Alyosha guessed that she had been waiting on purpose to\nmeet him.\n\n\"Alexey Fyodorovitch, this is awful. This is all childish nonsense and\nridiculous. I trust you won't dream--It's foolishness, nothing but\nfoolishness!\" she said, attacking him at once.\n\n\"Only don't tell her that,\" said Alyosha, \"or she will be upset, and\nthat's bad for her now.\"\n\n\"Sensible advice from a sensible young man. Am I to understand that you\nonly agreed with her from compassion for her invalid state, because you\ndidn't want to irritate her by contradiction?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, not at all. I was quite serious in what I said,\" Alyosha declared\nstoutly.\n\n\"To be serious about it is impossible, unthinkable, and in the first place\nI shall never be at home to you again, and I shall take her away, you may\nbe sure of that.\"\n\n\"But why?\" asked Alyosha. \"It's all so far off. We may have to wait\nanother year and a half.\"\n\n\"Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that's true, of course, and you'll have time to\nquarrel and separate a thousand times in a year and a half. But I am so\nunhappy! Though it's such nonsense, it's a great blow to me. I feel like\nFamusov in the last scene of _Sorrow from Wit_. You are Tchatsky and she\nis Sofya, and, only fancy, I've run down to meet you on the stairs, and in\nthe play the fatal scene takes place on the staircase. I heard it all; I\nalmost dropped. So this is the explanation of her dreadful night and her\nhysterics of late! It means love to the daughter but death to the mother.\nI might as well be in my grave at once. And a more serious matter still,\nwhat is this letter she has written? Show it me at once, at once!\"\n\n\"No, there's no need. Tell me, how is Katerina Ivanovna now? I must know.\"\n\n\"She still lies in delirium; she has not regained consciousness. Her aunts\nare here; but they do nothing but sigh and give themselves airs.\nHerzenstube came, and he was so alarmed that I didn't know what to do for\nhim. I nearly sent for a doctor to look after him. He was driven home in\nmy carriage. And on the top of it all, you and this letter! It's true\nnothing can happen for a year and a half. In the name of all that's holy,\nin the name of your dying elder, show me that letter, Alexey Fyodorovitch.\nI'm her mother. Hold it in your hand, if you like, and I will read it so.\"\n\n\"No, I won't show it to you. Even if she sanctioned it, I wouldn't. I am\ncoming to-morrow, and if you like, we can talk over many things, but now\ngood-by!\"\n\nAnd Alyosha ran downstairs and into the street.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. Smerdyakov With A Guitar\n\n\nHe had no time to lose indeed. Even while he was saying good-by to Lise,\nthe thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his\nbrother Dmitri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting\nlate, nearly three o'clock. Alyosha's whole soul turned to the monastery,\nto his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitri outweighed\neverything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about\nto happen grew stronger in Alyosha's mind with every hour. What that\ncatastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he\ncould perhaps not have said definitely. \"Even if my benefactor must die\nwithout me, anyway I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the\nthought that I might have saved something and did not, but passed by and\nhastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great\nprecept.\"\n\nHis plan was to catch his brother Dmitri unawares, to climb over the\nfence, as he had the day before, get into the garden and sit in the\nsummer-house. If Dmitri were not there, thought Alyosha, he would not\nannounce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain\nhidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If,\nas before, Dmitri were lying in wait for Grushenka to come, he would be\nvery likely to come to the summer-house. Alyosha did not, however, give\nmuch thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even\nif it meant not getting back to the monastery that day.\n\nEverything happened without hindrance, he climbed over the hurdle almost\nin the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house\nunseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma\ntoo, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his\ninstructions, and so refuse to let Alyosha come into the garden, or might\nwarn Dmitri that he was being sought and inquired for.\n\nThere was no one in the summer-house. Alyosha sat down and began to wait.\nHe looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal\nmore ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it\nseemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table,\nleft no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before.\nFoolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in\na time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down\nprecisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last\nhe felt very depressed--depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had\nnot sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the\nthrum of a guitar somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only\njust sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away.\nAlyosha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the\nday before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green low garden-seat among\nthe bushes on the left, by the fence. The people must be sitting on it\nnow. Who were they?\n\nA man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying\nhimself on the guitar:\n\n\n    With invincible force\n    I am bound to my dear.\n    O Lord, have mercy\n    On her and on me!\n    On her and on me!\n    On her and on me!\n\n\nThe voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another\nvoice, a woman's, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with\nmincing affectation:\n\n\"Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovitch? Why do\nyou always look down upon us?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" answered a man's voice politely, but with emphatic dignity.\nIt was clear that the man had the best of the position, and that the woman\nwas making advances. \"I believe the man must be Smerdyakov,\" thought\nAlyosha, \"from his voice. And the lady must be the daughter of the house\nhere, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail\nand goes to Marfa for soup.\"\n\n\"I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds, if they rhyme,\" the woman's\nvoice continued. \"Why don't you go on?\"\n\nThe man sang again:\n\n\n    What do I care for royal wealth\n    If but my dear one be in health?\n    Lord have mercy\n    On her and on me!\n    On her and on me!\n    On her and on me!\n\n\n\"It was even better last time,\" observed the woman's voice. \"You sang 'If\nmy darling be in health'; it sounded more tender. I suppose you've\nforgotten to-day.\"\n\n\"Poetry is rubbish!\" said Smerdyakov curtly.\n\n\"Oh, no! I am very fond of poetry.\"\n\n\"So far as it's poetry, it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, who\never talks in rhyme? And if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it\nwere decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no\ngood, Marya Kondratyevna.\"\n\n\"How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything?\" The\nwoman's voice was more and more insinuating.\n\n\"I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that, if\nit had not been for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a\nman in a duel if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy\nbeggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in\nMoscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Vassilyevitch.\nGrigory Vassilyevitch blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I\nwould have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not\nhave come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your\nmamma too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair\nwas like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee\nbit. Why talk of a wee bit while she might have said 'a little bit,' like\nevery one else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's\nfeeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an\neducated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all, in his ignorance.\nFrom my childhood up when I hear 'a wee bit,' I am ready to burst with\nrage. I hate all Russia, Marya Kondratyevna.\"\n\n\"If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hussar, you wouldn't have\ntalked like that, but would have drawn your saber to defend all Russia.\"\n\n\"I don't want to be a hussar, Marya Kondratyevna, and, what's more, I\nshould like to abolish all soldiers.\"\n\n\"And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us?\"\n\n\"There's no need of defense. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia\nby Napoleon, first Emperor of the French, father of the present one, and\nit would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation\nwould have conquered a very stupid one and annexed it. We should have had\nquite different institutions.\"\n\n\"Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't\nchange a dandy I know of for three young Englishmen,\" observed Marya\nKondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most\nlanguishing glance.\n\n\"That's as one prefers.\"\n\n\"But you are just like a foreigner--just like a most gentlemanly foreigner.\nI tell you that, though it makes me bashful.\"\n\n\"If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in\ntheir vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished\nboots and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian\npeople want thrashing, as Fyodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday,\nthough he is mad, and all his children.\"\n\n\"You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He\nis mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left\nhere long ago. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his\nbehavior, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do\nanything, and yet he is respected by every one. I may be only a soup-\nmaker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant in Petrovka, in\nMoscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow,\nexcept the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitri\nFyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first\ncount in the country, he'd fight him. Though in what way is he better than\nI am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am. Look at the money he has\nwasted without any need!\"\n\n\"It must be lovely, a duel,\" Marya Kondratyevna observed suddenly.\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with\npistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A\nperfect picture! Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give\nanything to see one!\"\n\n\"It's all very well when you are firing at some one, but when he is firing\nstraight in your mug, you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run\naway, Marya Kondratyevna.\"\n\n\"You don't mean you would run away?\" But Smerdyakov did not deign to\nreply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang\nagain in the same falsetto:\n\n\n    Whatever you may say,\n    I shall go far away.\n    Life will be bright and gay\n    In the city far away.\n    I shall not grieve,\n    I shall not grieve at all,\n    I don't intend to grieve at all.\n\n\nThen something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were\nsilent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdyakov\ndressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded, and perhaps\ncurled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter\nof the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She\nwas young and would not have been bad-looking, but that her face was so\nround and terribly freckled.\n\n\"Will my brother Dmitri soon be back?\" asked Alyosha with as much\ncomposure as he could.\n\nSmerdyakov got up slowly; Marya Kondratyevna rose too.\n\n\"How am I to know about Dmitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his\nkeeper,\" answered Smerdyakov quietly, distinctly, and superciliously.\n\n\"But I simply asked whether you do know?\" Alyosha explained.\n\n\"I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to.\"\n\n\"But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the\nhouse, and promised to let him know when Agrafena Alexandrovna comes.\"\n\nSmerdyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him.\n\n\"And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?\"\nhe asked, looking at Alyosha.\n\n\"I came in from the back-alley, over the fence, and went straight to the\nsummer-house. I hope you'll forgive me,\" he added, addressing Marya\nKondratyevna. \"I was in a hurry to find my brother.\"\n\n\"Ach, as though we could take it amiss in you!\" drawled Marya\nKondratyevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. \"For Dmitri Fyodorovitch\noften goes to the summer-house in that way. We don't know he is here and\nhe is sitting in the summer-house.\"\n\n\"I am very anxious to find him, or to learn from you where he is now.\nBelieve me, it's on business of great importance to him.\"\n\n\"He never tells us,\" lisped Marya Kondratyevna.\n\n\"Though I used to come here as a friend,\" Smerdyakov began again, \"Dmitri\nFyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way even here by his incessant\nquestions about the master. 'What news?' he'll ask. 'What's going on in\nthere now? Who's coming and going?' and can't I tell him something more.\nTwice already he's threatened me with death.\"\n\n\"With death?\" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise.\n\n\"Do you suppose he'd think much of that, with his temper, which you had a\nchance of observing yourself yesterday? He says if I let Agrafena\nAlexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to\nsuffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more\nafraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he\nmight not do!\"\n\n\"His honor said to him the other day, 'I'll pound you in a mortar!' \"\nadded Marya Kondratyevna.\n\n\"Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk,\" observed Alyosha.\n\"If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that too.\"\n\n\"Well, the only thing I can tell you is this,\" said Smerdyakov, as though\nthinking better of it; \"I am here as an old friend and neighbor, and it\nwould be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Ivan Fyodorovitch sent\nme first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street,\nwithout a letter, but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine\nwith him at the restaurant here, in the market-place. I went, but didn't\nfind Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. 'He's been\nhere, but he is quite gone,' those were the very words of his landlady.\nIt's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this\nmoment he is in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, for Ivan\nFyodorovitch has not been home to dinner and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone\nan hour ago, and is gone to lie down. But I beg you most particularly not\nto speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing\nat all.\"\n\n\"Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant to-day?\" repeated Alyosha\nquickly.\n\n\"That's so.\"\n\n\"The Metropolis tavern in the market-place?\"\n\n\"The very same.\"\n\n\"That's quite likely,\" cried Alyosha, much excited. \"Thank you,\nSmerdyakov; that's important. I'll go there at once.\"\n\n\"Don't betray me,\" Smerdyakov called after him.\n\n\"Oh, no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious.\"\n\n\"But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you,\" cried Marya Kondratyevna.\n\n\"No; it's a short cut, I'll get over the fence again.\"\n\nWhat he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the\ntavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic\ndress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them\ndown. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open, and his\nbrother Ivan called down to him from it.\n\n\"Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful.\"\n\n\"To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress--\"\n\n\"But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps; I'll run down to meet you.\"\n\nA minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone\ndining.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Brothers Make Friends\n\n\nIvan was not, however, in a separate room, but only in a place shut off by\na screen, so that it was unseen by other people in the room. It was the\nfirst room from the entrance with a buffet along the wall. Waiters were\ncontinually darting to and fro in it. The only customer in the room was an\nold retired military man drinking tea in a corner. But there was the usual\nbustle going on in the other rooms of the tavern; there were shouts for\nthe waiters, the sound of popping corks, the click of billiard balls, the\ndrone of the organ. Alyosha knew that Ivan did not usually visit this\ntavern and disliked taverns in general. So he must have come here, he\nreflected, simply to meet Dmitri by arrangement. Yet Dmitri was not there.\n\n\"Shall I order you fish, soup or anything. You don't live on tea alone, I\nsuppose,\" cried Ivan, apparently delighted at having got hold of Alyosha.\nHe had finished dinner and was drinking tea.\n\n\"Let me have soup, and tea afterwards, I am hungry,\" said Alyosha gayly.\n\n\"And cherry jam? They have it here. You remember how you used to love\ncherry jam when you were little?\"\n\n\"You remember that? Let me have jam too, I like it still.\"\n\nIvan rang for the waiter and ordered soup, jam and tea.\n\n\"I remember everything, Alyosha, I remember you till you were eleven, I\nwas nearly fifteen. There's such a difference between fifteen and eleven\nthat brothers are never companions at those ages. I don't know whether I\nwas fond of you even. When I went away to Moscow for the first few years I\nnever thought of you at all. Then, when you came to Moscow yourself, we\nonly met once somewhere, I believe. And now I've been here more than three\nmonths, and so far we have scarcely said a word to each other. To-morrow I\nam going away, and I was just thinking as I sat here how I could see you\nto say good-by and just then you passed.\"\n\n\"Were you very anxious to see me, then?\"\n\n\"Very. I want to get to know you once for all, and I want you to know me.\nAnd then to say good-by. I believe it's always best to get to know people\njust before leaving them. I've noticed how you've been looking at me these\nthree months. There has been a continual look of expectation in your eyes,\nand I can't endure that. That's how it is I've kept away from you. But in\nthe end I have learned to respect you. The little man stands firm, I\nthought. Though I am laughing, I am serious. You do stand firm, don't you?\nI like people who are firm like that whatever it is they stand by, even if\nthey are such little fellows as you. Your expectant eyes ceased to annoy\nme, I grew fond of them in the end, those expectant eyes. You seem to love\nme for some reason, Alyosha?\"\n\n\"I do love you, Ivan. Dmitri says of you--Ivan is a tomb! I say of you,\nIvan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand\nsomething in you, and I did not understand it till this morning.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" laughed Ivan.\n\n\"You won't be angry?\" Alyosha laughed too.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"That you are just as young as other young men of three and twenty, that\nyou are just a young and fresh and nice boy, green in fact! Now, have I\ninsulted you dreadfully?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence,\" cried Ivan, warmly and\ngood-humoredly. \"Would you believe it that ever since that scene with her,\nI have thought of nothing else but my youthful greenness, and just as\nthough you guessed that, you begin about it. Do you know I've been sitting\nhere thinking to myself: that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith\nin the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced in\nfact that everything is a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden\nchaos, if I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment--still I\nshould want to live and, having once tasted of the cup, I would not turn\naway from it till I had drained it! At thirty, though, I shall be sure to\nleave the cup, even if I've not emptied it, and turn away--where I don't\nknow. But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over\neverything--every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked\nmyself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would\novercome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've\ncome to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and\nthen I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some driveling consumptive\nmoralists--and poets especially--often call that thirst for life base. It's\na feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of\neverything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal\nforce on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing\nfor life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe\nin the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they\nopen in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves\nyou know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by\nmen, though I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old\nhabit one's heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you,\neat it, it will do you good. It's first-rate soup, they know how to make\nit here. I want to travel in Europe, Alyosha, I shall set off from here.\nAnd yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most\nprecious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie\nthere, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of\nsuch passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their\nscience, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and\nweep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been\nnothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply\nbecause I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in my emotion.\nI love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky--that's all it is. It's\nnot a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with\none's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you\nunderstand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?\" Ivan laughed suddenly.\n\n\"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with\none's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have\nsuch a longing for life,\" cried Alyosha. \"I think every one should love\nlife above everything in the world.\"\n\n\"Love life more than the meaning of it?\"\n\n\"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless\nof logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have\nthought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now\nyou've only to try to do the second half and you are saved.\"\n\n\"You are trying to save me, but perhaps I am not lost! And what does your\nsecond half mean?\"\n\n\"Why, one has to raise up your dead, who perhaps have not died after all.\nCome, let me have tea. I am so glad of our talk, Ivan.\"\n\n\"I see you are feeling inspired. I am awfully fond of such _professions de\nfoi_ from such--novices. You are a steadfast person, Alexey. Is it true\nthat you mean to leave the monastery?\"\n\n\"Yes, my elder sends me out into the world.\"\n\n\"We shall see each other then in the world. We shall meet before I am\nthirty, when I shall begin to turn aside from the cup. Father doesn't want\nto turn aside from his cup till he is seventy, he dreams of hanging on to\neighty in fact, so he says. He means it only too seriously, though he is a\nbuffoon. He stands on a firm rock, too, he stands on his sensuality--though\nafter we are thirty, indeed, there may be nothing else to stand on.... But\nto hang on to seventy is nasty, better only to thirty; one might retain 'a\nshadow of nobility' by deceiving oneself. Have you seen Dmitri to-day?\"\n\n\"No, but I saw Smerdyakov,\" and Alyosha rapidly, though minutely,\ndescribed his meeting with Smerdyakov. Ivan began listening anxiously and\nquestioned him.\n\n\"But he begged me not to tell Dmitri that he had told me about him,\" added\nAlyosha. Ivan frowned and pondered.\n\n\"Are you frowning on Smerdyakov's account?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes, on his account. Damn him, I certainly did want to see Dmitri, but\nnow there's no need,\" said Ivan reluctantly.\n\n\"But are you really going so soon, brother?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What of Dmitri and father? how will it end?\" asked Alyosha anxiously.\n\n\"You are always harping upon it! What have I to do with it? Am I my\nbrother Dmitri's keeper?\" Ivan snapped irritably, but then he suddenly\nsmiled bitterly. \"Cain's answer about his murdered brother, wasn't it?\nPerhaps that's what you're thinking at this moment? Well, damn it all, I\ncan't stay here to be their keeper, can I? I've finished what I had to do,\nand I am going. Do you imagine I am jealous of Dmitri, that I've been\ntrying to steal his beautiful Katerina Ivanovna for the last three months?\nNonsense, I had business of my own. I finished it. I am going. I finished\nit just now, you were witness.\"\n\n\"At Katerina Ivanovna's?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I've released myself once for all. And after all, what have I to\ndo with Dmitri? Dmitri doesn't come in. I had my own business to settle\nwith Katerina Ivanovna. You know, on the contrary, that Dmitri behaved as\nthough there was an understanding between us. I didn't ask him to do it,\nbut he solemnly handed her over to me and gave us his blessing. It's all\ntoo funny. Ah, Alyosha, if you only knew how light my heart is now! Would\nyou believe, it, I sat here eating my dinner and was nearly ordering\nchampagne to celebrate my first hour of freedom. Tfoo! It's been going on\nnearly six months, and all at once I've thrown it off. I could never have\nguessed even yesterday, how easy it would be to put an end to it if I\nwanted.\"\n\n\"You are speaking of your love, Ivan?\"\n\n\"Of my love, if you like. I fell in love with the young lady, I worried\nmyself over her and she worried me. I sat watching over her ... and all at\nonce it's collapsed! I spoke this morning with inspiration, but I went\naway and roared with laughter. Would you believe it? Yes, it's the literal\ntruth.\"\n\n\"You seem very merry about it now,\" observed Alyosha, looking into his\nface, which had suddenly grown brighter.\n\n\"But how could I tell that I didn't care for her a bit! Ha ha! It appears\nafter all I didn't. And yet how she attracted me! How attractive she was\njust now when I made my speech! And do you know she attracts me awfully\neven now, yet how easy it is to leave her. Do you think I am boasting?\"\n\n\"No, only perhaps it wasn't love.\"\n\n\"Alyosha,\" laughed Ivan, \"don't make reflections about love, it's unseemly\nfor you. How you rushed into the discussion this morning! I've forgotten\nto kiss you for it.... But how she tormented me! It certainly was sitting\nby a 'laceration.' Ah, she knew how I loved her! She loved me and not\nDmitri,\" Ivan insisted gayly. \"Her feeling for Dmitri was simply a self-\nlaceration. All I told her just now was perfectly true, but the worst of\nit is, it may take her fifteen or twenty years to find out that she\ndoesn't care for Dmitri, and loves me whom she torments, and perhaps she\nmay never find it out at all, in spite of her lesson to-day. Well, it's\nbetter so; I can simply go away for good. By the way, how is she now? What\nhappened after I departed?\"\n\nAlyosha told him she had been hysterical, and that she was now, he heard,\nunconscious and delirious.\n\n\"Isn't Madame Hohlakov laying it on?\"\n\n\"I think not.\"\n\n\"I must find out. Nobody dies of hysterics, though. They don't matter. God\ngave woman hysterics as a relief. I won't go to her at all. Why push\nmyself forward again?\"\n\n\"But you told her that she had never cared for you.\"\n\n\"I did that on purpose. Alyosha, shall I call for some champagne? Let us\ndrink to my freedom. Ah, if only you knew how glad I am!\"\n\n\"No, brother, we had better not drink,\" said Alyosha suddenly. \"Besides I\nfeel somehow depressed.\"\n\n\"Yes, you've been depressed a long time, I've noticed it.\"\n\n\"Have you settled to go to-morrow morning, then?\"\n\n\"Morning? I didn't say I should go in the morning.... But perhaps it may\nbe the morning. Would you believe it, I dined here to-day only to avoid\ndining with the old man, I loathe him so. I should have left long ago, so\nfar as he is concerned. But why are you so worried about my going away?\nWe've plenty of time before I go, an eternity!\"\n\n\"If you are going away to-morrow, what do you mean by an eternity?\"\n\n\"But what does it matter to us?\" laughed Ivan. \"We've time enough for our\ntalk, for what brought us here. Why do you look so surprised? Answer: why\nhave we met here? To talk of my love for Katerina Ivanovna, of the old man\nand Dmitri? of foreign travel? of the fatal position of Russia? Of the\nEmperor Napoleon? Is that it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then you know what for. It's different for other people; but we in our\ngreen youth have to settle the eternal questions first of all. That's what\nwe care about. Young Russia is talking about nothing but the eternal\nquestions now. Just when the old folks are all taken up with practical\nquestions. Why have you been looking at me in expectation for the last\nthree months? To ask me, 'What do you believe, or don't you believe at\nall?' That's what your eyes have been meaning for these three months,\nhaven't they?\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" smiled Alyosha. \"You are not laughing at me, now, Ivan?\"\n\n\"Me laughing! I don't want to wound my little brother who has been\nwatching me with such expectation for three months. Alyosha, look straight\nat me! Of course I am just such a little boy as you are, only not a\nnovice. And what have Russian boys been doing up till now, some of them, I\nmean? In this stinking tavern, for instance, here, they meet and sit down\nin a corner. They've never met in their lives before and, when they go out\nof the tavern, they won't meet again for forty years. And what do they\ntalk about in that momentary halt in the tavern? Of the eternal questions,\nof the existence of God and immortality. And those who do not believe in\nGod talk of socialism or anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity\non a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same, they're the same\nquestions turned inside out. And masses, masses of the most original\nRussian boys do nothing but talk of the eternal questions! Isn't it so?\"\n\n\"Yes, for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of\nimmortality, or, as you say, the same questions turned inside out, come\nfirst and foremost, of course, and so they should,\" said Alyosha, still\nwatching his brother with the same gentle and inquiring smile.\n\n\"Well, Alyosha, it's sometimes very unwise to be a Russian at all, but\nanything stupider than the way Russian boys spend their time one can\nhardly imagine. But there's one Russian boy called Alyosha I am awfully\nfond of.\"\n\n\"How nicely you put that in!\" Alyosha laughed suddenly.\n\n\"Well, tell me where to begin, give your orders. The existence of God,\neh?\"\n\n\"Begin where you like. You declared yesterday at father's that there was\nno God.\" Alyosha looked searchingly at his brother.\n\n\"I said that yesterday at dinner on purpose to tease you and I saw your\neyes glow. But now I've no objection to discussing with you, and I say so\nvery seriously. I want to be friends with you, Alyosha, for I have no\nfriends and want to try it. Well, only fancy, perhaps I too accept God,\"\nlaughed Ivan; \"that's a surprise for you, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course, if you are not joking now.\"\n\n\"Joking? I was told at the elder's yesterday that I was joking. You know,\ndear boy, there was an old sinner in the eighteenth century who declared\nthat, if there were no God, he would have to be invented. _S'il n'existait\npas Dieu, il faudrait l'inventer._ And man has actually invented God. And\nwhat's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really\nexist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God,\ncould enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it\nis, so touching, so wise and so great a credit it does to man. As for me,\nI've long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man. And I\nwon't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject,\nall derived from European hypotheses; for what's a hypothesis there, is an\naxiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys but with their\nteachers too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys\nthemselves. And so I omit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at\nnow? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature,\nthat is what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope,\nthat's it, isn't it? And therefore I tell you that I accept God simply.\nBut you must note this: if God exists and if He really did create the\nworld, then, as we all know, He created it according to the geometry of\nEuclid and the human mind with the conception of only three dimensions in\nspace. Yet there have been and still are geometricians and philosophers,\nand even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole\nuniverse, or to speak more widely the whole of being, was only created in\nEuclid's geometry; they even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which\naccording to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in\ninfinity. I have come to the conclusion that, since I can't understand\neven that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly\nthat I have no faculty for settling such questions, I have a Euclidian\nearthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world?\nAnd I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Alyosha,\nespecially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions are\nutterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three\ndimensions. And so I accept God and am glad to, and what's more, I accept\nHis wisdom, His purpose--which are utterly beyond our ken; I believe in the\nunderlying order and the meaning of life; I believe in the eternal harmony\nin which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the Word to\nWhich the universe is striving, and Which Itself was 'with God,' and Which\nItself is God and so on, and so on, to infinity. There are all sorts of\nphrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I? Yet would you\nbelieve it, in the final result I don't accept this world of God's, and,\nalthough I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't\naccept God, you must understand, it's the world created by Him I don't and\ncannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering\nwill be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of\nhuman contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the\ndespicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidian mind\nof man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony,\nsomething so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all\nhearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all\nthe crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed; that it will make\nit not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened with\nmen--but though all that may come to pass, I don't accept it. I won't\naccept it. Even if parallel lines do meet and I see it myself, I shall see\nit and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at\nthe root of me, Alyosha; that's my creed. I am in earnest in what I say. I\nbegan our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my\nconfession, for that's all you want. You didn't want to hear about God,\nbut only to know what the brother you love lives by. And so I've told\nyou.\"\n\nIvan concluded his long tirade with marked and unexpected feeling.\n\n\"And why did you begin 'as stupidly as you could'?\" asked Alyosha, looking\ndreamily at him.\n\n\"To begin with, for the sake of being Russian. Russian conversations on\nsuch subjects are always carried on inconceivably stupidly. And secondly,\nthe stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is,\nthe clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence\nwriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is\nhonest and straightforward. I've led the conversation to my despair, and\nthe more stupidly I have presented it, the better for me.\"\n\n\"You will explain why you don't accept the world?\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"To be sure I will, it's not a secret, that's what I've been leading up\nto. Dear little brother, I don't want to corrupt you or to turn you from\nyour stronghold, perhaps I want to be healed by you.\" Ivan smiled suddenly\nquite like a little gentle child. Alyosha had never seen such a smile on\nhis face before.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. Rebellion\n\n\n\"I must make you one confession,\" Ivan began. \"I could never understand\nhow one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind,\nthat one can't love, though one might love those at a distance. I once\nread somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen\nbeggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and\nbegan breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some\nawful disease. I am convinced that he did that from 'self-laceration,'\nfrom the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed\nby duty, as a penance laid on him. For any one to love a man, he must be\nhidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone.\"\n\n\"Father Zossima has talked of that more than once,\" observed Alyosha; \"he,\ntoo, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practiced\nin love, from loving him. But yet there's a great deal of love in mankind,\nand almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan.\"\n\n\"Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can't understand it, and the\ninnumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether\nthat's due to men's bad qualities or whether it's inherent in their\nnature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible\non earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer\nintensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another\nand not I. And what's more, a man is rarely ready to admit another's\nsuffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won't he admit it, do you\nthink? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I\nonce trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering;\ndegrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me--hunger, for\ninstance--my benefactor will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher\nsuffering--for an idea, for instance--he will very rarely admit that,\nperhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man\nshould have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of\nhis favor, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially\ngenteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity\nthrough the newspapers. One can love one's neighbors in the abstract, or\neven at a distance, but at close quarters it's almost impossible. If it\nwere as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear\nsilken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then\none might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But\nenough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to\nspeak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine\nourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my\nargument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we'd better keep to the\nchildren, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children\ncan be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when\nthey are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second\nreason why I won't speak of grown-up people is that, besides being\ndisgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation--they've eaten\nthe apple and know good and evil, and they have become 'like gods.' They\ngo on eating it still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so\nfar innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you\nwill understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer\nhorribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers' sins, they must be\npunished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning\nis of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on\nearth. The innocent must not suffer for another's sins, and especially\nsuch innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond\nof children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious,\nthe Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they\nare quite little--up to seven, for instance--are so remote from grown-up\npeople; they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species.\nI knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a\nburglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he\nwas in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time\nat his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He\ntrained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends\nwith him.... You don't know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My\nhead aches and I am sad.\"\n\n\"You speak with a strange air,\" observed Alyosha uneasily, \"as though you\nwere not quite yourself.\"\n\n\"By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow,\" Ivan went on, seeming\nnot to hear his brother's words, \"told me about the crimes committed by\nTurks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general\nrising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and\nchildren, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them\nso till morning, and in the morning they hang them--all sorts of things you\ncan't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a\ngreat injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as\na man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all\nhe can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he\nwere able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children,\ntoo; cutting the unborn child from the mother's womb, and tossing babies\nup in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before\ntheir mothers' eyes. Doing it before the mothers' eyes was what gave zest\nto the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting.\nImagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading\nTurks around her. They've planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to\nmake it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points\na pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee,\nholds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the\nbaby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way,\nTurks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say.\"\n\n\"Brother, what are you driving at?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"I think if the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has\ncreated him in his own image and likeness.\"\n\n\"Just as he did God, then?\" observed Alyosha.\n\n\" 'It's wonderful how you can turn words,' as Polonius says in _Hamlet_,\"\nlaughed Ivan. \"You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must\nbe a fine God, if man created Him in his image and likeness. You asked\njust now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain\nfacts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes of a certain sort\nfrom newspapers and books, and I've already got a fine collection. The\nTurks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have\nspecimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we\nprefer beating--rods and scourges--that's our national institution. Nailing\nears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod\nand the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us.\nAbroad now they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane, or laws\nhave been passed, so that they don't dare to flog men now. But they make\nup for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it\nwould be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being\ninoculated with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy.\nI have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how,\nquite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed--a young\nman, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the\nChristian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate\nchild who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on\nthe Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like\na little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and\nscarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd the flock\nin cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so. Quite\nthe contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been\ngiven to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of\nfeeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the\nProdigal Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the\npigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn't even give him that,\nand beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all\nhis childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go\naway and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day laborer\nin Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute, and finished by\nkilling and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to\ndeath. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was\nimmediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods,\nphilanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in\nprison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon\nhim, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his\ncrime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a\nmonster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace.\nAll Geneva was in excitement about him--all philanthropic and religious\nGeneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to\nthe prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; 'You are our brother, you\nhave found grace.' And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, 'Yes,\nI've found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs' food, but\nnow even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.' 'Yes, Richard, die\nin the Lord; you have shed blood and must die. Though it's not your fault\nthat you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pigs' food and were\nbeaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is\nforbidden); but you've shed blood and you must die.' And on the last day,\nRichard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute:\n'This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.' 'Yes,' cry the pastors\nand the judges and philanthropic ladies. 'This is the happiest day of your\nlife, for you are going to the Lord!' They all walk or drive to the\nscaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to\nRichard: 'Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!'\nAnd so, covered with his brothers' kisses, Richard is dragged on to the\nscaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in\nbrotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that's characteristic.\nThat pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists\nof aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed\ngratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is\ninteresting because it's national. Though to us it's absurd to cut off a\nman's head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we\nhave our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is\nthe direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrassov\ndescribing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, 'on its meek eyes,'\nevery one must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a\nfeeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move.\nThe peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what\nhe is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over\nand over again. 'However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.'\nThe nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature\non its weeping, on its 'meek eyes.' The frantic beast tugs and draws the\nload, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sort\nof unnatural spasmodic action--it's awful in Nekrassov. But that's only a\nhorse, and God has given horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught\nus, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can\nbe beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own\nchild with a birch-rod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it.\nThe papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. 'It stings more,'\nsaid he, and so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there\nare people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal\nsensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They\nbeat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more\nsavagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps,\n'Daddy! daddy!' By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought\ninto court. A counsel is engaged. The Russian people have long called a\nbarrister 'a conscience for hire.' The counsel protests in his client's\ndefense. 'It's such a simple thing,' he says, 'an everyday domestic event.\nA father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into\ncourt.' The jury, convinced by him, give a favorable verdict. The public\nroars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah, pity I wasn't\nthere! I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honor!\nCharming pictures.\n\n\"But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great,\ngreat deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of\nfive who was hated by her father and mother, 'most worthy and respectable\npeople, of good education and breeding.' You see, I must repeat again, it\nis a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing\nchildren, and children only. To all other types of humanity these\ntorturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane\nEuropeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of\nchildren themselves in that sense. It's just their defenselessness that\ntempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no\nrefuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of\ncourse, a demon lies hidden--the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat\nat the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off\nthe chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney\ndisease, and so on.\n\n\"This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those\ncultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason\ntill her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of\ncruelty--shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and\nbecause she didn't ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five\nsleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they\nsmeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her\nmother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor\nchild's groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even\nunderstand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with\nher tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful\ntears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and\nbrother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy\nmust be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have\nexisted on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he\nknow that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole\nworld of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to 'dear, kind God'! I\nsay nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the\napple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am\nmaking you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I'll leave off if you\nlike.\"\n\n\"Never mind. I want to suffer too,\" muttered Alyosha.\n\n\"One picture, only one more, because it's so curious, so characteristic,\nand I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities.\nI've forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of\nserfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of\nthe People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections,\nthe owner of great estates, one of those men--somewhat exceptional, I\nbelieve, even then--who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure,\nare convinced that they've earned absolute power over the lives of their\nsubjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his\nproperty of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor\nneighbors as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of\nhundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys--all mounted, and in\nuniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in\nplay and hurt the paw of the general's favorite hound. 'Why is my favorite\ndog lame?' He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw.\n'So you did it.' The general looked the child up and down. 'Take him.' He\nwas taken--taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that\nmorning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his\ndependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting\nparade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of\nthem all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the\nlock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting.\nThe general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked.\nHe shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... 'Make him run,'\ncommands the general. 'Run! run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... 'At\nhim!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the\nchild. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's\neyes!... I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of\nadministering his estates. Well--what did he deserve? To be shot? To be\nshot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha!\"\n\n\"To be shot,\" murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale,\ntwisted smile.\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried Ivan, delighted. \"If even you say so.... You're a pretty\nmonk! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha\nKaramazov!\"\n\n\"What I said was absurd, but--\"\n\n\"That's just the point, that 'but'!\" cried Ivan. \"Let me tell you, novice,\nthat the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on\nabsurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without\nthem. We know what we know!\"\n\n\"What do you know?\"\n\n\"I understand nothing,\" Ivan went on, as though in delirium. \"I don't want\nto understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind\nlong ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be\nfalse to the fact, and I have determined to stick to the fact.\"\n\n\"Why are you trying me?\" Alyosha cried, with sudden distress. \"Will you\nsay what you mean at last?\"\n\n\"Of course, I will; that's what I've been leading up to. You are dear to\nme, I don't want to let you go, and I won't give you up to your Zossima.\"\n\nIvan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad.\n\n\"Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the\nother tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to\nits center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I\nam a bug, and I recognize in all humility that I cannot understand why the\nworld is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they\nwere given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven,\nthough they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity\nthem. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidian understanding, all I know is\nthat there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows\neffect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level--but\nthat's only Euclidian nonsense, I know that, and I can't consent to live\nby it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause\nfollows effect simply and directly, and that I know it?--I must have\njustice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite\ntime and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have\nbelieved in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise\nagain, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I\nhaven't suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure\nthe soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my\nown eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and\nembrace his murderer. I want to be there when every one suddenly\nunderstands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are\nbuilt on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the\nchildren, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't\nanswer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions,\nbut I've only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so\nunanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal\nharmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It's beyond\nall comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the\nharmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the\nharmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I\nunderstand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such\nsolidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share\nresponsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this\nworld and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that\nthe child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow\nup, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I\nam not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the\nuniverse it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one\nhymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: 'Thou\nart just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.' When the mother embraces the\nfiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears,\n'Thou art just, O Lord!' then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be\nreached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I\ncan't accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take\nmy own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I\nlive to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry\naloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child's torturer,\n'Thou art just, O Lord!' but I don't want to cry aloud then. While there\nis still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher\nharmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child\nwho beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its\nstinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to 'dear, kind God'! It's not\nworth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for,\nor there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them?\nIs it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging\nthem? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do,\nsince those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of\nharmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't\nwant more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum\nof sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that\nthe truth is not worth such a price. I don't want the mother to embrace\nthe oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let\nher forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for\nthe immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of\nher tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the\ntorturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if\nthey dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole\nworld a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I\ndon't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather\nbe left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my\nunavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, _even if I were wrong_.\nBesides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to\npay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance\nticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as\npossible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha,\nonly I most respectfully return Him the ticket.\"\n\n\"That's rebellion,\" murmured Alyosha, looking down.\n\n\"Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that,\" said Ivan earnestly. \"One can\nhardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I\nchallenge you--answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human\ndestiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace\nand rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to\ndeath only one tiny creature--that baby beating its breast with its fist,\nfor instance--and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you\nconsent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the\ntruth.\"\n\n\"No, I wouldn't consent,\" said Alyosha softly.\n\n\"And can you admit the idea that men for whom you are building it would\nagree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpiated blood\nof a little victim? And accepting it would remain happy for ever?\"\n\n\"No, I can't admit it. Brother,\" said Alyosha suddenly, with flashing\neyes, \"you said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would\nhave the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a Being and He\ncan forgive everything, all and for all, because He gave His innocent\nblood for all and everything. You have forgotten Him, and on Him is built\nthe edifice, and it is to Him they cry aloud, 'Thou art just, O Lord, for\nThy ways are revealed!' \"\n\n\"Ah! the One without sin and His blood! No, I have not forgotten Him; on\nthe contrary I've been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring\nHim in before, for usually all arguments on your side put Him in the\nforeground. Do you know, Alyosha--don't laugh! I made a poem about a year\nago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I'll tell it to you.\"\n\n\"You wrote a poem?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I didn't write it,\" laughed Ivan, \"and I've never written two\nlines of poetry in my life. But I made up this poem in prose and I\nremembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first\nreader--that is listener. Why should an author forego even one listener?\"\nsmiled Ivan. \"Shall I tell it to you?\"\n\n\"I am all attention,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"My poem is called 'The Grand Inquisitor'; it's a ridiculous thing, but I\nwant to tell it to you.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. The Grand Inquisitor\n\n\n\"Even this must have a preface--that is, a literary preface,\" laughed Ivan,\n\"and I am a poor hand at making one. You see, my action takes place in the\nsixteenth century, and at that time, as you probably learnt at school, it\nwas customary in poetry to bring down heavenly powers on earth. Not to\nspeak of Dante, in France, clerks, as well as the monks in the\nmonasteries, used to give regular performances in which the Madonna, the\nsaints, the angels, Christ, and God himself were brought on the stage. In\nthose days it was done in all simplicity. In Victor Hugo's _Notre Dame de\nParis_ an edifying and gratuitous spectacle was provided for the people in\nthe Hotel de Ville of Paris in the reign of Louis XI. in honor of the\nbirth of the dauphin. It was called _Le bon jugement de la tres sainte et\ngracieuse Vierge Marie_, and she appears herself on the stage and\npronounces her _bon jugement_. Similar plays, chiefly from the Old\nTestament, were occasionally performed in Moscow too, up to the times of\nPeter the Great. But besides plays there were all sorts of legends and\nballads scattered about the world, in which the saints and angels and all\nthe powers of Heaven took part when required. In our monasteries the monks\nbusied themselves in translating, copying, and even composing such\npoems--and even under the Tatars. There is, for instance, one such poem (of\ncourse, from the Greek), _The Wanderings of Our Lady through Hell_, with\ndescriptions as bold as Dante's. Our Lady visits hell, and the Archangel\nMichael leads her through the torments. She sees the sinners and their\npunishment. There she sees among others one noteworthy set of sinners in a\nburning lake; some of them sink to the bottom of the lake so that they\ncan't swim out, and 'these God forgets'--an expression of extraordinary\ndepth and force. And so Our Lady, shocked and weeping, falls before the\nthrone of God and begs for mercy for all in hell--for all she has seen\nthere, indiscriminately. Her conversation with God is immensely\ninteresting. She beseeches Him, she will not desist, and when God points\nto the hands and feet of her Son, nailed to the Cross, and asks, 'How can\nI forgive His tormentors?' she bids all the saints, all the martyrs, all\nthe angels and archangels to fall down with her and pray for mercy on all\nwithout distinction. It ends by her winning from God a respite of\nsuffering every year from Good Friday till Trinity Day, and the sinners at\nonce raise a cry of thankfulness from hell, chanting, 'Thou art just, O\nLord, in this judgment.' Well, my poem would have been of that kind if it\nhad appeared at that time. He comes on the scene in my poem, but He says\nnothing, only appears and passes on. Fifteen centuries have passed since\nHe promised to come in His glory, fifteen centuries since His prophet\nwrote, 'Behold, I come quickly'; 'Of that day and that hour knoweth no\nman, neither the Son, but the Father,' as He Himself predicted on earth.\nBut humanity awaits him with the same faith and with the same love. Oh,\nwith greater faith, for it is fifteen centuries since man has ceased to\nsee signs from heaven.\n\n\n    No signs from heaven come to-day\n    To add to what the heart doth say.\n\n\nThere was nothing left but faith in what the heart doth say. It is true\nthere were many miracles in those days. There were saints who performed\nmiraculous cures; some holy people, according to their biographies, were\nvisited by the Queen of Heaven herself. But the devil did not slumber, and\ndoubts were already arising among men of the truth of these miracles. And\njust then there appeared in the north of Germany a terrible new heresy. \"A\nhuge star like to a torch\" (that is, to a church) \"fell on the sources of\nthe waters and they became bitter.\" These heretics began blasphemously\ndenying miracles. But those who remained faithful were all the more ardent\nin their faith. The tears of humanity rose up to Him as before, awaited\nHis coming, loved Him, hoped for Him, yearned to suffer and die for Him as\nbefore. And so many ages mankind had prayed with faith and fervor, \"O Lord\nour God, hasten Thy coming,\" so many ages called upon Him, that in His\ninfinite mercy He deigned to come down to His servants. Before that day He\nhad come down, He had visited some holy men, martyrs and hermits, as is\nwritten in their lives. Among us, Tyutchev, with absolute faith in the\ntruth of his words, bore witness that\n\n\n    Bearing the Cross, in slavish dress,\n    Weary and worn, the Heavenly King\n    Our mother, Russia, came to bless,\n    And through our land went wandering.\n\n\nAnd that certainly was so, I assure you.\n\n\"And behold, He deigned to appear for a moment to the people, to the\ntortured, suffering people, sunk in iniquity, but loving Him like\nchildren. My story is laid in Spain, in Seville, in the most terrible time\nof the Inquisition, when fires were lighted every day to the glory of God,\nand 'in the splendid _auto da fe_ the wicked heretics were burnt.' Oh, of\ncourse, this was not the coming in which He will appear according to His\npromise at the end of time in all His heavenly glory, and which will be\nsudden 'as lightning flashing from east to west.' No, He visited His\nchildren only for a moment, and there where the flames were crackling\nround the heretics. In His infinite mercy He came once more among men in\nthat human shape in which He walked among men for three years fifteen\ncenturies ago. He came down to the 'hot pavements' of the southern town in\nwhich on the day before almost a hundred heretics had, _ad majorem gloriam\nDei_, been burnt by the cardinal, the Grand Inquisitor, in a magnificent\n_auto da fe_, in the presence of the king, the court, the knights, the\ncardinals, the most charming ladies of the court, and the whole population\nof Seville.\n\n\"He came softly, unobserved, and yet, strange to say, every one recognized\nHim. That might be one of the best passages in the poem. I mean, why they\nrecognized Him. The people are irresistibly drawn to Him, they surround\nHim, they flock about Him, follow Him. He moves silently in their midst\nwith a gentle smile of infinite compassion. The sun of love burns in His\nheart, light and power shine from His eyes, and their radiance, shed on\nthe people, stirs their hearts with responsive love. He holds out His\nhands to them, blesses them, and a healing virtue comes from contact with\nHim, even with His garments. An old man in the crowd, blind from\nchildhood, cries out, 'O Lord, heal me and I shall see Thee!' and, as it\nwere, scales fall from his eyes and the blind man sees Him. The crowd\nweeps and kisses the earth under His feet. Children throw flowers before\nHim, sing, and cry hosannah. 'It is He--it is He!' all repeat. 'It must be\nHe, it can be no one but Him!' He stops at the steps of the Seville\ncathedral at the moment when the weeping mourners are bringing in a little\nopen white coffin. In it lies a child of seven, the only daughter of a\nprominent citizen. The dead child lies hidden in flowers. 'He will raise\nyour child,' the crowd shouts to the weeping mother. The priest, coming to\nmeet the coffin, looks perplexed, and frowns, but the mother of the dead\nchild throws herself at His feet with a wail. 'If it is Thou, raise my\nchild!' she cries, holding out her hands to Him. The procession halts, the\ncoffin is laid on the steps at His feet. He looks with compassion, and His\nlips once more softly pronounce, 'Maiden, arise!' and the maiden arises.\nThe little girl sits up in the coffin and looks round, smiling with wide-\nopen wondering eyes, holding a bunch of white roses they had put in her\nhand.\n\n\"There are cries, sobs, confusion among the people, and at that moment the\ncardinal himself, the Grand Inquisitor, passes by the cathedral. He is an\nold man, almost ninety, tall and erect, with a withered face and sunken\neyes, in which there is still a gleam of light. He is not dressed in his\ngorgeous cardinal's robes, as he was the day before, when he was burning\nthe enemies of the Roman Church--at this moment he is wearing his coarse,\nold, monk's cassock. At a distance behind him come his gloomy assistants\nand slaves and the 'holy guard.' He stops at the sight of the crowd and\nwatches it from a distance. He sees everything; he sees them set the\ncoffin down at His feet, sees the child rise up, and his face darkens. He\nknits his thick gray brows and his eyes gleam with a sinister fire. He\nholds out his finger and bids the guards take Him. And such is his power,\nso completely are the people cowed into submission and trembling obedience\nto him, that the crowd immediately makes way for the guards, and in the\nmidst of deathlike silence they lay hands on Him and lead Him away. The\ncrowd instantly bows down to the earth, like one man, before the old\nInquisitor. He blesses the people in silence and passes on. The guards\nlead their prisoner to the close, gloomy vaulted prison in the ancient\npalace of the Holy Inquisition and shut Him in it. The day passes and is\nfollowed by the dark, burning, 'breathless' night of Seville. The air is\n'fragrant with laurel and lemon.' In the pitch darkness the iron door of\nthe prison is suddenly opened and the Grand Inquisitor himself comes in\nwith a light in his hand. He is alone; the door is closed at once behind\nhim. He stands in the doorway and for a minute or two gazes into His face.\nAt last he goes up slowly, sets the light on the table and speaks.\n\n\" 'Is it Thou? Thou?' but receiving no answer, he adds at once, 'Don't\nanswer, be silent. What canst Thou say, indeed? I know too well what Thou\nwouldst say. And Thou hast no right to add anything to what Thou hadst\nsaid of old. Why, then, art Thou come to hinder us? For Thou hast come to\nhinder us, and Thou knowest that. But dost Thou know what will be to-\nmorrow? I know not who Thou art and care not to know whether it is Thou or\nonly a semblance of Him, but to-morrow I shall condemn Thee and burn Thee\nat the stake as the worst of heretics. And the very people who have to-day\nkissed Thy feet, to-morrow at the faintest sign from me will rush to heap\nup the embers of Thy fire. Knowest Thou that? Yes, maybe Thou knowest it,'\nhe added with thoughtful penetration, never for a moment taking his eyes\noff the Prisoner.\"\n\n\"I don't quite understand, Ivan. What does it mean?\" Alyosha, who had been\nlistening in silence, said with a smile. \"Is it simply a wild fantasy, or\na mistake on the part of the old man--some impossible _quiproquo_?\"\n\n\"Take it as the last,\" said Ivan, laughing, \"if you are so corrupted by\nmodern realism and can't stand anything fantastic. If you like it to be a\ncase of mistaken identity, let it be so. It is true,\" he went on,\nlaughing, \"the old man was ninety, and he might well be crazy over his set\nidea. He might have been struck by the appearance of the Prisoner. It\nmight, in fact, be simply his ravings, the delusion of an old man of\nninety, over-excited by the _auto da fe_ of a hundred heretics the day\nbefore. But does it matter to us after all whether it was a mistake of\nidentity or a wild fantasy? All that matters is that the old man should\nspeak out, should speak openly of what he has thought in silence for\nninety years.\"\n\n\"And the Prisoner too is silent? Does He look at him and not say a word?\"\n\n\"That's inevitable in any case,\" Ivan laughed again. \"The old man has told\nHim He hasn't the right to add anything to what He has said of old. One\nmay say it is the most fundamental feature of Roman Catholicism, in my\nopinion at least. 'All has been given by Thee to the Pope,' they say, 'and\nall, therefore, is still in the Pope's hands, and there is no need for\nThee to come now at all. Thou must not meddle for the time, at least.'\nThat's how they speak and write too--the Jesuits, at any rate. I have read\nit myself in the works of their theologians. 'Hast Thou the right to\nreveal to us one of the mysteries of that world from which Thou hast\ncome?' my old man asks Him, and answers the question for Him. 'No, Thou\nhast not; that Thou mayest not add to what has been said of old, and\nmayest not take from men the freedom which Thou didst exalt when Thou wast\non earth. Whatsoever Thou revealest anew will encroach on men's freedom of\nfaith; for it will be manifest as a miracle, and the freedom of their\nfaith was dearer to Thee than anything in those days fifteen hundred years\nago. Didst Thou not often say then, \"I will make you free\"? But now Thou\nhast seen these \"free\" men,' the old man adds suddenly, with a pensive\nsmile. 'Yes, we've paid dearly for it,' he goes on, looking sternly at\nHim, 'but at last we have completed that work in Thy name. For fifteen\ncenturies we have been wrestling with Thy freedom, but now it is ended and\nover for good. Dost Thou not believe that it's over for good? Thou lookest\nmeekly at me and deignest not even to be wroth with me. But let me tell\nThee that now, to-day, people are more persuaded than ever that they have\nperfect freedom, yet they have brought their freedom to us and laid it\nhumbly at our feet. But that has been our doing. Was this what Thou didst?\nWas this Thy freedom?' \"\n\n\"I don't understand again,\" Alyosha broke in. \"Is he ironical, is he\njesting?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it! He claims it as a merit for himself and his Church that\nat last they have vanquished freedom and have done so to make men happy.\n'For now' (he is speaking of the Inquisition, of course) 'for the first\ntime it has become possible to think of the happiness of men. Man was\ncreated a rebel; and how can rebels be happy? Thou wast warned,' he says\nto Him. 'Thou hast had no lack of admonitions and warnings, but Thou didst\nnot listen to those warnings; Thou didst reject the only way by which men\nmight be made happy. But, fortunately, departing Thou didst hand on the\nwork to us. Thou hast promised, Thou hast established by Thy word, Thou\nhast given to us the right to bind and to unbind, and now, of course, Thou\ncanst not think of taking it away. Why, then, hast Thou come to hinder\nus?' \"\n\n\"And what's the meaning of 'no lack of admonitions and warnings'?\" asked\nAlyosha.\n\n\"Why, that's the chief part of what the old man must say.\n\n\" 'The wise and dread spirit, the spirit of self-destruction and non-\nexistence,' the old man goes on, 'the great spirit talked with Thee in the\nwilderness, and we are told in the books that he \"tempted\" Thee. Is that\nso? And could anything truer be said than what he revealed to Thee in\nthree questions and what Thou didst reject, and what in the books is\ncalled \"the temptation\"? And yet if there has ever been on earth a real\nstupendous miracle, it took place on that day, on the day of the three\ntemptations. The statement of those three questions was itself the\nmiracle. If it were possible to imagine simply for the sake of argument\nthat those three questions of the dread spirit had perished utterly from\nthe books, and that we had to restore them and to invent them anew, and to\ndo so had gathered together all the wise men of the earth--rulers, chief\npriests, learned men, philosophers, poets--and had set them the task to\ninvent three questions, such as would not only fit the occasion, but\nexpress in three words, three human phrases, the whole future history of\nthe world and of humanity--dost Thou believe that all the wisdom of the\nearth united could have invented anything in depth and force equal to the\nthree questions which were actually put to Thee then by the wise and\nmighty spirit in the wilderness? From those questions alone, from the\nmiracle of their statement, we can see that we have here to do not with\nthe fleeting human intelligence, but with the absolute and eternal. For in\nthose three questions the whole subsequent history of mankind is, as it\nwere, brought together into one whole, and foretold, and in them are\nunited all the unsolved historical contradictions of human nature. At the\ntime it could not be so clear, since the future was unknown; but now that\nfifteen hundred years have passed, we see that everything in those three\nquestions was so justly divined and foretold, and has been so truly\nfulfilled, that nothing can be added to them or taken from them.\n\n\" 'Judge Thyself who was right--Thou or he who questioned Thee then?\nRemember the first question; its meaning, in other words, was this: \"Thou\nwouldst go into the world, and art going with empty hands, with some\npromise of freedom which men in their simplicity and their natural\nunruliness cannot even understand, which they fear and dread--for nothing\nhas ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than\nfreedom. But seest Thou these stones in this parched and barren\nwilderness? Turn them into bread, and mankind will run after Thee like a\nflock of sheep, grateful and obedient, though for ever trembling, lest\nThou withdraw Thy hand and deny them Thy bread.\" But Thou wouldst not\ndeprive man of freedom and didst reject the offer, thinking, what is that\nfreedom worth, if obedience is bought with bread? Thou didst reply that\nman lives not by bread alone. But dost Thou know that for the sake of that\nearthly bread the spirit of the earth will rise up against Thee and will\nstrive with Thee and overcome Thee, and all will follow him, crying, \"Who\ncan compare with this beast? He has given us fire from heaven!\" Dost Thou\nknow that the ages will pass, and humanity will proclaim by the lips of\ntheir sages that there is no crime, and therefore no sin; there is only\nhunger? \"Feed men, and then ask of them virtue!\" that's what they'll write\non the banner, which they will raise against Thee, and with which they\nwill destroy Thy temple. Where Thy temple stood will rise a new building;\nthe terrible tower of Babel will be built again, and though, like the one\nof old, it will not be finished, yet Thou mightest have prevented that new\ntower and have cut short the sufferings of men for a thousand years; for\nthey will come back to us after a thousand years of agony with their\ntower. They will seek us again, hidden underground in the catacombs, for\nwe shall be again persecuted and tortured. They will find us and cry to\nus, \"Feed us, for those who have promised us fire from heaven haven't\ngiven it!\" And then we shall finish building their tower, for he finishes\nthe building who feeds them. And we alone shall feed them in Thy name,\ndeclaring falsely that it is in Thy name. Oh, never, never can they feed\nthemselves without us! No science will give them bread so long as they\nremain free. In the end they will lay their freedom at our feet, and say\nto us, \"Make us your slaves, but feed us.\" They will understand\nthemselves, at last, that freedom and bread enough for all are\ninconceivable together, for never, never will they be able to share\nbetween them! They will be convinced, too, that they can never be free,\nfor they are weak, vicious, worthless and rebellious. Thou didst promise\nthem the bread of Heaven, but, I repeat again, can it compare with earthly\nbread in the eyes of the weak, ever sinful and ignoble race of man? And if\nfor the sake of the bread of Heaven thousands shall follow Thee, what is\nto become of the millions and tens of thousands of millions of creatures\nwho will not have the strength to forego the earthly bread for the sake of\nthe heavenly? Or dost Thou care only for the tens of thousands of the\ngreat and strong, while the millions, numerous as the sands of the sea,\nwho are weak but love Thee, must exist only for the sake of the great and\nstrong? No, we care for the weak too. They are sinful and rebellious, but\nin the end they too will become obedient. They will marvel at us and look\non us as gods, because we are ready to endure the freedom which they have\nfound so dreadful and to rule over them--so awful it will seem to them to\nbe free. But we shall tell them that we are Thy servants and rule them in\nThy name. We shall deceive them again, for we will not let Thee come to us\nagain. That deception will be our suffering, for we shall be forced to\nlie.\n\n\" 'This is the significance of the first question in the wilderness, and\nthis is what Thou hast rejected for the sake of that freedom which Thou\nhast exalted above everything. Yet in this question lies hid the great\nsecret of this world. Choosing \"bread,\" Thou wouldst have satisfied the\nuniversal and everlasting craving of humanity--to find some one to worship.\nSo long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so\npainfully as to find some one to worship. But man seeks to worship what is\nestablished beyond dispute, so that all men would agree at once to worship\nit. For these pitiful creatures are concerned not only to find what one or\nthe other can worship, but to find something that all would believe in and\nworship; what is essential is that all may be _together_ in it. This\ncraving for _community_ of worship is the chief misery of every man\nindividually and of all humanity from the beginning of time. For the sake\nof common worship they've slain each other with the sword. They have set\nup gods and challenged one another, \"Put away your gods and come and\nworship ours, or we will kill you and your gods!\" And so it will be to the\nend of the world, even when gods disappear from the earth; they will fall\ndown before idols just the same. Thou didst know, Thou couldst not but\nhave known, this fundamental secret of human nature, but Thou didst reject\nthe one infallible banner which was offered Thee to make all men bow down\nto Thee alone--the banner of earthly bread; and Thou hast rejected it for\nthe sake of freedom and the bread of Heaven. Behold what Thou didst\nfurther. And all again in the name of freedom! I tell Thee that man is\ntormented by no greater anxiety than to find some one quickly to whom he\ncan hand over that gift of freedom with which the ill-fated creature is\nborn. But only one who can appease their conscience can take over their\nfreedom. In bread there was offered Thee an invincible banner; give bread,\nand man will worship thee, for nothing is more certain than bread. But if\nsome one else gains possession of his conscience--oh! then he will cast\naway Thy bread and follow after him who has ensnared his conscience. In\nthat Thou wast right. For the secret of man's being is not only to live\nbut to have something to live for. Without a stable conception of the\nobject of life, man would not consent to go on living, and would rather\ndestroy himself than remain on earth, though he had bread in abundance.\nThat is true. But what happened? Instead of taking men's freedom from\nthem, Thou didst make it greater than ever! Didst Thou forget that man\nprefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in the knowledge of\ngood and evil? Nothing is more seductive for man than his freedom of\nconscience, but nothing is a greater cause of suffering. And behold,\ninstead of giving a firm foundation for setting the conscience of man at\nrest for ever, Thou didst choose all that is exceptional, vague and\nenigmatic; Thou didst choose what was utterly beyond the strength of men,\nacting as though Thou didst not love them at all--Thou who didst come to\ngive Thy life for them! Instead of taking possession of men's freedom,\nThou didst increase it, and burdened the spiritual kingdom of mankind with\nits sufferings for ever. Thou didst desire man's free love, that he should\nfollow Thee freely, enticed and taken captive by Thee. In place of the\nrigid ancient law, man must hereafter with free heart decide for himself\nwhat is good and what is evil, having only Thy image before him as his\nguide. But didst Thou not know that he would at last reject even Thy image\nand Thy truth, if he is weighed down with the fearful burden of free\nchoice? They will cry aloud at last that the truth is not in Thee, for\nthey could not have been left in greater confusion and suffering than Thou\nhast caused, laying upon them so many cares and unanswerable problems.\n\n\" 'So that, in truth, Thou didst Thyself lay the foundation for the\ndestruction of Thy kingdom, and no one is more to blame for it. Yet what\nwas offered Thee? There are three powers, three powers alone, able to\nconquer and to hold captive for ever the conscience of these impotent\nrebels for their happiness--those forces are miracle, mystery and\nauthority. Thou hast rejected all three and hast set the example for doing\nso. When the wise and dread spirit set Thee on the pinnacle of the temple\nand said to Thee, \"If Thou wouldst know whether Thou art the Son of God\nthen cast Thyself down, for it is written: the angels shall hold him up\nlest he fall and bruise himself, and Thou shalt know then whether Thou art\nthe Son of God and shalt prove then how great is Thy faith in Thy Father.\"\nBut Thou didst refuse and wouldst not cast Thyself down. Oh, of course,\nThou didst proudly and well, like God; but the weak, unruly race of men,\nare they gods? Oh, Thou didst know then that in taking one step, in making\none movement to cast Thyself down, Thou wouldst be tempting God and have\nlost all Thy faith in Him, and wouldst have been dashed to pieces against\nthat earth which Thou didst come to save. And the wise spirit that tempted\nThee would have rejoiced. But I ask again, are there many like Thee? And\ncouldst Thou believe for one moment that men, too, could face such a\ntemptation? Is the nature of men such, that they can reject miracle, and\nat the great moments of their life, the moments of their deepest, most\nagonizing spiritual difficulties, cling only to the free verdict of the\nheart? Oh, Thou didst know that Thy deed would be recorded in books, would\nbe handed down to remote times and the utmost ends of the earth, and Thou\ndidst hope that man, following Thee, would cling to God and not ask for a\nmiracle. But Thou didst not know that when man rejects miracle he rejects\nGod too; for man seeks not so much God as the miraculous. And as man\ncannot bear to be without the miraculous, he will create new miracles of\nhis own for himself, and will worship deeds of sorcery and witchcraft,\nthough he might be a hundred times over a rebel, heretic and infidel. Thou\ndidst not come down from the Cross when they shouted to Thee, mocking and\nreviling Thee, \"Come down from the cross and we will believe that Thou art\nHe.\" Thou didst not come down, for again Thou wouldst not enslave man by a\nmiracle, and didst crave faith given freely, not based on miracle. Thou\ndidst crave for free love and not the base raptures of the slave before\nthe might that has overawed him for ever. But Thou didst think too highly\nof men therein, for they are slaves, of course, though rebellious by\nnature. Look round and judge; fifteen centuries have passed, look upon\nthem. Whom hast Thou raised up to Thyself? I swear, man is weaker and\nbaser by nature than Thou hast believed him! Can he, can he do what Thou\ndidst? By showing him so much respect, Thou didst, as it were, cease to\nfeel for him, for Thou didst ask far too much from him--Thou who hast loved\nhim more than Thyself! Respecting him less, Thou wouldst have asked less\nof him. That would have been more like love, for his burden would have\nbeen lighter. He is weak and vile. What though he is everywhere now\nrebelling against our power, and proud of his rebellion? It is the pride\nof a child and a schoolboy. They are little children rioting and barring\nout the teacher at school. But their childish delight will end; it will\ncost them dear. They will cast down temples and drench the earth with\nblood. But they will see at last, the foolish children, that, though they\nare rebels, they are impotent rebels, unable to keep up their own\nrebellion. Bathed in their foolish tears, they will recognize at last that\nHe who created them rebels must have meant to mock at them. They will say\nthis in despair, and their utterance will be a blasphemy which will make\nthem more unhappy still, for man's nature cannot bear blasphemy, and in\nthe end always avenges it on itself. And so unrest, confusion and\nunhappiness--that is the present lot of man after Thou didst bear so much\nfor their freedom! The great prophet tells in vision and in image, that he\nsaw all those who took part in the first resurrection and that there were\nof each tribe twelve thousand. But if there were so many of them, they\nmust have been not men but gods. They had borne Thy cross, they had\nendured scores of years in the barren, hungry wilderness, living upon\nlocusts and roots--and Thou mayest indeed point with pride at those\nchildren of freedom, of free love, of free and splendid sacrifice for Thy\nname. But remember that they were only some thousands; and what of the\nrest? And how are the other weak ones to blame, because they could not\nendure what the strong have endured? How is the weak soul to blame that it\nis unable to receive such terrible gifts? Canst Thou have simply come to\nthe elect and for the elect? But if so, it is a mystery and we cannot\nunderstand it. And if it is a mystery, we too have a right to preach a\nmystery, and to teach them that it's not the free judgment of their\nhearts, not love that matters, but a mystery which they must follow\nblindly, even against their conscience. So we have done. We have corrected\nThy work and have founded it upon _miracle_, _mystery_ and _authority_.\nAnd men rejoiced that they were again led like sheep, and that the\nterrible gift that had brought them such suffering was, at last, lifted\nfrom their hearts. Were we right teaching them this? Speak! Did we not\nlove mankind, so meekly acknowledging their feebleness, lovingly\nlightening their burden, and permitting their weak nature even sin with\nour sanction? Why hast Thou come now to hinder us? And why dost Thou look\nsilently and searchingly at me with Thy mild eyes? Be angry. I don't want\nThy love, for I love Thee not. And what use is it for me to hide anything\nfrom Thee? Don't I know to Whom I am speaking? All that I can say is known\nto Thee already. And is it for me to conceal from Thee our mystery?\nPerhaps it is Thy will to hear it from my lips. Listen, then. We are not\nworking with Thee, but with _him_--that is our mystery. It's long--eight\ncenturies--since we have been on _his_ side and not on Thine. Just eight\ncenturies ago, we took from him what Thou didst reject with scorn, that\nlast gift he offered Thee, showing Thee all the kingdoms of the earth. We\ntook from him Rome and the sword of Caesar, and proclaimed ourselves sole\nrulers of the earth, though hitherto we have not been able to complete our\nwork. But whose fault is that? Oh, the work is only beginning, but it has\nbegun. It has long to await completion and the earth has yet much to\nsuffer, but we shall triumph and shall be Caesars, and then we shall plan\nthe universal happiness of man. But Thou mightest have taken even then the\nsword of Caesar. Why didst Thou reject that last gift? Hadst Thou accepted\nthat last counsel of the mighty spirit, Thou wouldst have accomplished all\nthat man seeks on earth--that is, some one to worship, some one to keep his\nconscience, and some means of uniting all in one unanimous and harmonious\nant-heap, for the craving for universal unity is the third and last\nanguish of men. Mankind as a whole has always striven to organize a\nuniversal state. There have been many great nations with great histories,\nbut the more highly they were developed the more unhappy they were, for\nthey felt more acutely than other people the craving for world-wide union.\nThe great conquerors, Timours and Ghenghis-Khans, whirled like hurricanes\nover the face of the earth striving to subdue its people, and they too\nwere but the unconscious expression of the same craving for universal\nunity. Hadst Thou taken the world and Caesar's purple, Thou wouldst have\nfounded the universal state and have given universal peace. For who can\nrule men if not he who holds their conscience and their bread in his\nhands? We have taken the sword of Caesar, and in taking it, of course, have\nrejected Thee and followed _him_. Oh, ages are yet to come of the\nconfusion of free thought, of their science and cannibalism. For having\nbegun to build their tower of Babel without us, they will end, of course,\nwith cannibalism. But then the beast will crawl to us and lick our feet\nand spatter them with tears of blood. And we shall sit upon the beast and\nraise the cup, and on it will be written, \"Mystery.\" But then, and only\nthen, the reign of peace and happiness will come for men. Thou art proud\nof Thine elect, but Thou hast only the elect, while we give rest to all.\nAnd besides, how many of those elect, those mighty ones who could become\nelect, have grown weary waiting for Thee, and have transferred and will\ntransfer the powers of their spirit and the warmth of their heart to the\nother camp, and end by raising their _free_ banner against Thee. Thou\ndidst Thyself lift up that banner. But with us all will be happy and will\nno more rebel nor destroy one another as under Thy freedom. Oh, we shall\npersuade them that they will only become free when they renounce their\nfreedom to us and submit to us. And shall we be right or shall we be\nlying? They will be convinced that we are right, for they will remember\nthe horrors of slavery and confusion to which Thy freedom brought them.\nFreedom, free thought and science, will lead them into such straits and\nwill bring them face to face with such marvels and insoluble mysteries,\nthat some of them, the fierce and rebellious, will destroy themselves,\nothers, rebellious but weak, will destroy one another, while the rest,\nweak and unhappy, will crawl fawning to our feet and whine to us: \"Yes,\nyou were right, you alone possess His mystery, and we come back to you,\nsave us from ourselves!\"\n\n\" 'Receiving bread from us, they will see clearly that we take the bread\nmade by their hands from them, to give it to them, without any miracle.\nThey will see that we do not change the stones to bread, but in truth they\nwill be more thankful for taking it from our hands than for the bread\nitself! For they will remember only too well that in old days, without our\nhelp, even the bread they made turned to stones in their hands, while\nsince they have come back to us, the very stones have turned to bread in\ntheir hands. Too, too well will they know the value of complete\nsubmission! And until men know that, they will be unhappy. Who is most to\nblame for their not knowing it?--speak! Who scattered the flock and sent it\nastray on unknown paths? But the flock will come together again and will\nsubmit once more, and then it will be once for all. Then we shall give\nthem the quiet humble happiness of weak creatures such as they are by\nnature. Oh, we shall persuade them at last not to be proud, for Thou didst\nlift them up and thereby taught them to be proud. We shall show them that\nthey are weak, that they are only pitiful children, but that childlike\nhappiness is the sweetest of all. They will become timid and will look to\nus and huddle close to us in fear, as chicks to the hen. They will marvel\nat us and will be awe-stricken before us, and will be proud at our being\nso powerful and clever, that we have been able to subdue such a turbulent\nflock of thousands of millions. They will tremble impotently before our\nwrath, their minds will grow fearful, they will be quick to shed tears\nlike women and children, but they will be just as ready at a sign from us\nto pass to laughter and rejoicing, to happy mirth and childish song. Yes,\nwe shall set them to work, but in their leisure hours we shall make their\nlife like a child's game, with children's songs and innocent dance. Oh, we\nshall allow them even sin, they are weak and helpless, and they will love\nus like children because we allow them to sin. We shall tell them that\nevery sin will be expiated, if it is done with our permission, that we\nallow them to sin because we love them, and the punishment for these sins\nwe take upon ourselves. And we shall take it upon ourselves, and they will\nadore us as their saviors who have taken on themselves their sins before\nGod. And they will have no secrets from us. We shall allow or forbid them\nto live with their wives and mistresses, to have or not to have\nchildren--according to whether they have been obedient or disobedient--and\nthey will submit to us gladly and cheerfully. The most painful secrets of\ntheir conscience, all, all they will bring to us, and we shall have an\nanswer for all. And they will be glad to believe our answer, for it will\nsave them from the great anxiety and terrible agony they endure at present\nin making a free decision for themselves. And all will be happy, all the\nmillions of creatures except the hundred thousand who rule over them. For\nonly we, we who guard the mystery, shall be unhappy. There will be\nthousands of millions of happy babes, and a hundred thousand sufferers who\nhave taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil.\nPeacefully they will die, peacefully they will expire in Thy name, and\nbeyond the grave they will find nothing but death. But we shall keep the\nsecret, and for their happiness we shall allure them with the reward of\nheaven and eternity. Though if there were anything in the other world, it\ncertainly would not be for such as they. It is prophesied that Thou wilt\ncome again in victory, Thou wilt come with Thy chosen, the proud and\nstrong, but we will say that they have only saved themselves, but we have\nsaved all. We are told that the harlot who sits upon the beast, and holds\nin her hands the _mystery_, shall be put to shame, that the weak will rise\nup again, and will rend her royal purple and will strip naked her\nloathsome body. But then I will stand up and point out to Thee the\nthousand millions of happy children who have known no sin. And we who have\ntaken their sins upon us for their happiness will stand up before Thee and\nsay: \"Judge us if Thou canst and darest.\" Know that I fear Thee not. Know\nthat I too have been in the wilderness, I too have lived on roots and\nlocusts, I too prized the freedom with which Thou hast blessed men, and I\ntoo was striving to stand among Thy elect, among the strong and powerful,\nthirsting \"to make up the number.\" But I awakened and would not serve\nmadness. I turned back and joined the ranks of those _who have corrected\nThy work_. I left the proud and went back to the humble, for the happiness\nof the humble. What I say to Thee will come to pass, and our dominion will\nbe built up. I repeat, to-morrow Thou shalt see that obedient flock who at\na sign from me will hasten to heap up the hot cinders about the pile on\nwhich I shall burn Thee for coming to hinder us. For if any one has ever\ndeserved our fires, it is Thou. To-morrow I shall burn Thee. _Dixi._' \"\n\nIvan stopped. He was carried away as he talked, and spoke with excitement;\nwhen he had finished, he suddenly smiled.\n\nAlyosha had listened in silence; towards the end he was greatly moved and\nseemed several times on the point of interrupting, but restrained himself.\nNow his words came with a rush.\n\n\"But ... that's absurd!\" he cried, flushing. \"Your poem is in praise of\nJesus, not in blame of Him--as you meant it to be. And who will believe you\nabout freedom? Is that the way to understand it? That's not the idea of it\nin the Orthodox Church.... That's Rome, and not even the whole of Rome,\nit's false--those are the worst of the Catholics, the Inquisitors, the\nJesuits!... And there could not be such a fantastic creature as your\nInquisitor. What are these sins of mankind they take on themselves? Who\nare these keepers of the mystery who have taken some curse upon themselves\nfor the happiness of mankind? When have they been seen? We know the\nJesuits, they are spoken ill of, but surely they are not what you\ndescribe? They are not that at all, not at all.... They are simply the\nRomish army for the earthly sovereignty of the world in the future, with\nthe Pontiff of Rome for Emperor ... that's their ideal, but there's no\nsort of mystery or lofty melancholy about it.... It's simple lust of\npower, of filthy earthly gain, of domination--something like a universal\nserfdom with them as masters--that's all they stand for. They don't even\nbelieve in God perhaps. Your suffering Inquisitor is a mere fantasy.\"\n\n\"Stay, stay,\" laughed Ivan, \"how hot you are! A fantasy you say, let it be\nso! Of course it's a fantasy. But allow me to say: do you really think\nthat the Roman Catholic movement of the last centuries is actually nothing\nbut the lust of power, of filthy earthly gain? Is that Father Paissy's\nteaching?\"\n\n\"No, no, on the contrary, Father Paissy did once say something rather the\nsame as you ... but of course it's not the same, not a bit the same,\"\nAlyosha hastily corrected himself.\n\n\"A precious admission, in spite of your 'not a bit the same.' I ask you\nwhy your Jesuits and Inquisitors have united simply for vile material\ngain? Why can there not be among them one martyr oppressed by great sorrow\nand loving humanity? You see, only suppose that there was one such man\namong all those who desire nothing but filthy material gain--if there's\nonly one like my old Inquisitor, who had himself eaten roots in the desert\nand made frenzied efforts to subdue his flesh to make himself free and\nperfect. But yet all his life he loved humanity, and suddenly his eyes\nwere opened, and he saw that it is no great moral blessedness to attain\nperfection and freedom, if at the same time one gains the conviction that\nmillions of God's creatures have been created as a mockery, that they will\nnever be capable of using their freedom, that these poor rebels can never\nturn into giants to complete the tower, that it was not for such geese\nthat the great idealist dreamt his dream of harmony. Seeing all that he\nturned back and joined--the clever people. Surely that could have\nhappened?\"\n\n\"Joined whom, what clever people?\" cried Alyosha, completely carried away.\n\"They have no such great cleverness and no mysteries and secrets....\nPerhaps nothing but Atheism, that's all their secret. Your Inquisitor does\nnot believe in God, that's his secret!\"\n\n\"What if it is so! At last you have guessed it. It's perfectly true, it's\ntrue that that's the whole secret, but isn't that suffering, at least for\na man like that, who has wasted his whole life in the desert and yet could\nnot shake off his incurable love of humanity? In his old age he reached\nthe clear conviction that nothing but the advice of the great dread spirit\ncould build up any tolerable sort of life for the feeble, unruly,\n'incomplete, empirical creatures created in jest.' And so, convinced of\nthis, he sees that he must follow the counsel of the wise spirit, the\ndread spirit of death and destruction, and therefore accept lying and\ndeception, and lead men consciously to death and destruction, and yet\ndeceive them all the way so that they may not notice where they are being\nled, that the poor blind creatures may at least on the way think\nthemselves happy. And note, the deception is in the name of Him in Whose\nideal the old man had so fervently believed all his life long. Is not that\ntragic? And if only one such stood at the head of the whole army 'filled\nwith the lust of power only for the sake of filthy gain'--would not one\nsuch be enough to make a tragedy? More than that, one such standing at the\nhead is enough to create the actual leading idea of the Roman Church with\nall its armies and Jesuits, its highest idea. I tell you frankly that I\nfirmly believe that there has always been such a man among those who stood\nat the head of the movement. Who knows, there may have been some such even\namong the Roman Popes. Who knows, perhaps the spirit of that accursed old\nman who loves mankind so obstinately in his own way, is to be found even\nnow in a whole multitude of such old men, existing not by chance but by\nagreement, as a secret league formed long ago for the guarding of the\nmystery, to guard it from the weak and the unhappy, so as to make them\nhappy. No doubt it is so, and so it must be indeed. I fancy that even\namong the Masons there's something of the same mystery at the bottom, and\nthat that's why the Catholics so detest the Masons as their rivals\nbreaking up the unity of the idea, while it is so essential that there\nshould be one flock and one shepherd.... But from the way I defend my idea\nI might be an author impatient of your criticism. Enough of it.\"\n\n\"You are perhaps a Mason yourself!\" broke suddenly from Alyosha. \"You\ndon't believe in God,\" he added, speaking this time very sorrowfully. He\nfancied besides that his brother was looking at him ironically. \"How does\nyour poem end?\" he asked, suddenly looking down. \"Or was it the end?\"\n\n\"I meant to end it like this. When the Inquisitor ceased speaking he\nwaited some time for his Prisoner to answer him. His silence weighed down\nupon him. He saw that the Prisoner had listened intently all the time,\nlooking gently in his face and evidently not wishing to reply. The old man\nlonged for Him to say something, however bitter and terrible. But He\nsuddenly approached the old man in silence and softly kissed him on his\nbloodless aged lips. That was all His answer. The old man shuddered. His\nlips moved. He went to the door, opened it, and said to Him: 'Go, and come\nno more ... come not at all, never, never!' And he let Him out into the\ndark alleys of the town. The Prisoner went away.\"\n\n\"And the old man?\"\n\n\"The kiss glows in his heart, but the old man adheres to his idea.\"\n\n\"And you with him, you too?\" cried Alyosha, mournfully.\n\nIvan laughed.\n\n\"Why, it's all nonsense, Alyosha. It's only a senseless poem of a\nsenseless student, who could never write two lines of verse. Why do you\ntake it so seriously? Surely you don't suppose I am going straight off to\nthe Jesuits, to join the men who are correcting His work? Good Lord, it's\nno business of mine. I told you, all I want is to live on to thirty, and\nthen ... dash the cup to the ground!\"\n\n\"But the little sticky leaves, and the precious tombs, and the blue sky,\nand the woman you love! How will you live, how will you love them?\"\nAlyosha cried sorrowfully. \"With such a hell in your heart and your head,\nhow can you? No, that's just what you are going away for, to join them ...\nif not, you will kill yourself, you can't endure it!\"\n\n\"There is a strength to endure everything,\" Ivan said with a cold smile.\n\n\"What strength?\"\n\n\"The strength of the Karamazovs--the strength of the Karamazov baseness.\"\n\n\"To sink into debauchery, to stifle your soul with corruption, yes?\"\n\n\"Possibly even that ... only perhaps till I am thirty I shall escape it,\nand then--\"\n\n\"How will you escape it? By what will you escape it? That's impossible\nwith your ideas.\"\n\n\"In the Karamazov way, again.\"\n\n\" 'Everything is lawful,' you mean? Everything is lawful, is that it?\"\n\nIvan scowled, and all at once turned strangely pale.\n\n\"Ah, you've caught up yesterday's phrase, which so offended Miuesov--and\nwhich Dmitri pounced upon so naively, and paraphrased!\" he smiled queerly.\n\"Yes, if you like, 'everything is lawful' since the word has been said. I\nwon't deny it. And Mitya's version isn't bad.\"\n\nAlyosha looked at him in silence.\n\n\"I thought that going away from here I have you at least,\" Ivan said\nsuddenly, with unexpected feeling; \"but now I see that there is no place\nfor me even in your heart, my dear hermit. The formula, 'all is lawful,' I\nwon't renounce--will you renounce me for that, yes?\"\n\nAlyosha got up, went to him and softly kissed him on the lips.\n\n\"That's plagiarism,\" cried Ivan, highly delighted. \"You stole that from my\npoem. Thank you though. Get up, Alyosha, it's time we were going, both of\nus.\"\n\nThey went out, but stopped when they reached the entrance of the\nrestaurant.\n\n\"Listen, Alyosha,\" Ivan began in a resolute voice, \"if I am really able to\ncare for the sticky little leaves I shall only love them, remembering you.\nIt's enough for me that you are somewhere here, and I shan't lose my\ndesire for life yet. Is that enough for you? Take it as a declaration of\nlove if you like. And now you go to the right and I to the left. And it's\nenough, do you hear, enough. I mean even if I don't go away to-morrow (I\nthink I certainly shall go) and we meet again, don't say a word more on\nthese subjects. I beg that particularly. And about Dmitri too, I ask you\nspecially, never speak to me again,\" he added, with sudden irritation;\n\"it's all exhausted, it has all been said over and over again, hasn't it?\nAnd I'll make you one promise in return for it. When at thirty, I want to\n'dash the cup to the ground,' wherever I may be I'll come to have one more\ntalk with you, even though it were from America, you may be sure of that.\nI'll come on purpose. It will be very interesting to have a look at you,\nto see what you'll be by that time. It's rather a solemn promise, you see.\nAnd we really may be parting for seven years or ten. Come, go now to your\nPater Seraphicus, he is dying. If he dies without you, you will be angry\nwith me for having kept you. Good-by, kiss me once more; that's right, now\ngo.\"\n\nIvan turned suddenly and went his way without looking back. It was just as\nDmitri had left Alyosha the day before, though the parting had been very\ndifferent. The strange resemblance flashed like an arrow through Alyosha's\nmind in the distress and dejection of that moment. He waited a little,\nlooking after his brother. He suddenly noticed that Ivan swayed as he\nwalked and that his right shoulder looked lower than his left. He had\nnever noticed it before. But all at once he turned too, and almost ran to\nthe monastery. It was nearly dark, and he felt almost frightened;\nsomething new was growing up in him for which he could not account. The\nwind had risen again as on the previous evening, and the ancient pines\nmurmured gloomily about him when he entered the hermitage copse. He almost\nran. \"Pater Seraphicus--he got that name from somewhere--where from?\"\nAlyosha wondered. \"Ivan, poor Ivan, and when shall I see you again?...\nHere is the hermitage. Yes, yes, that he is, Pater Seraphicus, he will\nsave me--from him and for ever!\"\n\nSeveral times afterwards he wondered how he could on leaving Ivan so\ncompletely forget his brother Dmitri, though he had that morning, only a\nfew hours before, so firmly resolved to find him and not to give up doing\nso, even should he be unable to return to the monastery that night.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. For Awhile A Very Obscure One\n\n\nAnd Ivan, on parting from Alyosha, went home to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house.\nBut, strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression, which\ngrew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing\nstrange in his being depressed; what was strange was that Ivan could not\nhave said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before,\nand there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment, when\nhe had broken off with everything that had brought him here, and was\npreparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown\nfuture. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great\nhopes, and great--too great--expectations from life, he could not have given\nany definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires.\n\nYet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown\ncertainly found place in his heart, what was worrying him was something\nquite different. \"Is it loathing for my father's house?\" he wondered.\n\"Quite likely; I am so sick of it; and though it's the last time I shall\ncross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it.... No, it's not that\neither. Is it the parting with Alyosha and the conversation I had with\nhim? For so many years I've been silent with the whole world and not\ndeigned to speak, and all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that.\"\nIt certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful\ninexperience and vanity--vexation at having failed to express himself,\nespecially with such a being as Alyosha, on whom his heart had certainly\nbeen reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done\nindeed; but yet that was not it, that was not it either. \"I feel sick with\ndepression and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps.\"\n\nIvan tried \"not to think,\" but that, too, was no use. What made his\ndepression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of casual,\nexternal character--he felt that. Some person or thing seemed to be\nstanding out somewhere, just as something will sometimes obtrude itself\nupon the eye, and though one may be so busy with work or conversation that\nfor a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost\ntorments one till at last one realizes, and removes the offending object,\noften quite a trifling and ridiculous one--some article left about in the\nwrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the\nshelf, and so on.\n\nAt last, feeling very cross and ill-humored, Ivan arrived home, and\nsuddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed what was\nfretting and worrying him.\n\nOn a bench in the gateway the valet Smerdyakov was sitting enjoying the\ncoolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him Ivan knew that the\nvalet Smerdyakov was on his mind, and that it was this man that his soul\nloathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly and became clear. Just before,\nwhen Alyosha had been telling him of his meeting with Smerdyakov, he had\nfelt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred\nresponsive anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, Smerdyakov had\nbeen forgotten for the time; but still he had been in his mind, and as\nsoon as Ivan parted with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten\nsensation began to obtrude itself again. \"Is it possible that a miserable,\ncontemptible creature like that can worry me so much?\" he wondered, with\ninsufferable irritation.\n\nIt was true that Ivan had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the\nman, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in\nhimself a growing feeling that was almost of hatred for the creature.\nPerhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that when Ivan first came\nto the neighborhood he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a\nmarked interest in Smerdyakov, and had even thought him very original. He\nhad encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a\ncertain incoherence, or rather restlessness, in his mind, and could not\nunderstand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the\nbrain of \"the contemplative.\" They discussed philosophical questions and\neven how there could have been light on the first day when the sun, moon,\nand stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be\nunderstood. But Ivan soon saw that, though the sun, moon, and stars might\nbe an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to Smerdyakov,\nand that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and\nanother, he began to betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity, too,\nand that Ivan disliked. It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on,\nthere had been trouble in the house. Grushenka had come on the scene, and\nthere had been the scandals with his brother Dmitri--they discussed that,\ntoo. But though Smerdyakov always talked of that with great excitement, it\nwas impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was, in\nfact, something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence of some of\nhis desires, accidentally betrayed and always vaguely expressed.\nSmerdyakov was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously\npremeditated questions, but what his object was he did not explain, and\nusually at the most important moment he would break off and relapse into\nsilence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Ivan most\nand confirmed his dislike for him was the peculiar, revolting familiarity\nwhich Smerdyakov began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot\nhimself and was rude; on the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully,\nyet he had obviously begun to consider--goodness knows why!--that there was\nsome sort of understanding between him and Ivan Fyodorovitch. He always\nspoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact,\nsome secret between them, that had at some time been expressed on both\nsides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around\nthem. But for a long while Ivan did not recognize the real cause of his\ngrowing dislike and he had only lately realized what was at the root of\nit.\n\nWith a feeling of disgust and irritation he tried to pass in at the gate\nwithout speaking or looking at Smerdyakov. But Smerdyakov rose from the\nbench, and from that action alone, Ivan knew instantly that he wanted\nparticularly to talk to him. Ivan looked at him and stopped, and the fact\nthat he did stop, instead of passing by, as he meant to the minute before,\ndrove him to fury. With anger and repulsion he looked at Smerdyakov's\nemasculate, sickly face, with the little curls combed forward on his\nforehead. His left eye winked and he grinned as if to say, \"Where are you\ngoing? You won't pass by; you see that we two clever people have something\nto say to each other.\"\n\nIvan shook. \"Get away, miserable idiot. What have I to do with you?\" was\non the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment he heard\nhimself say, \"Is my father still asleep, or has he waked?\"\n\nHe asked the question softly and meekly, to his own surprise, and at once,\nagain to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt\nalmost frightened; he remembered it afterwards. Smerdyakov stood facing\nhim, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance and almost\nseverity.\n\n\"His honor is still asleep,\" he articulated deliberately (\"You were the\nfirst to speak, not I,\" he seemed to say). \"I am surprised at you, sir,\"\nhe added, after a pause, dropping his eyes affectedly, setting his right\nfoot forward, and playing with the tip of his polished boot.\n\n\"Why are you surprised at me?\" Ivan asked abruptly and sullenly, doing his\nutmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realizing, with disgust, that he\nwas feeling intense curiosity and would not, on any account, have gone\naway without satisfying it.\n\n\"Why don't you go to Tchermashnya, sir?\" Smerdyakov suddenly raised his\neyes and smiled familiarly. \"Why I smile you must understand of yourself,\nif you are a clever man,\" his screwed-up left eye seemed to say.\n\n\"Why should I go to Tchermashnya?\" Ivan asked in surprise.\n\nSmerdyakov was silent again.\n\n\"Fyodor Pavlovitch himself has so begged you to,\" he said at last, slowly\nand apparently attaching no significance to his answer. \"I put you off\nwith a secondary reason,\" he seemed to suggest, \"simply to say something.\"\n\n\"Damn you! Speak out what you want!\" Ivan cried angrily at last, passing\nfrom meekness to violence.\n\nSmerdyakov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but\nstill looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile.\n\n\"Substantially nothing--but just by way of conversation.\"\n\nAnother silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Ivan\nknew that he ought to get up and show anger, and Smerdyakov stood before\nhim and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or\nnot. So at least it seemed to Ivan. At last he moved to get up. Smerdyakov\nseemed to seize the moment.\n\n\"I'm in an awful position, Ivan Fyodorovitch. I don't know how to help\nmyself,\" he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he\nsighed. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat down again.\n\n\"They are both utterly crazy, they are no better than little children,\"\nSmerdyakov went on. \"I am speaking of your parent and your brother Dmitri\nFyodorovitch. Here Fyodor Pavlovitch will get up directly and begin\nworrying me every minute, 'Has she come? Why hasn't she come?' and so on\nup till midnight and even after midnight. And if Agrafena Alexandrovna\ndoesn't come (for very likely she does not mean to come at all) then he\nwill be at me again to-morrow morning, 'Why hasn't she come? When will she\ncome?'--as though I were to blame for it. On the other side it's no better.\nAs soon as it gets dark, or even before, your brother will appear with his\ngun in his hands: 'Look out, you rogue, you soup-maker. If you miss her\nand don't let me know she's been--I'll kill you before any one.' When the\nnight's over, in the morning, he, too, like Fyodor Pavlovitch, begins\nworrying me to death. 'Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon?' And he,\ntoo, thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and\nevery hour they get angrier and angrier, so that I sometimes think I shall\nkill myself in a fright. I can't depend upon them, sir.\"\n\n\"And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri\nFyodorovitch?\" said Ivan irritably.\n\n\"How could I help meddling? Though, indeed, I haven't meddled at all, if\nyou want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from the very\nbeginning, not daring to answer; but he pitched on me to be his servant.\nHe has had only one thing to say since: 'I'll kill you, you scoundrel, if\nyou miss her,' I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit to-\nmorrow.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'a long fit'?\"\n\n\"A long fit, lasting a long time--several hours, or perhaps a day or two.\nOnce it went on for three days. I fell from the garret that time. The\nstruggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come\nback to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Herzenstube, the doctor\nhere, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too.... I might\nhave died.\"\n\n\"But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What\nmakes you say you will have one to-morrow?\" Ivan inquired, with a\npeculiar, irritable curiosity.\n\n\"That's just so. You can't tell beforehand.\"\n\n\"Besides, you fell from the garret then.\"\n\n\"I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again\nto-morrow. And, if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go\ninto the cellar every day, too.\"\n\nIvan took a long look at him.\n\n\"You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand you,\" he\nsaid softly, but with a sort of menace. \"Do you mean to pretend to be ill\nto-morrow for three days, eh?\"\n\nSmerdyakov, who was looking at the ground again, and playing with the toe\nof his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and,\ngrinning, articulated:\n\n\"If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a fit--and\nit would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them--I should have a\nperfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if\nAgrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honor\ncan't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed to.\"\n\n\"Hang it all!\" Ivan cried, his face working with anger, \"why are you\nalways in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dmitri's threats are\nonly hasty words and mean nothing. He won't kill you; it's not you he'll\nkill!\"\n\n\"He'd kill me first of all, like a fly. But even more than that, I am\nafraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something\ncrazy to his father.\"\n\n\"Why should you be taken for an accomplice?\"\n\n\"They'll think I am an accomplice, because I let him know the signals as a\ngreat secret.\"\n\n\"What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more plainly.\"\n\n\"I'm bound to admit the fact,\" Smerdyakov drawled with pedantic composure,\n\"that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovitch in this business. As you know\nyourself (if only you do know it) he has for several days past locked\nhimself in as soon as night or even evening comes on. Of late you've been\ngoing upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not\ncome down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun\nto lock himself in at night, and even if Grigory Vassilyevitch comes to\nthe door he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory\nVassilyevitch does not come, because I wait upon him alone in his room\nnow. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with\nAgrafena Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the\nlodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight, but am on the watch,\ngetting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrafena Alexandrovna\nto come. For the last few days he's been perfectly frantic expecting her.\nWhat he argues is, she is afraid of him, Dmitri Fyodorovitch (Mitya, as he\ncalls him), 'and so,' says he, 'she'll come the back-way, late at night,\nto me. You look out for her,' says he, 'till midnight and later; and if\nshe does come, you run up and knock at my door or at the window from the\ngarden. Knock at first twice, rather gently, and then three times more\nquickly, then,' says he, 'I shall understand at once that she has come,\nand will open the door to you quietly.' Another signal he gave me in case\nanything unexpected happens. At first, two knocks, and then, after an\ninterval, another much louder. Then he will understand that something has\nhappened suddenly and that I must see him, and he will open to me so that\nI can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrafena Alexandrovna can't\ncome herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovitch might\ncome, too, so I must let him know he is near. His honor is awfully afraid\nof Dmitri Fyodorovitch, so that even if Agrafena Alexandrovna had come and\nwere locked in with him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch were to turn up anywhere\nnear at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once, knocking\nthree times. So that the first signal of five knocks means Agrafena\nAlexandrovna has come, while the second signal of three knocks means\n'something important to tell you.' His honor has shown me them several\ntimes and explained them. And as in the whole universe no one knows of\nthese signals but myself and his honor, so he'd open the door without the\nslightest hesitation and without calling out (he is awfully afraid of\ncalling out aloud). Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovitch\ntoo, now.\"\n\n\"How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him?\"\n\n\"It was through fright I did it. How could I dare to keep it back from\nhim? Dmitri Fyodorovitch kept persisting every day, 'You are deceiving me,\nyou are hiding something from me! I'll break both your legs for you.' So I\ntold him those secret signals that he might see my slavish devotion, and\nmight be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I\ncould.\"\n\n\"If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in,\ndon't let him in.\"\n\n\"But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in\nthen, even if I dared prevent him, knowing how desperate he is?\"\n\n\"Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit, confound\nyou? Are you laughing at me?\"\n\n\"How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humor with this fear\non me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Fright\nalone will bring it on.\"\n\n\"Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigory will be on the watch. Let\nGrigory know beforehand; he will be sure not to let him in.\"\n\n\"I should never dare to tell Grigory Vassilyevitch about the signals\nwithout orders from my master. And as for Grigory Vassilyevitch hearing\nhim and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa\nIgnatyevna intends to give him medicine to-morrow. They've just arranged\nit. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatyevna knows of a\npreparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb.\nShe has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigory Vassilyevitch\nthree times a year when his lumbago's so bad he is almost paralyzed by it.\nThen she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back\nfor half an hour till it's quite red and swollen, and what's left in the\nbottle she gives him to drink with a special prayer; but not quite all,\nfor on such occasions she leaves some for herself, and drinks it herself.\nAnd as they never take strong drink, I assure you they both drop asleep at\nonce and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigory Vassilyevitch\nwakes up he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignatyevna always has a\nheadache from it. So, if Marfa Ignatyevna carries out her intention to-\nmorrow, they won't hear anything and hinder Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They'll\nbe asleep.\"\n\n\"What a rigmarole! And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were\nplanned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious,\" cried Ivan.\n\"But aren't you trying to arrange it so?\" broke from him suddenly, and he\nfrowned threateningly.\n\n\"How could I?... And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitri\nFyodorovitch and his plans?... If he means to do anything, he'll do it;\nbut if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father.\"\n\n\"And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say\nyourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won't come at all?\" Ivan went on, turning\nwhite with anger. \"You say that yourself, and all the while I've been\nhere, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature\nwon't come to him. Why should Dmitri break in on him if she doesn't come?\nSpeak, I want to know what you are thinking!\"\n\n\"You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think? His\nhonor will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of\nmy illness perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through\nimpatience to search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on\nthe sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovitch has a big\nenvelope with three thousand roubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed\nwith three seals. On it is written in his own hand, 'To my angel\nGrushenka, if she will come,' to which he added three days later, 'for my\nlittle chicken.' There's no knowing what that might do.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" cried Ivan, almost beside himself. \"Dmitri won't come to steal\nmoney and kill my father to do it. He might have killed him yesterday on\naccount of Grushenka, like the frantic, savage fool he is, but he won't\nsteal.\"\n\n\"He is in very great need of money now--the greatest need, Ivan\nFyodorovitch. You don't know in what need he is,\" Smerdyakov explained,\nwith perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. \"He looks on that\nthree thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself. 'My father still\nowes me just three thousand,' he said. And besides that, consider, Ivan\nFyodorovitch, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as\ncertain, so to say, that Agrafena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she\ncares to, to marry her--the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch--if\nonly she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I've said is that\nshe won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that--I mean to be\nmistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing\nwith her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a\nstupid thing to do. And she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a\nbeggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch. So, taking that into consideration, Ivan\nFyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor yourself\nand your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything after the\nmaster's death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna would marry him\nsimply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But if your\nfather were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure, even for\nDmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he's made no will.... Dmitri\nFyodorovitch knows all that very well.\"\n\nA sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face. He suddenly flushed.\n\n\"Then why on earth,\" he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, \"do you advise me\nto go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see\nwhat will happen here.\" Ivan drew his breath with difficulty.\n\n\"Precisely so,\" said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan\nintently, however.\n\n\"What do you mean by 'precisely so'?\" Ivan questioned him, with a menacing\nlight in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty.\n\n\"I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I should\nsimply throw it all up ... rather than stay on in such a position,\"\nanswered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan's flashing\neyes. They were both silent.\n\n\"You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more ... an awful scoundrel,\ntoo.\" Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight\nthrough the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyakov. Something\nstrange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his\nfists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerdyakov. The\nlatter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back.\nBut the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in\nsilence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate.\n\n\"I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know--early to-morrow\nmorning. That's all!\" he suddenly said aloud angrily, and wondered himself\nafterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyakov.\n\n\"That's the best thing you can do,\" he responded, as though he had\nexpected to hear it; \"except that you can always be telegraphed for from\nMoscow, if anything should happen here.\"\n\nIvan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov. But a change\nhad passed over him, too. All his familiarity and carelessness had\ncompletely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation,\nintent but timid and cringing.\n\n\"Haven't you something more to say--something to add?\" could be read in the\nintent gaze he fixed on Ivan.\n\n\"And couldn't I be sent for from Tchermashnya, too--in case anything\nhappened?\" Ivan shouted suddenly, for some unknown reason raising his\nvoice.\n\n\"From Tchermashnya, too ... you could be sent for,\" Smerdyakov muttered,\nalmost in a whisper, looking disconcerted, but gazing intently into Ivan's\neyes.\n\n\"Only Moscow is farther and Tchermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my\nspending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out of my way, that\nyou insist on Tchermashnya?\"\n\n\"Precisely so ...\" muttered Smerdyakov, with a breaking voice. He looked\nat Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw back. But to\nhis astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went through the gate still\nlaughing. Any one who had seen his face at that moment would have known\nthat he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have\nexplained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked\nas though in a nervous frenzy.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. \"It's Always Worth While Speaking To A Clever Man\"\n\n\nAnd in the same nervous frenzy, too, he spoke. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovitch\nin the drawing-room directly he went in, he shouted to him, waving his\nhands, \"I am going upstairs to my room, not in to you. Good-by!\" and\npassed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very possibly the old\nman was too hateful to him at that moment; but such an unceremonious\ndisplay of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor Pavlovitch. And the old\nman evidently wanted to tell him something at once and had come to meet\nhim in the drawing-room on purpose. Receiving this amiable greeting, he\nstood still in silence and with an ironical air watched his son going\nupstairs, till he passed out of sight.\n\n\"What's the matter with him?\" he promptly asked Smerdyakov, who had\nfollowed Ivan.\n\n\"Angry about something. Who can tell?\" the valet muttered evasively.\n\n\"Confound him! Let him be angry then. Bring in the samovar, and get along\nwith you. Look sharp! No news?\"\n\nThen followed a series of questions such as Smerdyakov had just complained\nof to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor, and these questions we\nwill omit. Half an hour later the house was locked, and the crazy old man\nwas wandering along through the rooms in excited expectation of hearing\nevery minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now and then he peered out into\nthe darkness, seeing nothing.\n\nIt was very late, but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up late\nthat night, till two o'clock. But we will not give an account of his\nthoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul--its turn will\ncome. And even if one tried, it would be very hard to give an account of\nthem, for there were no thoughts in his brain, but something very vague,\nand, above all, intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his\nbearings. He was fretted, too, by all sorts of strange and almost\nsurprising desires; for instance, after midnight he suddenly had an\nintense irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to the\nlodge and beat Smerdyakov. But if he had been asked why, he could not have\ngiven any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the valet as one\nwho had insulted him more gravely than any one in the world. On the other\nhand, he was more than once that night overcome by a sort of inexplicable\nhumiliating terror, which he felt positively paralyzed his physical\npowers. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was rankling\nin his heart, as though he meant to avenge himself on some one. He even\nhated Alyosha, recalling the conversation he had just had with him. At\nmoments he hated himself intensely. Of Katerina Ivanovna he almost forgot\nto think, and wondered greatly at this afterwards, especially as he\nremembered perfectly that when he had protested so valiantly to Katerina\nIvanovna that he would go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered\nin his heart, \"That's nonsense, you are not going, and it won't be so easy\nto tear yourself away as you are boasting now.\"\n\nRemembering that night long afterwards, Ivan recalled with peculiar\nrepulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily, as\nthough he were afraid of being watched, opened the door, gone out on the\nstaircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovitch stirring down below, had\nlistened a long while--some five minutes--with a sort of strange curiosity,\nholding his breath while his heart throbbed. And why he had done all this,\nwhy he was listening, he could not have said. That \"action\" all his life\nafterwards he called \"infamous,\" and at the bottom of his heart, he\nthought of it as the basest action of his life. For Fyodor Pavlovitch\nhimself he felt no hatred at that moment, but was simply intensely curious\nto know how he was walking down there below and what he must be doing now.\nHe wondered and imagined how he must be peeping out of the dark windows\nand stopping in the middle of the room, listening, listening--for some one\nto knock. Ivan went out on to the stairs twice to listen like this.\n\nAbout two o'clock when everything was quiet, and even Fyodor Pavlovitch\nhad gone to bed, Ivan had got into bed, firmly resolved to fall asleep at\nonce, as he felt fearfully exhausted. And he did fall asleep at once, and\nslept soundly without dreams, but waked early, at seven o'clock, when it\nwas broad daylight. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to feel himself\nextraordinarily vigorous. He jumped up at once and dressed quickly; then\ndragged out his trunk and began packing immediately. His linen had come\nback from the laundress the previous morning. Ivan positively smiled at\nthe thought that everything was helping his sudden departure. And his\ndeparture certainly was sudden. Though Ivan had said the day before (to\nKaterina Ivanovna, Alyosha, and Smerdyakov) that he was leaving next day,\nyet he remembered that he had no thought of departure when he went to bed,\nor, at least, had not dreamed that his first act in the morning would be\nto pack his trunk. At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine\no'clock when Marfa Ignatyevna came in with her usual inquiry, \"Where will\nyour honor take your tea, in your own room or downstairs?\" He looked\nalmost cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures,\nsomething hurried and scattered. Greeting his father affably, and even\ninquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear his\nanswer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour to\nreturn to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses. His\nfather heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot in an\nunmannerly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so, he flew\ninto a great flutter at the recollection of some important business of his\nown.\n\n\"What a fellow you are! Not to tell me yesterday! Never mind; we'll manage\nit all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to Tchermashnya on\nthe way. It's only to turn to the left from the station at Volovya, only\nanother twelve versts and you come to Tchermashnya.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, I can't. It's eighty versts to the railway and the train\nstarts for Moscow at seven o'clock to-night. I can only just catch it.\"\n\n\"You'll catch it to-morrow or the day after, but to-day turn off to\nTchermashnya. It won't put you out much to humor your father! If I hadn't\nhad something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long ago, for\nI've some business there in a hurry. But here I ... it's not the time for\nme to go now.... You see, I've two pieces of copse land there. The\nMaslovs, an old merchant and his son, will give eight thousand for the\ntimber. But last year I just missed a purchaser who would have given\ntwelve. There's no getting any one about here to buy it. The Maslovs have\nit all their own way. One has to take what they'll give, for no one here\ndare bid against them. The priest at Ilyinskoe wrote to me last Thursday\nthat a merchant called Gorstkin, a man I know, had turned up. What makes\nhim valuable is that he is not from these parts, so he is not afraid of\nthe Maslovs. He says he will give me eleven thousand for the copse. Do you\nhear? But he'll only be here, the priest writes, for a week altogether, so\nyou must go at once and make a bargain with him.\"\n\n\"Well, you write to the priest; he'll make the bargain.\"\n\n\"He can't do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasure, I'd\ngive him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt; but he\nhas no eye for business, he is a perfect child, a crow could deceive him.\nAnd yet he is a learned man, would you believe it? This Gorstkin looks\nlike a peasant, he wears a blue kaftan, but he is a regular rogue. That's\nthe common complaint. He is a liar. Sometimes he tells such lies that you\nwonder why he is doing it. He told me the year before last that his wife\nwas dead and that he had married another, and would you believe it, there\nwas not a word of truth in it? His wife has never died at all, she is\nalive to this day and gives him a beating twice a week. So what you have\nto find out is whether he is lying or speaking the truth, when he says he\nwants to buy it and would give eleven thousand.\"\n\n\"I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either.\"\n\n\"Stay, wait a bit! You will be of use, for I will tell you the signs by\nwhich you can judge about Gorstkin. I've done business with him a long\ntime. You see, you must watch his beard; he has a nasty, thin, red beard.\nIf his beard shakes when he talks and he gets cross, it's all right, he is\nsaying what he means, he wants to do business. But if he strokes his beard\nwith his left hand and grins--he is trying to cheat you. Don't watch his\neyes, you won't find out anything from his eyes, he is a deep one, a\nrogue--but watch his beard! I'll give you a note and you show it to him.\nHe's called Gorstkin, though his real name is Lyagavy(4); but don't call\nhim so, he will be offended. If you come to an understanding with him, and\nsee it's all right, write here at once. You need only write: 'He's not\nlying.' Stand out for eleven thousand; one thousand you can knock off, but\nnot more. Just think! there's a difference between eight thousand and\neleven thousand. It's as good as picking up three thousand; it's not so\neasy to find a purchaser, and I'm in desperate need of money. Only let me\nknow it's serious, and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll snatch the time\nsomehow. But what's the good of my galloping over, if it's all a notion of\nthe priest's? Come, will you go?\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me.\"\n\n\"Come, you might oblige your father. I shan't forget it. You've no heart,\nany of you--that's what it is? What's a day or two to you? Where are you\ngoing now--to Venice? Your Venice will keep another two days. I would have\nsent Alyosha, but what use is Alyosha in a thing like that? I send you\njust because you are a clever fellow. Do you suppose I don't see that? You\nknow nothing about timber, but you've got an eye. All that is wanted is to\nsee whether the man is in earnest. I tell you, watch his beard--if his\nbeard shakes you know he is in earnest.\"\n\n\"You force me to go to that damned Tchermashnya yourself, then?\" cried\nIvan, with a malignant smile.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch did not catch, or would not catch, the malignancy, but\nhe caught the smile.\n\n\"Then you'll go, you'll go? I'll scribble the note for you at once.\"\n\n\"I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the way.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide! If you settle the\nmatter, write me a line; give it to the priest and he'll send it on to me\nat once. And I won't delay you more than that. You can go to Venice. The\npriest will give you horses back to Volovya station.\"\n\nThe old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note, and sent for the\nhorses. A light lunch was brought in, with brandy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch\nwas pleased, he usually became expansive, but to-day he seemed to restrain\nhimself. Of Dmitri, for instance, he did not say a word. He was quite\nunmoved by the parting, and seemed, in fact, at a loss for something to\nsay. Ivan noticed this particularly. \"He must be bored with me,\" he\nthought. Only when accompanying his son out on to the steps, the old man\nbegan to fuss about. He would have kissed him, but Ivan made haste to hold\nout his hand, obviously avoiding the kiss. His father saw it at once, and\ninstantly pulled himself up.\n\n\"Well, good luck to you, good luck to you!\" he repeated from the steps.\n\"You'll come again some time or other? Mind you do come. I shall always be\nglad to see you. Well, Christ be with you!\"\n\nIvan got into the carriage.\n\n\"Good-by, Ivan! Don't be too hard on me!\" the father called for the last\ntime.\n\nThe whole household came out to take leave--Smerdyakov, Marfa and Grigory.\nIvan gave them ten roubles each. When he had seated himself in the\ncarriage, Smerdyakov jumped up to arrange the rug.\n\n\"You see ... I am going to Tchermashnya,\" broke suddenly from Ivan. Again,\nas the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves, and he laughed,\ntoo, a peculiar, nervous laugh. He remembered it long after.\n\n\"It's a true saying then, that 'it's always worth while speaking to a\nclever man,' \" answered Smerdyakov firmly, looking significantly at Ivan.\n\nThe carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Ivan's soul, but he looked\neagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees, at a flock\nof geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of a sudden he\nfelt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he felt intensely\ninterested in an answer the peasant made him; but a minute later he\nrealized that he was not catching anything, and that he had not really\neven taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent, and it was pleasant\neven so. The air was fresh, pure and cool, the sky bright. The images of\nAlyosha and Katerina Ivanovna floated into his mind. But he softly smiled,\nblew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they flew away. \"There's plenty\nof time for them,\" he thought. They reached the station quickly, changed\nhorses, and galloped to Volovya. \"Why is it worth while speaking to a\nclever man? What did he mean by that?\" The thought seemed suddenly to\nclutch at his breathing. \"And why did I tell him I was going to\nTchermashnya?\" They reached Volovya station. Ivan got out of the carriage,\nand the drivers stood round him bargaining over the journey of twelve\nversts to Tchermashnya. He told them to harness the horses. He went into\nthe station house, looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and\nsuddenly went back to the entrance.\n\n\"I won't go to Tchermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by seven,\nbrothers?\"\n\n\"We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out?\"\n\n\"At once. Will any one of you be going to the town to-morrow?\"\n\n\"To be sure. Mitri here will.\"\n\n\"Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my father's, to Fyodor Pavlovitch\nKaramazov, and tell him I haven't gone to Tchermashnya. Can you?\"\n\n\"Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovitch a long time.\"\n\n\"And here's something for you, for I dare say he won't give you anything,\"\nsaid Ivan, laughing gayly.\n\n\"You may depend on it he won't.\" Mitya laughed too. \"Thank you, sir. I'll\nbe sure to do it.\"\n\nAt seven o'clock Ivan got into the train and set off to Moscow \"Away with\nthe past. I've done with the old world for ever, and may I have no news,\nno echo, from it. To a new life, new places and no looking back!\" But\ninstead of delight his soul was filled with such gloom, and his heart\nached with such anguish, as he had never known in his life before. He was\nthinking all the night. The train flew on, and only at daybreak, when he\nwas approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused himself from his meditation.\n\n\"I am a scoundrel,\" he whispered to himself.\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch remained well satisfied at having seen his son off. For\ntwo hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking brandy. But\nsuddenly something happened which was very annoying and unpleasant for\nevery one in the house, and completely upset Fyodor Pavlovitch's\nequanimity at once. Smerdyakov went to the cellar for something and fell\ndown from the top of the steps. Fortunately, Marfa Ignatyevna was in the\nyard and heard him in time. She did not see the fall, but heard his\nscream--the strange, peculiar scream, long familiar to her--the scream of\nthe epileptic falling in a fit. They could not tell whether the fit had\ncome on him at the moment he was descending the steps, so that he must\nhave fallen unconscious, or whether it was the fall and the shock that had\ncaused the fit in Smerdyakov, who was known to be liable to them. They\nfound him at the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and\nfoaming at the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken\nsomething--an arm or a leg--and hurt himself, but \"God had preserved him,\"\nas Marfa Ignatyevna expressed it--nothing of the kind had happened. But it\nwas difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the neighbors to\nhelp and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovitch himself was present at the\nwhole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and upset. The sick man did\nnot regain consciousness; the convulsions ceased for a time, but then\nbegan again, and every one concluded that the same thing would happen, as\nhad happened a year before, when he accidentally fell from the garret.\nThey remembered that ice had been put on his head then. There was still\nice in the cellar, and Marfa Ignatyevna had some brought up. In the\nevening, Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Doctor Herzenstube, who arrived at\nonce. He was a most estimable old man, and the most careful and\nconscientious doctor in the province. After careful examination, he\nconcluded that the fit was a very violent one and might have serious\nconsequences; that meanwhile he, Herzenstube, did not fully understand it,\nbut that by to-morrow morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he\nwould venture to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge,\nto a room next to Grigory's and Marfa Ignatyevna's.\n\nThen Fyodor Pavlovitch had one misfortune after another to put up with\nthat day. Marfa Ignatyevna cooked the dinner, and the soup, compared with\nSmerdyakov's, was \"no better than dish-water,\" and the fowl was so dried\nup that it was impossible to masticate it. To her master's bitter, though\ndeserved, reproaches, Marfa Ignatyevna replied that the fowl was a very\nold one to begin with, and that she had never been trained as a cook. In\nthe evening there was another trouble in store for Fyodor Pavlovitch; he\nwas informed that Grigory, who had not been well for the last three days,\nwas completely laid up by his lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovitch finished his tea\nas early as possible and locked himself up alone in the house. He was in\nterrible excitement and suspense. That evening he reckoned on Grushenka's\ncoming almost as a certainty. He had received from Smerdyakov that morning\nan assurance \"that she had promised to come without fail.\" The\nincorrigible old man's heart throbbed with excitement; he paced up and\ndown his empty rooms listening. He had to be on the alert. Dmitri might be\non the watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window\n(Smerdyakov had informed him two days before that he had told her where\nand how to knock) the door must be opened at once. She must not be a\nsecond in the passage, for fear--which God forbid!--that she should be\nfrightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovitch had much to think of, but never\nhad his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes. This time he could\nsay almost certainly that she would come!\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook VI. The Russian Monk Chapter I. Father Zossima And His Visitors\n\n\nWhen with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell,\nhe stood still almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp,\nperhaps unconscious, as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up\nin his chair and, though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and\ncheerful, he was surrounded by visitors and engaged in a quiet and joyful\nconversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour\nbefore Alyosha's arrival; his visitors had gathered together in his cell\nearlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident\nassurance from Father Paissy that \"the teacher would get up, and as he had\nhimself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his\nheart.\" This promise and indeed every word of the dying elder Father\nPaissy put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had\nseen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up\nand say good-by to him, he would not have believed perhaps even in death,\nbut would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his\npromise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zossima had told\nhim positively: \"I shall not die without the delight of another\nconversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your\ndear face and pour out my heart to you once again.\" The monks, who had\ngathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zossima, had all\nbeen his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them: Father\nIosif and Father Paissy, Father Mihail, the warden of the hermitage, a man\nnot very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of\nstrong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep\ntenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost\nashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little\nmonk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate, and very\nquiet, scarcely speaking to any one. He was the humblest of the humble,\nand looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful\nbeyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zossima had a great affection\nfor this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though\nperhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite\nof the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him.\nThat was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zossima first\nbegan his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and\nwhen, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to\ncollect alms for their poor monastery.\n\nThe whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was\nvery small, so that there was scarcely room for the four of them (in\naddition to Porfiry, the novice, who stood) to sit round Father Zossima on\nchairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get\ndark, the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the\nikons.\n\nSeeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zossima smiled\nat him joyfully and held out his hand.\n\n\"Welcome, my quiet one, welcome, my dear, here you are too. I knew you\nwould come.\"\n\nAlyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept.\nSomething surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering, he wanted to\nsob.\n\n\"Come, don't weep over me yet,\" Father Zossima smiled, laying his right\nhand on his head. \"You see I am sitting up talking; maybe I shall live\nanother twenty years yet, as that dear good woman from Vishegorye, with\nher little Lizaveta in her arms, wished me yesterday. God bless the mother\nand the little girl Lizaveta,\" he crossed himself. \"Porfiry, did you take\nher offering where I told you?\"\n\nHe meant the sixty copecks brought him the day before by the good-humored\nwoman to be given \"to some one poorer than me.\" Such offerings, always of\nmoney gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance voluntarily\nundertaken. The elder had sent Porfiry the evening before to a widow,\nwhose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone\nwith her children begging alms. Porfiry hastened to reply that he had\ngiven the money, as he had been instructed, \"from an unknown\nbenefactress.\"\n\n\"Get up, my dear boy,\" the elder went on to Alyosha. \"Let me look at you.\nHave you been home and seen your brother?\" It seemed strange to Alyosha\nthat he asked so confidently and precisely, about one of his brothers\nonly--but which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and\nto-day for the sake of that brother.\n\n\"I have seen one of my brothers,\" answered Alyosha.\n\n\"I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down.\"\n\n\"I only saw him yesterday and could not find him to-day,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Make haste to find him, go again to-morrow and make haste, leave\neverything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent\nsomething terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store\nfor him.\"\n\nHe was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange.\nFather Iosif, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances\nwith Father Paissy. Alyosha could not resist asking:\n\n\"Father and teacher,\" he began with extreme emotion, \"your words are too\nobscure.... What is this suffering in store for him?\"\n\n\"Don't inquire. I seemed to see something terrible yesterday ... as though\nhis whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes--so\nthat I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for\nhimself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face\n... reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to\npass. I sent you to him, Alexey, for I thought your brotherly face would\nhelp him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. 'Except a\ncorn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it\ndie, it bringeth forth much fruit.' Remember that. You, Alexey, I've many\ntimes silently blessed for your face, know that,\" added the elder with a\ngentle smile. \"This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these\nwalls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies,\nbut even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes,\nbut you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will\nmake others bless it--which is what matters most. Well, that is your\ncharacter. Fathers and teachers,\" he addressed his friends with a tender\nsmile, \"I have never till to-day told even him why the face of this youth\nis so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a\nremembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a\nchild I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen. And\nlater on in the course of my life I gradually became convinced that that\nbrother had been for a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he\nnot come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have\nbecome a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me\nin my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have\ncome to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexey,\nwho has some, though not a great, resemblance in face, seems to me so like\nhim spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my\nbrother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a\nreminder and an inspiration. So that I positively wondered at so strange a\ndream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry?\" he turned to the novice who\nwaited on him. \"Many times I've seen in your face as it were a look of\nmortification that I love Alexey more than you. Now you know why that was\nso, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your\nmortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my\nbrother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more\nsignificant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my\nwhole life at this moment as though living through it again.\"\n\n                  -------------------------------------\n\nHere I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zossima with the\nfriends who visited him on the last day of his life has been partly\npreserved in writing. Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov wrote it down from\nmemory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was only the\nconversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of\nparts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his\naccount, Father Zossima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he\ntold his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no\ndoubt, from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was\ngeneral. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zossima much, yet they\ntoo talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father\nZossima could not have carried on an uninterrupted narrative, for he was\nsometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even lay down\nto rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep and his visitors did not\nleave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by\nFather Paissy's reading the Gospel. It is worthy of note, too, that no one\nof them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his\nlife after his deep sleep in the day he seemed suddenly to have found new\nstrength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a\nlast effort of love which gave him marvelous energy; only for a little\ntime, however, for his life was cut short immediately.... But of that\nlater. I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the\naccount given by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter and not\nso fatiguing, though of course, as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great\ndeal from previous conversations and added them to it.\n\n                  -------------------------------------\n\nNotes of the Life of the deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima,\ntaken from his own words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov.\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES\n\n_(a)_ _Father Zossima's Brother_\n\nBeloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the\nnorth, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no\ngreat consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and\nI don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of\nwood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her\nchildren in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I.\nHe was eight years older than I was, of hasty irritable temperament, but\nkind-hearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at\nhome with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did\nnot get on with his schoolfellows, though he never quarreled, at least so\nmy mother has told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen,\nhe made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow\nto our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a\ngood scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university.\nSomething made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see\nhim. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter,\ntill the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his\nown request, as he had powerful friends.\n\nIt was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and\nlaughed at it. \"That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God,\" he said,\nhorrifying my mother, the servants, and me too. For though I was only\nnine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all\nserfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who\nwas lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant\nto take her place.\n\nIn the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a\ntendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall but thin and delicate-\nlooking, and of very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold,\nanyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was\ngalloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My\nmother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated\nhim to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still\nable to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane\nabout the church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he\nwas seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to\nconfess and take the sacrament. He had been aware, indeed, for a long time\npast, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at\ndinner to our mother and me, \"My life won't be long among you, I may not\nlive another year,\" which seemed now like a prophecy.\n\nThree days passed and Holy Week had come. And on Tuesday morning my\nbrother began going to church. \"I am doing this simply for your sake,\nmother, to please and comfort you,\" he said. My mother wept with joy and\ngrief. \"His end must be near,\" she thought, \"if there's such a change in\nhim.\" But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he\nhad to confess and take the sacrament at home.\n\nIt was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of\nfragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in\nthe morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair. That's how I\nremember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and\njoyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him, his\nspirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, \"Let me\nlight the lamp before the holy image, my dear.\" And once he would not have\nallowed it and would have blown it out.\n\n\"Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it.\nYou are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice\nseeing you. So we are praying to the same God.\"\n\nThose words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and\nweep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful.\n\"Mother, don't weep, darling,\" he would say, \"I've long to live yet, long\nto rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful.\"\n\n\"Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night,\ncoughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces.\"\n\n\"Don't cry, mother,\" he would answer, \"life is paradise, and we are all in\nparadise, but we won't see it, if we would, we should have heaven on earth\nthe next day.\"\n\nEvery one wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we\nwere all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. \"Dear ones,\" he would\nsay to them, \"what have I done that you should love me so, how can you\nlove any one like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate\nit before?\"\n\nWhen the servants came in to him he would say continually, \"Dear, kind\npeople, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If\nit were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should\nwait on one another.\"\n\nMother shook her head as she listened. \"My darling, it's your illness\nmakes you talk like that.\"\n\n\"Mother, darling,\" he would say, \"there must be servants and masters, but\nif so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me.\nAnd another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and\nI more than any.\"\n\nMother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. \"Why, how\ncould you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and\nmurderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you\nhold yourself more guilty than all?\"\n\n\"Mother, little heart of mine,\" he said (he had begun using such strange\ncaressing words at that time), \"little heart of mine, my joy, believe me,\nevery one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.\nI don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it is so, painfully\neven. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not\nknowing?\"\n\nSo he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of\nlove. When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came:\n\n\"Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?\" he would ask, joking.\n\n\"You'll live many days yet,\" the doctor would answer, \"and months and\nyears too.\"\n\n\"Months and years!\" he would exclaim. \"Why reckon the days? One day is\nenough for a man to know all happiness. My dear ones, why do we quarrel,\ntry to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go\nstraight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate, and kiss\neach other, and glorify life.\"\n\n\"Your son cannot last long,\" the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied\nhim to the door. \"The disease is affecting his brain.\"\n\nThe windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a\nshady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first\nbirds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at\nthe windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly\nbegging their forgiveness too: \"Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me,\nfor I have sinned against you too.\" None of us could understand that at\nthe time, but he shed tears of joy. \"Yes,\" he said, \"there was such a\nglory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in\nshame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory.\"\n\n\"You take too many sins on yourself,\" mother used to say, weeping.\n\n\"Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief I am crying. Though I can't\nexplain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know\nhow to love them enough. If I have sinned against every one, yet all\nforgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?\"\n\nAnd there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once\ninto his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening,\nthe sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me,\nand I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my\nface tenderly, lovingly; he said nothing for a minute, only looked at me\nlike that.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"run and play now, enjoy life for me too.\"\n\nI went out then and ran to play. And many times in my life afterwards I\nremembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There\nwere many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not\nunderstand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was\nfully conscious though he could not talk; up to his last hour he did not\nchange. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us, he smiled at us,\nbeckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his\ndeath. I was impressed by all this at the time, but not too much so,\nthough I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but\na lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart,\nready to rise up and respond when the time came. So indeed it happened.\n\n_(b) Of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zossima_\n\nI was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me\nto Petersburg as other parents did. \"You have only one son now,\" they\nsaid, \"and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a\nbrilliant career if you keep him here.\" They suggested I should be sent to\nPetersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial\nGuard. My mother hesitated for a long time, it was awful to part with her\nonly child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without\nmany tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to\nPetersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps, and I never saw her again. For\nshe too died three years afterwards. She spent those three years mourning\nand grieving for both of us.\n\nFrom the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious\nmemories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early\nchildhood in one's first home. And that is almost always so if there is\nany love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may\nremain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is\nprecious. With my memories of home I count, too, my memories of the Bible,\nwhich, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of\nScripture history then with excellent pictures, called _A Hundred and Four\nStories from the Old and New Testament_, and I learned to read from it. I\nhave it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past.\nBut even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to\ndevotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to mass (I\ndon't remember where my brother was at the time) on the Monday before\nEaster. It was a fine day, and I remember to-day, as though I saw it now,\nhow the incense rose from the censer and softly floated upwards and,\noverhead in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that\nstreamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the\nfirst time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my\nheart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book,\nso large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it\non the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly for the\nfirst time I understood something read in the church of God. In the land\nof Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great\nwealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted,\nand he loved them very much and prayed for them. \"It may be that my sons\nhave sinned in their feasting.\" Now the devil came before the Lord\ntogether with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up\nand down the earth and under the earth. \"And hast thou considered my\nservant Job?\" God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to\nhis great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. \"Give\nhim over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee\nand curse Thy name.\" And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the\ndevil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his\nwealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his\nmantle and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, \"Naked came I out of\nmy mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave\nand the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and\never.\"\n\nFathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up\nagain before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of\na little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and\ngladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who\ntalked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction,\nand His servant crying out: \"Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish\nme,\" and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: \"Let my prayer\nrise up before Thee,\" and again incense from the priest's censer and the\nkneeling and the prayer. Ever since then--only yesterday I took it up--I've\nnever been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that\nis great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard\nthe words of mockery and blame, proud words, \"How could God give up the\nmost loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his\nchildren, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption\nfrom his sores with a pot-sherd--and for no object except to boast to the\ndevil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My sake.' \" But the greatness of\nit lies just in the fact that it is a mystery--that the passing earthly\nshow and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the\nearthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on\nthe first days of creation He ended each day with praise: \"That is good\nthat I have created,\" looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And\nJob, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for\ngenerations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was\nordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in\nit! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with\nit to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature,\neverything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what\nmysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth\nagain. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But\nhow could he love those new ones when those first children are no more,\nwhen he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with\nthose new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he\ncould. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes\ngradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place\nof the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as\nbefore, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting,\nits long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come\nwith them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life--and over\nall the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving! My life is\nending, I know that well, but every day that is left me I feel how my\nearthly life is in touch with a new infinite, unknown, that approaching\nlife, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind\nglowing and my heart weeping with joy.\n\nFriends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may\nhear it more often, that the priests, and above all the village priests,\nare complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their\nhumiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print--I've read it\nmyself--that they are unable to teach the Scriptures to the people because\nof the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and\nlead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so\nlittle to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so\nprecious to them, for their complaint is just, too. But of a truth I say,\nif any one is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may\nbe short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while\nwith work and services, but still it's not all the time, even he has an\nhour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round.\nLet him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only\nthe children at first--the fathers will hear of it and they too will begin\nto come. There's no need to build halls for this, let him take them into\nhis own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there\none hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words\nor superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly,\nbeing glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with\nattention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to\nexplain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious,\nthey will understand everything, the orthodox heart will understand all!\nLet him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how\nJacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said,\n\"This place is holy\"--and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant.\nLet him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph,\nthe tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their\nfather that a wild beast had devoured him, and showed him his blood-\nstained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed\ninto Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by\nthem, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all\nthrough love: \"I love you, and loving you I torment you.\" For he\nremembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the\nburning desert by the well, and how, wringing his hands, he had wept and\nbesought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land. And\nhow, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but\nhe harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to\nbear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed and wept. Then,\nwiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them,\n\"Brothers, I am your brother Joseph!\" Let him read them further how happy\nold Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he\nwent to Egypt leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land,\nbequeathing his great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his\nmeek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah,\nwill come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and Saviour.\n\nFathers and teachers, forgive me and don't be angry, that like a little\nchild I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a\nhundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my\ntears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be\nsure that the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a\nlittle tiny seed is needed--drop it into the heart of the peasant and it\nwon't die, it will live in his soul all his life, it will be hidden in the\nmidst of his darkness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder.\nAnd there's no need of much teaching or explanation, he will understand it\nall simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading\nthem the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti; or the\nmiraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables\nof Our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke (that is what I\ndid), and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul\n(that you mustn't leave out on any account), and from the _Lives of the\nSaints_, for instance, the life of Alexey, the man of God and, greatest of\nall, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt--and you will\npenetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it\nin spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for\nyourselves that our people is gracious and grateful, and will repay you a\nhundred-fold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest and the moving words\nthey have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his\nfields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than\nbefore--so that it will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing\nis so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for\nfear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe\nin God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people\nwill see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till\nthen. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our\natheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil.\n\nAnd what is the use of Christ's words, unless we set an example? The\npeople is lost without the Word of God, for its soul is athirst for the\nWord and for all that is good.\n\nIn my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia\nwith Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one\nnight on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good-\nlooking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us; he had to hurry back next\nmorning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking\nstraight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm,\nstill, July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river, we could hear\nthe plash of a fish, the birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful,\neverything praying to God. Only we two were not sleeping, the lad and I,\nand we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great\nmystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee,\nall so marvelously know their path, though they have not intelligence,\nthey bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it\nthemselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved\nthe forest and the forest birds. He was a bird-catcher, knew the note of\neach of them, could call each bird. \"I know nothing better than to be in\nthe forest,\" said he, \"though all things are good.\"\n\n\"Truly,\" I answered him, \"all things are good and fair, because all is\ntruth. Look,\" said I, \"at the horse, that great beast that is so near to\nman; or the lowly, pensive ox, which feeds him and works for him; look at\ntheir faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them\nmercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence and what beauty! It's\ntouching to know that there's no sin in them, for all, all except man, is\nsinless, and Christ has been with them before us.\"\n\n\"Why,\" asked the boy, \"is Christ with them too?\"\n\n\"It cannot but be so,\" said I, \"since the Word is for all. All creation\nand all creatures, every leaf is striving to the Word, singing glory to\nGod, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of\ntheir sinless life. Yonder,\" said I, \"in the forest wanders the dreadful\nbear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it.\" And I told him how\nonce a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in\nthe wood. And the great saint pitied him, went up to him without fear and\ngave him a piece of bread. \"Go along,\" said he, \"Christ be with you,\" and\nthe savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the\nlad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint,\nand that Christ was with him too. \"Ah,\" said he, \"how good that is, how\ngood and beautiful is all God's work!\" He sat musing softly and sweetly. I\nsaw he understood. And he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May\nGod bless youth! And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace\nand light to Thy people!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. The Duel\n\n\n_(c) Recollections of Father Zossima's Youth before he became a Monk. The\nDuel_\n\nI spent a long time, almost eight years, in the military cadet school at\nPetersburg, and in the novelty of my surroundings there, many of my\nchildish impressions grew dimmer, though I forgot nothing. I picked up so\nmany new habits and opinions that I was transformed into a cruel, absurd,\nalmost savage creature. A surface polish of courtesy and society manners I\ndid acquire together with the French language.\n\nBut we all, myself included, looked upon the soldiers in our service as\ncattle. I was perhaps worse than the rest in that respect, for I was so\nmuch more impressionable than my companions. By the time we left the\nschool as officers, we were ready to lay down our lives for the honor of\nthe regiment, but no one of us had any knowledge of the real meaning of\nhonor, and if any one had known it, he would have been the first to\nridicule it. Drunkenness, debauchery and devilry were what we almost\nprided ourselves on. I don't say that we were bad by nature, all these\nyoung men were good fellows, but they behaved badly, and I worst of all.\nWhat made it worse for me was that I had come into my own money, and so I\nflung myself into a life of pleasure, and plunged headlong into all the\nrecklessness of youth.\n\nI was fond of reading, yet strange to say, the Bible was the one book I\nnever opened at that time, though I always carried it about with me, and I\nwas never separated from it; in very truth I was keeping that book \"for\nthe day and the hour, for the month and the year,\" though I knew it not.\n\nAfter four years of this life, I chanced to be in the town of K. where our\nregiment was stationed at the time. We found the people of the town\nhospitable, rich and fond of entertainments. I met with a cordial\nreception everywhere, as I was of a lively temperament and was known to be\nwell off, which always goes a long way in the world. And then a\ncircumstance happened which was the beginning of it all.\n\nI formed an attachment to a beautiful and intelligent young girl of noble\nand lofty character, the daughter of people much respected. They were\nwell-to-do people of influence and position. They always gave me a cordial\nand friendly reception. I fancied that the young lady looked on me with\nfavor and my heart was aflame at such an idea. Later on I saw and fully\nrealized that I perhaps was not so passionately in love with her at all,\nbut only recognized the elevation of her mind and character, which I could\nnot indeed have helped doing. I was prevented, however, from making her an\noffer at the time by my selfishness, I was loath to part with the\nallurements of my free and licentious bachelor life in the heyday of my\nyouth, and with my pockets full of money. I did drop some hint as to my\nfeelings however, though I put off taking any decisive step for a time.\nThen, all of a sudden, we were ordered off for two months to another\ndistrict.\n\nOn my return two months later, I found the young lady already married to a\nrich neighboring landowner, a very amiable man, still young though older\nthan I was, connected with the best Petersburg society, which I was not,\nand of excellent education, which I also was not. I was so overwhelmed at\nthis unexpected circumstance that my mind was positively clouded. The\nworst of it all was that, as I learned then, the young landowner had been\na long while betrothed to her, and I had met him indeed many times in her\nhouse, but blinded by my conceit I had noticed nothing. And this\nparticularly mortified me; almost everybody had known all about it, while\nI knew nothing. I was filled with sudden irrepressible fury. With flushed\nface I began recalling how often I had been on the point of declaring my\nlove to her, and as she had not attempted to stop me or to warn me, she\nmust, I concluded, have been laughing at me all the time. Later on, of\ncourse, I reflected and remembered that she had been very far from\nlaughing at me; on the contrary, she used to turn off any love-making on\nmy part with a jest and begin talking of other subjects; but at that\nmoment I was incapable of reflecting and was all eagerness for revenge. I\nam surprised to remember that my wrath and revengeful feelings were\nextremely repugnant to my own nature, for being of an easy temper, I found\nit difficult to be angry with any one for long, and so I had to work\nmyself up artificially and became at last revolting and absurd.\n\nI waited for an opportunity and succeeded in insulting my \"rival\" in the\npresence of a large company. I insulted him on a perfectly extraneous\npretext, jeering at his opinion upon an important public event--it was in\nthe year 1826(5)--and my jeer was, so people said, clever and effective.\nThen I forced him to ask for an explanation, and behaved so rudely that he\naccepted my challenge in spite of the vast inequality between us, as I was\nyounger, a person of no consequence, and of inferior rank. I learned\nafterwards for a fact that it was from a jealous feeling on his side also\nthat my challenge was accepted; he had been rather jealous of me on his\nwife's account before their marriage; he fancied now that if he submitted\nto be insulted by me and refused to accept my challenge, and if she heard\nof it, she might begin to despise him and waver in her love for him. I\nsoon found a second in a comrade, an ensign of our regiment. In those days\nthough duels were severely punished, yet dueling was a kind of fashion\namong the officers--so strong and deeply rooted will a brutal prejudice\nsometimes be.\n\nIt was the end of June, and our meeting was to take place at seven o'clock\nthe next day on the outskirts of the town--and then something happened that\nin very truth was the turning-point of my life. In the evening, returning\nhome in a savage and brutal humor, I flew into a rage with my orderly\nAfanasy, and gave him two blows in the face with all my might, so that it\nwas covered with blood. He had not long been in my service and I had\nstruck him before, but never with such ferocious cruelty. And, believe me,\nthough it's forty years ago, I recall it now with shame and pain. I went\nto bed and slept for about three hours; when I waked up the day was\nbreaking. I got up--I did not want to sleep any more--I went to the\nwindow--opened it, it looked out upon the garden; I saw the sun rising; it\nwas warm and beautiful, the birds were singing.\n\n\"What's the meaning of it?\" I thought. \"I feel in my heart as it were\nsomething vile and shameful. Is it because I am going to shed blood? No,\"\nI thought, \"I feel it's not that. Can it be that I am afraid of death,\nafraid of being killed? No, that's not it, that's not it at all.\"... And\nall at once I knew what it was: it was because I had beaten Afanasy the\nevening before! It all rose before my mind, it all was as it were repeated\nover again; he stood before me and I was beating him straight on the face\nand he was holding his arms stiffly down, his head erect, his eyes fixed\nupon me as though on parade. He staggered at every blow and did not even\ndare to raise his hands to protect himself. That is what a man has been\nbrought to, and that was a man beating a fellow creature! What a crime! It\nwas as though a sharp dagger had pierced me right through. I stood as if I\nwere struck dumb, while the sun was shining, the leaves were rejoicing and\nthe birds were trilling the praise of God.... I hid my face in my hands,\nfell on my bed and broke into a storm of tears. And then I remembered my\nbrother Markel and what he said on his death-bed to his servants: \"My dear\nones, why do you wait on me, why do you love me, am I worth your waiting\non me?\"\n\n\"Yes, am I worth it?\" flashed through my mind. \"After all what am I worth,\nthat another man, a fellow creature, made in the likeness and image of\nGod, should serve me?\" For the first time in my life this question forced\nitself upon me. He had said, \"Mother, my little heart, in truth we are\neach responsible to all for all, it's only that men don't know this. If\nthey knew it, the world would be a paradise at once.\"\n\n\"God, can that too be false?\" I thought as I wept. \"In truth, perhaps, I\nam more than all others responsible for all, a greater sinner than all men\nin the world.\" And all at once the whole truth in its full light appeared\nto me; what was I going to do? I was going to kill a good, clever, noble\nman, who had done me no wrong, and by depriving his wife of happiness for\nthe rest of her life, I should be torturing and killing her too. I lay\nthus in my bed with my face in the pillow, heedless how the time was\npassing. Suddenly my second, the ensign, came in with the pistols to fetch\nme.\n\n\"Ah,\" said he, \"it's a good thing you are up already, it's time we were\noff, come along!\"\n\nI did not know what to do and hurried to and fro undecided; we went out to\nthe carriage, however.\n\n\"Wait here a minute,\" I said to him. \"I'll be back directly, I have\nforgotten my purse.\"\n\nAnd I ran back alone, to Afanasy's little room.\n\n\"Afanasy,\" I said, \"I gave you two blows on the face yesterday, forgive\nme,\" I said.\n\nHe started as though he were frightened, and looked at me; and I saw that\nit was not enough, and on the spot, in my full officer's uniform, I\ndropped at his feet and bowed my head to the ground.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I said.\n\nThen he was completely aghast.\n\n\"Your honor ... sir, what are you doing? Am I worth it?\"\n\nAnd he burst out crying as I had done before, hid this face in his hands,\nturned to the window and shook all over with his sobs. I flew out to my\ncomrade and jumped into the carriage.\n\n\"Ready,\" I cried. \"Have you ever seen a conqueror?\" I asked him. \"Here is\none before you.\"\n\nI was in ecstasy, laughing and talking all the way, I don't remember what\nabout.\n\nHe looked at me. \"Well, brother, you are a plucky fellow, you'll keep up\nthe honor of the uniform, I can see.\"\n\nSo we reached the place and found them there, waiting us. We were placed\ntwelve paces apart; he had the first shot. I stood gayly, looking him full\nin the face; I did not twitch an eyelash, I looked lovingly at him, for I\nknew what I would do. His shot just grazed my cheek and ear.\n\n\"Thank God,\" I cried, \"no man has been killed,\" and I seized my pistol,\nturned back and flung it far away into the wood. \"That's the place for\nyou,\" I cried.\n\nI turned to my adversary.\n\n\"Forgive me, young fool that I am, sir,\" I said, \"for my unprovoked insult\nto you and for forcing you to fire at me. I am ten times worse than you\nand more, maybe. Tell that to the person whom you hold dearest in the\nworld.\"\n\nI had no sooner said this than they all three shouted at me.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" cried my adversary, annoyed, \"if you did not want to\nfight, why did not you let me alone?\"\n\n\"Yesterday I was a fool, to-day I know better,\" I answered him gayly.\n\n\"As to yesterday, I believe you, but as for to-day, it is difficult to\nagree with your opinion,\" said he.\n\n\"Bravo,\" I cried, clapping my hands. \"I agree with you there too. I have\ndeserved it!\"\n\n\"Will you shoot, sir, or not?\"\n\n\"No, I won't,\" I said; \"if you like, fire at me again, but it would be\nbetter for you not to fire.\"\n\nThe seconds, especially mine, were shouting too: \"Can you disgrace the\nregiment like this, facing your antagonist and begging his forgiveness! If\nI'd only known this!\"\n\nI stood facing them all, not laughing now.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" I said, \"is it really so wonderful in these days to find a\nman who can repent of his stupidity and publicly confess his wrongdoing?\"\n\n\"But not in a duel,\" cried my second again.\n\n\"That's what's so strange,\" I said. \"For I ought to have owned my fault as\nsoon as I got here, before he had fired a shot, before leading him into a\ngreat and deadly sin; but we have made our life so grotesque, that to act\nin that way would have been almost impossible, for only after I have faced\nhis shot at the distance of twelve paces could my words have any\nsignificance for him, and if I had spoken before, he would have said, 'He\nis a coward, the sight of the pistols has frightened him, no use to listen\nto him.' Gentlemen,\" I cried suddenly, speaking straight from my heart,\n\"look around you at the gifts of God, the clear sky, the pure air, the\ntender grass, the birds; nature is beautiful and sinless, and we, only we,\nare sinful and foolish, and we don't understand that life is heaven, for\nwe have only to understand that and it will at once be fulfilled in all\nits beauty, we shall embrace each other and weep.\"\n\nI would have said more but I could not; my voice broke with the sweetness\nand youthful gladness of it, and there was such bliss in my heart as I had\nnever known before in my life.\n\n\"All this as rational and edifying,\" said my antagonist, \"and in any case\nyou are an original person.\"\n\n\"You may laugh,\" I said to him, laughing too, \"but afterwards you will\napprove of me.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am ready to approve of you now,\" said he; \"will you shake hands?\nfor I believe you are genuinely sincere.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"not now, later on when I have grown worthier and deserve\nyour esteem, then shake hands and you will do well.\"\n\nWe went home, my second upbraiding me all the way, while I kissed him. All\nmy comrades heard of the affair at once and gathered together to pass\njudgment on me the same day.\n\n\"He has disgraced the uniform,\" they said; \"let him resign his\ncommission.\"\n\nSome stood up for me: \"He faced the shot,\" they said.\n\n\"Yes, but he was afraid of his other shot and begged for forgiveness.\"\n\n\"If he had been afraid of being shot, he would have shot his own pistol\nfirst before asking forgiveness, while he flung it loaded into the forest.\nNo, there's something else in this, something original.\"\n\nI enjoyed listening and looking at them. \"My dear friends and comrades,\"\nsaid I, \"don't worry about my resigning my commission, for I have done so\nalready. I have sent in my papers this morning and as soon as I get my\ndischarge I shall go into a monastery--it's with that object I am leaving\nthe regiment.\"\n\nWhen I had said this every one of them burst out laughing.\n\n\"You should have told us of that first, that explains everything, we can't\njudge a monk.\"\n\nThey laughed and could not stop themselves, and not scornfully, but kindly\nand merrily. They all felt friendly to me at once, even those who had been\nsternest in their censure, and all the following month, before my\ndischarge came, they could not make enough of me. \"Ah, you monk,\" they\nwould say. And every one said something kind to me, they began trying to\ndissuade me, even to pity me: \"What are you doing to yourself?\"\n\n\"No,\" they would say, \"he is a brave fellow, he faced fire and could have\nfired his own pistol too, but he had a dream the night before that he\nshould become a monk, that's why he did it.\"\n\nIt was the same thing with the society of the town. Till then I had been\nkindly received, but had not been the object of special attention, and now\nall came to know me at once and invited me; they laughed at me, but they\nloved me. I may mention that although everybody talked openly of our duel,\nthe authorities took no notice of it, because my antagonist was a near\nrelation of our general, and as there had been no bloodshed and no serious\nconsequences, and as I resigned my commission, they took it as a joke. And\nI began then to speak aloud and fearlessly, regardless of their laughter,\nfor it was always kindly and not spiteful laughter. These conversations\nmostly took place in the evenings, in the company of ladies; women\nparticularly liked listening to me then and they made the men listen.\n\n\"But how can I possibly be responsible for all?\" every one would laugh in\nmy face. \"Can I, for instance, be responsible for you?\"\n\n\"You may well not know it,\" I would answer, \"since the whole world has\nlong been going on a different line, since we consider the veriest lies as\ntruth and demand the same lies from others. Here I have for once in my\nlife acted sincerely and, well, you all look upon me as a madman. Though\nyou are friendly to me, yet, you see, you all laugh at me.\"\n\n\"But how can we help being friendly to you?\" said my hostess, laughing.\nThe room was full of people. All of a sudden the young lady rose, on whose\naccount the duel had been fought and whom only lately I had intended to be\nmy future wife. I had not noticed her coming into the room. She got up,\ncame to me and held out her hand.\n\n\"Let me tell you,\" she said, \"that I am the first not to laugh at you, but\non the contrary I thank you with tears and express my respect for you for\nyour action then.\"\n\nHer husband, too, came up and then they all approached me and almost\nkissed me. My heart was filled with joy, but my attention was especially\ncaught by a middle-aged man who came up to me with the others. I knew him\nby name already, but had never made his acquaintance nor exchanged a word\nwith him till that evening.\n\n_(d) The Mysterious Visitor_\n\nHe had long been an official in the town; he was in a prominent position,\nrespected by all, rich and had a reputation for benevolence. He subscribed\nconsiderable sums to the almshouse and the orphan asylum; he was very\ncharitable, too, in secret, a fact which only became known after his\ndeath. He was a man of about fifty, almost stern in appearance and not\nmuch given to conversation. He had been married about ten years and his\nwife, who was still young, had borne him three children. Well, I was\nsitting alone in my room the following evening, when my door suddenly\nopened and this gentleman walked in.\n\nI must mention, by the way, that I was no longer living in my former\nquarters. As soon as I resigned my commission, I took rooms with an old\nlady, the widow of a government clerk. My landlady's servant waited upon\nme, for I had moved into her rooms simply because on my return from the\nduel I had sent Afanasy back to the regiment, as I felt ashamed to look\nhim in the face after my last interview with him. So prone is the man of\nthe world to be ashamed of any righteous action.\n\n\"I have,\" said my visitor, \"with great interest listened to you speaking\nin different houses the last few days and I wanted at last to make your\npersonal acquaintance, so as to talk to you more intimately. Can you, dear\nsir, grant me this favor?\"\n\n\"I can, with the greatest pleasure, and I shall look upon it as an honor.\"\nI said this, though I felt almost dismayed, so greatly was I impressed\nfrom the first moment by the appearance of this man. For though other\npeople had listened to me with interest and attention, no one had come to\nme before with such a serious, stern and concentrated expression. And now\nhe had come to see me in my own rooms. He sat down.\n\n\"You are, I see, a man of great strength of character,\" he said; \"as you\nhave dared to serve the truth, even when by doing so you risked incurring\nthe contempt of all.\"\n\n\"Your praise is, perhaps, excessive,\" I replied.\n\n\"No, it's not excessive,\" he answered; \"believe me, such a course of\naction is far more difficult than you think. It is that which has\nimpressed me, and it is only on that account that I have come to you,\" he\ncontinued. \"Tell me, please, that is if you are not annoyed by my perhaps\nunseemly curiosity, what were your exact sensations, if you can recall\nthem, at the moment when you made up your mind to ask forgiveness at the\nduel. Do not think my question frivolous; on the contrary, I have in\nasking the question a secret motive of my own, which I will perhaps\nexplain to you later on, if it is God's will that we should become more\nintimately acquainted.\"\n\nAll the while he was speaking, I was looking at him straight into the face\nand I felt all at once a complete trust in him and great curiosity on my\nside also, for I felt that there was some strange secret in his soul.\n\n\"You ask what were my exact sensations at the moment when I asked my\nopponent's forgiveness,\" I answered; \"but I had better tell you from the\nbeginning what I have not yet told any one else.\" And I described all that\nhad passed between Afanasy and me, and how I had bowed down to the ground\nat his feet. \"From that you can see for yourself,\" I concluded, \"that at\nthe time of the duel it was easier for me, for I had made a beginning\nalready at home, and when once I had started on that road, to go farther\nalong it was far from being difficult, but became a source of joy and\nhappiness.\"\n\nI liked the way he looked at me as he listened. \"All that,\" he said, \"is\nexceedingly interesting. I will come to see you again and again.\"\n\nAnd from that time forth he came to see me nearly every evening. And we\nshould have become greater friends, if only he had ever talked of himself.\nBut about himself he scarcely ever said a word, yet continually asked me\nabout myself. In spite of that I became very fond of him and spoke with\nperfect frankness to him about all my feelings; \"for,\" thought I, \"what\nneed have I to know his secrets, since I can see without that that he is a\ngood man? Moreover, though he is such a serious man and my senior, he\ncomes to see a youngster like me and treats me as his equal.\" And I\nlearned a great deal that was profitable from him, for he was a man of\nlofty mind.\n\n\"That life is heaven,\" he said to me suddenly, \"that I have long been\nthinking about\"; and all at once he added, \"I think of nothing else\nindeed.\" He looked at me and smiled. \"I am more convinced of it than you\nare, I will tell you later why.\"\n\nI listened to him and thought that he evidently wanted to tell me\nsomething.\n\n\"Heaven,\" he went on, \"lies hidden within all of us--here it lies hidden in\nme now, and if I will it, it will be revealed to me to-morrow and for all\ntime.\"\n\nI looked at him; he was speaking with great emotion and gazing\nmysteriously at me, as if he were questioning me.\n\n\"And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our own sins,\nyou were quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful how you could\ncomprehend it in all its significance at once. And in very truth, so soon\nas men understand that, the Kingdom of Heaven will be for them not a\ndream, but a living reality.\"\n\n\"And when,\" I cried out to him bitterly, \"when will that come to pass? and\nwill it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of ours?\"\n\n\"What then, you don't believe it,\" he said. \"You preach it and don't\nbelieve it yourself. Believe me, this dream, as you call it, will come to\npass without doubt; it will come, but not now, for every process has its\nlaw. It's a spiritual, psychological process. To transform the world, to\nrecreate it afresh, men must turn into another path psychologically. Until\nyou have become really, in actual fact, a brother to every one,\nbrotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of scientific teaching, no kind\nof common interest, will ever teach men to share property and privileges\nwith equal consideration for all. Every one will think his share too small\nand they will be always envying, complaining and attacking one another.\nYou ask when it will come to pass; it will come to pass, but first we have\nto go through the period of isolation.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by isolation?\" I asked him.\n\n\"Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age--it has\nnot fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For every one\nstrives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure\nthe greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his\nefforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for\ninstead of self-realization he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All\nmankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in\nhis own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has,\nfrom the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them.\nHe heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how\nsecure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps\nup, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is\naccustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the\nwhole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men\nand in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and\nthe privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men\nhave, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to\nbe found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort.\nBut this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will\nsuddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another.\nIt will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have\nsat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the\nSon of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But, until then, we must keep\nthe banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his\nconduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's\nsouls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love,\nthat the great idea may not die.\"\n\nOur evenings, one after another, were spent in such stirring and fervent\ntalk. I gave up society and visited my neighbors much less frequently.\nBesides, my vogue was somewhat over. I say this, not as blame, for they\nstill loved me and treated me good-humoredly, but there's no denying that\nfashion is a great power in society. I began to regard my mysterious\nvisitor with admiration, for besides enjoying his intelligence, I began to\nperceive that he was brooding over some plan in his heart, and was\npreparing himself perhaps for a great deed. Perhaps he liked my not\nshowing curiosity about his secret, not seeking to discover it by direct\nquestion nor by insinuation. But I noticed at last, that he seemed to show\nsigns of wanting to tell me something. This had become quite evident,\nindeed, about a month after he first began to visit me.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he said to me once, \"that people are very inquisitive about\nus in the town and wonder why I come to see you so often. But let them\nwonder, for _soon all will be explained_.\"\n\nSometimes an extraordinary agitation would come over him, and almost\nalways on such occasions he would get up and go away. Sometimes he would\nfix a long piercing look upon me, and I thought, \"He will say something\ndirectly now.\" But he would suddenly begin talking of something ordinary\nand familiar. He often complained of headache too.\n\nOne day, quite unexpectedly indeed, after he had been talking with great\nfervor a long time, I saw him suddenly turn pale, and his face worked\nconvulsively, while he stared persistently at me.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" I said; \"do you feel ill?\"--he had just been\ncomplaining of headache.\n\n\"I ... do you know ... I murdered some one.\"\n\nHe said this and smiled with a face as white as chalk. \"Why is it he is\nsmiling?\" The thought flashed through my mind before I realized anything\nelse. I too turned pale.\n\n\"What are you saying?\" I cried.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, with a pale smile, \"how much it has cost me to say the\nfirst word. Now I have said it, I feel I've taken the first step and shall\ngo on.\"\n\nFor a long while I could not believe him, and I did not believe him at\nthat time, but only after he had been to see me three days running and\ntold me all about it. I thought he was mad, but ended by being convinced,\nto my great grief and amazement. His crime was a great and terrible one.\n\nFourteen years before, he had murdered the widow of a landowner, a wealthy\nand handsome young woman who had a house in our town. He fell passionately\nin love with her, declared his feeling and tried to persuade her to marry\nhim. But she had already given her heart to another man, an officer of\nnoble birth and high rank in the service, who was at that time away at the\nfront, though she was expecting him soon to return. She refused his offer\nand begged him not to come and see her. After he had ceased to visit her,\nhe took advantage of his knowledge of the house to enter at night through\nthe garden by the roof, at great risk of discovery. But, as often happens,\na crime committed with extraordinary audacity is more successful than\nothers.\n\nEntering the garret through the skylight, he went down the ladder, knowing\nthat the door at the bottom of it was sometimes, through the negligence of\nthe servants, left unlocked. He hoped to find it so, and so it was. He\nmade his way in the dark to her bedroom, where a light was burning. As\nthough on purpose, both her maids had gone off to a birthday-party in the\nsame street, without asking leave. The other servants slept in the\nservants' quarters or in the kitchen on the ground-floor. His passion\nflamed up at the sight of her asleep, and then vindictive, jealous anger\ntook possession of his heart, and like a drunken man, beside himself, he\nthrust a knife into her heart, so that she did not even cry out. Then with\ndevilish and criminal cunning he contrived that suspicion should fall on\nthe servants. He was so base as to take her purse, to open her chest with\nkeys from under her pillow, and to take some things from it, doing it all\nas it might have been done by an ignorant servant, leaving valuable papers\nand taking only money. He took some of the larger gold things, but left\nsmaller articles that were ten times as valuable. He took with him, too,\nsome things for himself as remembrances, but of that later. Having done\nthis awful deed, he returned by the way he had come.\n\nNeither the next day, when the alarm was raised, nor at any time after in\nhis life, did any one dream of suspecting that he was the criminal. No one\nindeed knew of his love for her, for he was always reserved and silent and\nhad no friend to whom he would have opened his heart. He was looked upon\nsimply as an acquaintance, and not a very intimate one, of the murdered\nwoman, as for the previous fortnight he had not even visited her. A serf\nof hers called Pyotr was at once suspected, and every circumstance\nconfirmed the suspicion. The man knew--indeed his mistress did not conceal\nthe fact--that having to send one of her serfs as a recruit she had decided\nto send him, as he had no relations and his conduct was unsatisfactory.\nPeople had heard him angrily threatening to murder her when he was drunk\nin a tavern. Two days before her death, he had run away, staying no one\nknew where in the town. The day after the murder, he was found on the road\nleading out of the town, dead drunk, with a knife in his pocket, and his\nright hand happened to be stained with blood. He declared that his nose\nhad been bleeding, but no one believed him. The maids confessed that they\nhad gone to a party and that the street-door had been left open till they\nreturned. And a number of similar details came to light, throwing\nsuspicion on the innocent servant.\n\nThey arrested him, and he was tried for the murder; but a week after the\narrest, the prisoner fell sick of a fever and died unconscious in the\nhospital. There the matter ended and the judges and the authorities and\nevery one in the town remained convinced that the crime had been committed\nby no one but the servant who had died in the hospital. And after that the\npunishment began.\n\nMy mysterious visitor, now my friend, told me that at first he was not in\nthe least troubled by pangs of conscience. He was miserable a long time,\nbut not for that reason; only from regret that he had killed the woman he\nloved, that she was no more, that in killing her he had killed his love,\nwhile the fire of passion was still in his veins. But of the innocent\nblood he had shed, of the murder of a fellow creature, he scarcely\nthought. The thought that his victim might have become the wife of another\nman was insupportable to him, and so, for a long time, he was convinced in\nhis conscience that he could not have acted otherwise.\n\nAt first he was worried at the arrest of the servant, but his illness and\ndeath soon set his mind at rest, for the man's death was apparently (so he\nreflected at the time) not owing to his arrest or his fright, but a chill\nhe had taken on the day he ran away, when he had lain all night dead drunk\non the damp ground. The theft of the money and other things troubled him\nlittle, for he argued that the theft had not been committed for gain but\nto avert suspicion. The sum stolen was small, and he shortly afterwards\nsubscribed the whole of it, and much more, towards the funds for\nmaintaining an almshouse in the town. He did this on purpose to set his\nconscience at rest about the theft, and it's a remarkable fact that for a\nlong time he really was at peace--he told me this himself. He entered then\nupon a career of great activity in the service, volunteered for a\ndifficult and laborious duty, which occupied him two years, and being a\nman of strong will almost forgot the past. Whenever he recalled it, he\ntried not to think of it at all. He became active in philanthropy too,\nfounded and helped to maintain many institutions in the town, did a good\ndeal in the two capitals, and in both Moscow and Petersburg was elected a\nmember of philanthropic societies.\n\nAt last, however, he began brooding over the past, and the strain of it\nwas too much for him. Then he was attracted by a fine and intelligent girl\nand soon after married her, hoping that marriage would dispel his lonely\ndepression, and that by entering on a new life and scrupulously doing his\nduty to his wife and children, he would escape from old memories\naltogether. But the very opposite of what he expected happened. He began,\neven in the first month of his marriage, to be continually fretted by the\nthought, \"My wife loves me--but what if she knew?\" When she first told him\nthat she would soon bear him a child, he was troubled. \"I am giving life,\nbut I have taken life.\" Children came. \"How dare I love them, teach and\neducate them, how can I talk to them of virtue? I have shed blood.\" They\nwere splendid children, he longed to caress them; \"and I can't look at\ntheir innocent candid faces, I am unworthy.\"\n\nAt last he began to be bitterly and ominously haunted by the blood of his\nmurdered victim, by the young life he had destroyed, by the blood that\ncried out for vengeance. He had begun to have awful dreams. But, being a\nman of fortitude, he bore his suffering a long time, thinking: \"I shall\nexpiate everything by this secret agony.\" But that hope, too, was vain;\nthe longer it went on, the more intense was his suffering.\n\nHe was respected in society for his active benevolence, though every one\nwas overawed by his stern and gloomy character. But the more he was\nrespected, the more intolerable it was for him. He confessed to me that he\nhad thoughts of killing himself. But he began to be haunted by another\nidea--an idea which he had at first regarded as impossible and unthinkable,\nthough at last it got such a hold on his heart that he could not shake it\noff. He dreamed of rising up, going out and confessing in the face of all\nmen that he had committed murder. For three years this dream had pursued\nhim, haunting him in different forms. At last he believed with his whole\nheart that if he confessed his crime, he would heal his soul and would be\nat peace for ever. But this belief filled his heart with terror, for how\ncould he carry it out? And then came what happened at my duel.\n\n\"Looking at you, I have made up my mind.\"\n\nI looked at him.\n\n\"Is it possible,\" I cried, clasping my hands, \"that such a trivial\nincident could give rise to such a resolution in you?\"\n\n\"My resolution has been growing for the last three years,\" he answered,\n\"and your story only gave the last touch to it. Looking at you, I\nreproached myself and envied you.\" He said this to me almost sullenly.\n\n\"But you won't be believed,\" I observed; \"it's fourteen years ago.\"\n\n\"I have proofs, great proofs. I shall show them.\"\n\nThen I cried and kissed him.\n\n\"Tell me one thing, one thing,\" he said (as though it all depended upon\nme), \"my wife, my children! My wife may die of grief, and though my\nchildren won't lose their rank and property, they'll be a convict's\nchildren and for ever! And what a memory, what a memory of me I shall\nleave in their hearts!\"\n\nI said nothing.\n\n\"And to part from them, to leave them for ever? It's for ever, you know,\nfor ever!\"\n\nI sat still and repeated a silent prayer. I got up at last, I felt afraid.\n\n\"Well?\" He looked at me.\n\n\"Go!\" said I, \"confess. Everything passes, only the truth remains. Your\nchildren will understand, when they grow up, the nobility of your\nresolution.\"\n\nHe left me that time as though he had made up his mind. Yet for more than\na fortnight afterwards, he came to me every evening, still preparing\nhimself, still unable to bring himself to the point. He made my heart\nache. One day he would come determined and say fervently:\n\n\"I know it will be heaven for me, heaven, the moment I confess. Fourteen\nyears I've been in hell. I want to suffer. I will take my punishment and\nbegin to live. You can pass through the world doing wrong, but there's no\nturning back. Now I dare not love my neighbor nor even my own children.\nGood God, my children will understand, perhaps, what my punishment has\ncost me and will not condemn me! God is not in strength but in truth.\"\n\n\"All will understand your sacrifice,\" I said to him, \"if not at once, they\nwill understand later; for you have served truth, the higher truth, not of\nthe earth.\"\n\nAnd he would go away seeming comforted, but next day he would come again,\nbitter, pale, sarcastic.\n\n\"Every time I come to you, you look at me so inquisitively as though to\nsay, 'He has still not confessed!' Wait a bit, don't despise me too much.\nIt's not such an easy thing to do, as you would think. Perhaps I shall not\ndo it at all. You won't go and inform against me then, will you?\"\n\nAnd far from looking at him with indiscreet curiosity, I was afraid to\nlook at him at all. I was quite ill from anxiety, and my heart was full of\ntears. I could not sleep at night.\n\n\"I have just come from my wife,\" he went on. \"Do you understand what the\nword 'wife' means? When I went out, the children called to me, 'Good-by,\nfather, make haste back to read _The Children's Magazine_ with us.' No,\nyou don't understand that! No one is wise from another man's woe.\"\n\nHis eyes were glittering, his lips were twitching. Suddenly he struck the\ntable with his fist so that everything on it danced--it was the first time\nhe had done such a thing, he was such a mild man.\n\n\"But need I?\" he exclaimed, \"must I? No one has been condemned, no one has\nbeen sent to Siberia in my place, the man died of fever. And I've been\npunished by my sufferings for the blood I shed. And I shan't be believed,\nthey won't believe my proofs. Need I confess, need I? I am ready to go on\nsuffering all my life for the blood I have shed, if only my wife and\nchildren may be spared. Will it be just to ruin them with me? Aren't we\nmaking a mistake? What is right in this case? And will people recognize\nit, will they appreciate it, will they respect it?\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" I thought to myself, \"he is thinking of other people's\nrespect at such a moment!\" And I felt so sorry for him then, that I\nbelieve I would have shared his fate if it could have comforted him. I saw\nhe was beside himself. I was aghast, realizing with my heart as well as my\nmind what such a resolution meant.\n\n\"Decide my fate!\" he exclaimed again.\n\n\"Go and confess,\" I whispered to him. My voice failed me, but I whispered\nit firmly. I took up the New Testament from the table, the Russian\ntranslation, and showed him the Gospel of St. John, chapter xii. verse 24:\n\n\"Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the\nground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much\nfruit.\"\n\nI had just been reading that verse when he came in. He read it.\n\n\"That's true,\" he said, but he smiled bitterly. \"It's terrible the things\nyou find in those books,\" he said, after a pause. \"It's easy enough to\nthrust them upon one. And who wrote them? Can they have been written by\nmen?\"\n\n\"The Holy Spirit wrote them,\" said I.\n\n\"It's easy for you to prate,\" he smiled again, this time almost with\nhatred.\n\nI took the book again, opened it in another place and showed him the\nEpistle to the Hebrews, chapter x. verse 31. He read:\n\n\"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.\"\n\nHe read it and simply flung down the book. He was trembling all over.\n\n\"An awful text,\" he said. \"There's no denying you've picked out fitting\nones.\" He rose from the chair. \"Well!\" he said, \"good-by, perhaps I shan't\ncome again ... we shall meet in heaven. So I have been for fourteen years\n'in the hands of the living God,' that's how one must think of those\nfourteen years. To-morrow I will beseech those hands to let me go.\"\n\nI wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him, but I did not dare--his face\nwas contorted and somber. He went away.\n\n\"Good God,\" I thought, \"what has he gone to face!\" I fell on my knees\nbefore the ikon and wept for him before the Holy Mother of God, our swift\ndefender and helper. I was half an hour praying in tears, and it was late,\nabout midnight. Suddenly I saw the door open and he came in again. I was\nsurprised.\n\n\"Where have you been?\" I asked him.\n\n\"I think,\" he said, \"I've forgotten something ... my handkerchief, I\nthink.... Well, even if I've not forgotten anything, let me stay a\nlittle.\"\n\nHe sat down. I stood over him.\n\n\"You sit down, too,\" said he.\n\nI sat down. We sat still for two minutes; he looked intently at me and\nsuddenly smiled--I remembered that--then he got up, embraced me warmly and\nkissed me.\n\n\"Remember,\" he said, \"how I came to you a second time. Do you hear,\nremember it!\"\n\nAnd he went out.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" I thought.\n\nAnd so it was. I did not know that evening that the next day was his\nbirthday. I had not been out for the last few days, so I had no chance of\nhearing it from any one. On that day he always had a great gathering,\nevery one in the town went to it. It was the same this time. After dinner\nhe walked into the middle of the room, with a paper in his hand--a formal\ndeclaration to the chief of his department who was present. This\ndeclaration he read aloud to the whole assembly. It contained a full\naccount of the crime, in every detail.\n\n\"I cut myself off from men as a monster. God has visited me,\" he said in\nconclusion. \"I want to suffer for my sin!\"\n\nThen he brought out and laid on the table all the things he had been\nkeeping for fourteen years, that he thought would prove his crime, the\njewels belonging to the murdered woman which he had stolen to divert\nsuspicion, a cross and a locket taken from her neck with a portrait of her\nbetrothed in the locket, her notebook and two letters; one from her\nbetrothed, telling her that he would soon be with her, and her unfinished\nanswer left on the table to be sent off next day. He carried off these two\nletters--what for? Why had he kept them for fourteen years afterwards\ninstead of destroying them as evidence against him?\n\nAnd this is what happened: every one was amazed and horrified, every one\nrefused to believe it and thought that he was deranged, though all\nlistened with intense curiosity. A few days later it was fully decided and\nagreed in every house that the unhappy man was mad. The legal authorities\ncould not refuse to take the case up, but they too dropped it. Though the\ntrinkets and letters made them ponder, they decided that even if they did\nturn out to be authentic, no charge could be based on those alone.\nBesides, she might have given him those things as a friend, or asked him\nto take care of them for her. I heard afterwards, however, that the\ngenuineness of the things was proved by the friends and relations of the\nmurdered woman, and that there was no doubt about them. Yet nothing was\ndestined to come of it, after all.\n\nFive days later, all had heard that he was ill and that his life was in\ndanger. The nature of his illness I can't explain, they said it was an\naffection of the heart. But it became known that the doctors had been\ninduced by his wife to investigate his mental condition also, and had come\nto the conclusion that it was a case of insanity. I betrayed nothing,\nthough people ran to question me. But when I wanted to visit him, I was\nfor a long while forbidden to do so, above all by his wife.\n\n\"It's you who have caused his illness,\" she said to me; \"he was always\ngloomy, but for the last year people noticed that he was peculiarly\nexcited and did strange things, and now you have been the ruin of him.\nYour preaching has brought him to this; for the last month he was always\nwith you.\"\n\nIndeed, not only his wife but the whole town were down upon me and blamed\nme. \"It's all your doing,\" they said. I was silent and indeed rejoiced at\nheart, for I saw plainly God's mercy to the man who had turned against\nhimself and punished himself. I could not believe in his insanity.\n\nThey let me see him at last, he insisted upon saying good-by to me. I went\nin to him and saw at once, that not only his days, but his hours were\nnumbered. He was weak, yellow, his hands trembled, he gasped for breath,\nbut his face was full of tender and happy feeling.\n\n\"It is done!\" he said. \"I've long been yearning to see you, why didn't you\ncome?\"\n\nI did not tell him that they would not let me see him.\n\n\"God has had pity on me and is calling me to Himself. I know I am dying,\nbut I feel joy and peace for the first time after so many years. There was\nheaven in my heart from the moment I had done what I had to do. Now I dare\nto love my children and to kiss them. Neither my wife nor the judges, nor\nany one has believed it. My children will never believe it either. I see\nin that God's mercy to them. I shall die, and my name will be without a\nstain for them. And now I feel God near, my heart rejoices as in Heaven\n... I have done my duty.\"\n\nHe could not speak, he gasped for breath, he pressed my hand warmly,\nlooking fervently at me. We did not talk for long, his wife kept peeping\nin at us. But he had time to whisper to me:\n\n\"Do you remember how I came back to you that second time, at midnight? I\ntold you to remember it. You know what I came back for? I came to kill\nyou!\"\n\nI started.\n\n\"I went out from you then into the darkness, I wandered about the streets,\nstruggling with myself. And suddenly I hated you so that I could hardly\nbear it. Now, I thought, he is all that binds me, and he is my judge. I\ncan't refuse to face my punishment to-morrow, for he knows all. It was not\nthat I was afraid you would betray me (I never even thought of that), but\nI thought, 'How can I look him in the face if I don't confess?' And if you\nhad been at the other end of the earth, but alive, it would have been all\nthe same, the thought was unendurable that you were alive knowing\neverything and condemning me. I hated you as though you were the cause, as\nthough you were to blame for everything. I came back to you then,\nremembering that you had a dagger lying on your table. I sat down and\nasked you to sit down, and for a whole minute I pondered. If I had killed\nyou, I should have been ruined by that murder even if I had not confessed\nthe other. But I didn't think about that at all, and I didn't want to\nthink of it at that moment. I only hated you and longed to revenge myself\non you for everything. The Lord vanquished the devil in my heart. But let\nme tell you, you were never nearer death.\"\n\nA week later he died. The whole town followed him to the grave. The chief\npriest made a speech full of feeling. All lamented the terrible illness\nthat had cut short his days. But all the town was up in arms against me\nafter the funeral, and people even refused to see me. Some, at first a few\nand afterwards more, began indeed to believe in the truth of his story,\nand they visited me and questioned me with great interest and eagerness,\nfor man loves to see the downfall and disgrace of the righteous. But I\nheld my tongue, and very shortly after, I left the town, and five months\nlater by God's grace I entered upon the safe and blessed path, praising\nthe unseen finger which had guided me so clearly to it. But I remember in\nmy prayer to this day, the servant of God, Mihail, who suffered so\ngreatly.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. Conversations And Exhortations Of Father Zossima\n\n\n_(e) The Russian Monk and his possible Significance_\n\nFathers and teachers, what is the monk? In the cultivated world the word\nis nowadays pronounced by some people with a jeer, and by others it is\nused as a term of abuse, and this contempt for the monk is growing. It is\ntrue, alas, it is true, that there are many sluggards, gluttons,\nprofligates and insolent beggars among monks. Educated people point to\nthese: \"You are idlers, useless members of society, you live on the labor\nof others, you are shameless beggars.\" And yet how many meek and humble\nmonks there are, yearning for solitude and fervent prayer in peace! These\nare less noticed, or passed over in silence. And how surprised men would\nbe if I were to say that from these meek monks, who yearn for solitary\nprayer, the salvation of Russia will come perhaps once more! For they are\nin truth made ready in peace and quiet \"for the day and the hour, the\nmonth and the year.\" Meanwhile, in their solitude, they keep the image of\nChrist fair and undefiled, in the purity of God's truth, from the times of\nthe Fathers of old, the Apostles and the martyrs. And when the time comes\nthey will show it to the tottering creeds of the world. That is a great\nthought. That star will rise out of the East.\n\nThat is my view of the monk, and is it false? is it too proud? Look at the\nworldly and all who set themselves up above the people of God, has not\nGod's image and His truth been distorted in them? They have science; but\nin science there is nothing but what is the object of sense. The spiritual\nworld, the higher part of man's being is rejected altogether, dismissed\nwith a sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed the\nreign of freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom\nof theirs? Nothing but slavery and self-destruction! For the world says:\n\n\"You have desires and so satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the\nmost rich and powerful. Don't be afraid of satisfying them and even\nmultiply your desires.\" That is the modern doctrine of the world. In that\nthey see freedom. And what follows from this right of multiplication of\ndesires? In the rich, isolation and spiritual suicide; in the poor, envy\nand murder; for they have been given rights, but have not been shown the\nmeans of satisfying their wants. They maintain that the world is getting\nmore and more united, more and more bound together in brotherly community,\nas it overcomes distance and sets thoughts flying through the air.\n\nAlas, put no faith in such a bond of union. Interpreting freedom as the\nmultiplication and rapid satisfaction of desires, men distort their own\nnature, for many senseless and foolish desires and habits and ridiculous\nfancies are fostered in them. They live only for mutual envy, for luxury\nand ostentation. To have dinners, visits, carriages, rank and slaves to\nwait on one is looked upon as a necessity, for which life, honor and human\nfeeling are sacrificed, and men even commit suicide if they are unable to\nsatisfy it. We see the same thing among those who are not rich, while the\npoor drown their unsatisfied need and their envy in drunkenness. But soon\nthey will drink blood instead of wine, they are being led on to it. I ask\nyou is such a man free? I knew one \"champion of freedom\" who told me\nhimself that, when he was deprived of tobacco in prison, he was so\nwretched at the privation that he almost went and betrayed his cause for\nthe sake of getting tobacco again! And such a man says, \"I am fighting for\nthe cause of humanity.\"\n\nHow can such a one fight? what is he fit for? He is capable perhaps of\nsome action quickly over, but he cannot hold out long. And it's no wonder\nthat instead of gaining freedom they have sunk into slavery, and instead\nof serving the cause of brotherly love and the union of humanity have\nfallen, on the contrary, into dissension and isolation, as my mysterious\nvisitor and teacher said to me in my youth. And therefore the idea of the\nservice of humanity, of brotherly love and the solidarity of mankind, is\nmore and more dying out in the world, and indeed this idea is sometimes\ntreated with derision. For how can a man shake off his habits? What can\nbecome of him if he is in such bondage to the habit of satisfying the\ninnumerable desires he has created for himself? He is isolated, and what\nconcern has he with the rest of humanity? They have succeeded in\naccumulating a greater mass of objects, but the joy in the world has grown\nless.\n\nThe monastic way is very different. Obedience, fasting and prayer are\nlaughed at, yet only through them lies the way to real, true freedom. I\ncut off my superfluous and unnecessary desires, I subdue my proud and\nwanton will and chastise it with obedience, and with God's help I attain\nfreedom of spirit and with it spiritual joy. Which is most capable of\nconceiving a great idea and serving it--the rich man in his isolation or\nthe man who has freed himself from the tyranny of material things and\nhabits? The monk is reproached for his solitude, \"You have secluded\nyourself within the walls of the monastery for your own salvation, and\nhave forgotten the brotherly service of humanity!\" But we shall see which\nwill be most zealous in the cause of brotherly love. For it is not we, but\nthey, who are in isolation, though they don't see that. Of old, leaders of\nthe people came from among us, and why should they not again? The same\nmeek and humble ascetics will rise up and go out to work for the great\ncause. The salvation of Russia comes from the people. And the Russian monk\nhas always been on the side of the people. We are isolated only if the\npeople are isolated. The people believe as we do, and an unbelieving\nreformer will never do anything in Russia, even if he is sincere in heart\nand a genius. Remember that! The people will meet the atheist and overcome\nhim, and Russia will be one and orthodox. Take care of the peasant and\nguard his heart. Go on educating him quietly. That's your duty as monks,\nfor the peasant has God in his heart.\n\n(_f_) _Of Masters and Servants, and of whether it is possible for them to\nbe Brothers in the Spirit_\n\nOf course, I don't deny that there is sin in the peasants too. And the\nfire of corruption is spreading visibly, hourly, working from above\ndownwards. The spirit of isolation is coming upon the people too. Money-\nlenders and devourers of the commune are rising up. Already the merchant\ngrows more and more eager for rank, and strives to show himself cultured\nthough he has not a trace of culture, and to this end meanly despises his\nold traditions, and is even ashamed of the faith of his fathers. He visits\nprinces, though he is only a peasant corrupted. The peasants are rotting\nin drunkenness and cannot shake off the habit. And what cruelty to their\nwives, to their children even! All from drunkenness! I've seen in the\nfactories children of nine years old, frail, rickety, bent and already\ndepraved. The stuffy workshop, the din of machinery, work all day long,\nthe vile language and the drink, the drink--is that what a little child's\nheart needs? He needs sunshine, childish play, good examples all about\nhim, and at least a little love. There must be no more of this, monks, no\nmore torturing of children, rise up and preach that, make haste, make\nhaste!\n\nBut God will save Russia, for though the peasants are corrupted and cannot\nrenounce their filthy sin, yet they know it is cursed by God and that they\ndo wrong in sinning. So that our people still believe in righteousness,\nhave faith in God and weep tears of devotion.\n\nIt is different with the upper classes. They, following science, want to\nbase justice on reason alone, but not with Christ, as before, and they\nhave already proclaimed that there is no crime, that there is no sin. And\nthat's consistent, for if you have no God what is the meaning of crime? In\nEurope the people are already rising up against the rich with violence,\nand the leaders of the people are everywhere leading them to bloodshed,\nand teaching them that their wrath is righteous. But their \"wrath is\naccursed, for it is cruel.\" But God will save Russia as He has saved her\nmany times. Salvation will come from the people, from their faith and\ntheir meekness.\n\nFathers and teachers, watch over the people's faith and this will not be a\ndream. I've been struck all my life in our great people by their dignity,\ntheir true and seemly dignity. I've seen it myself, I can testify to it,\nI've seen it and marveled at it, I've seen it in spite of the degraded\nsins and poverty-stricken appearance of our peasantry. They are not\nservile, and even after two centuries of serfdom they are free in manner\nand bearing, yet without insolence, and not revengeful and not envious.\n\"You are rich and noble, you are clever and talented, well, be so, God\nbless you. I respect you, but I know that I too am a man. By the very fact\nthat I respect you without envy I prove my dignity as a man.\"\n\nIn truth if they don't say this (for they don't know how to say this yet),\nthat is how they act. I have seen it myself, I have known it myself, and,\nwould you believe it, the poorer our Russian peasant is, the more\nnoticeable is that serene goodness, for the rich among them are for the\nmost part corrupted already, and much of that is due to our carelessness\nand indifference. But God will save His people, for Russia is great in her\nhumility. I dream of seeing, and seem to see clearly already, our future.\nIt will come to pass, that even the most corrupt of our rich will end by\nbeing ashamed of his riches before the poor, and the poor, seeing his\nhumility, will understand and give way before him, will respond joyfully\nand kindly to his honorable shame. Believe me that it will end in that;\nthings are moving to that. Equality is to be found only in the spiritual\ndignity of man, and that will only be understood among us. If we were\nbrothers, there would be fraternity, but before that, they will never\nagree about the division of wealth. We preserve the image of Christ, and\nit will shine forth like a precious diamond to the whole world. So may it\nbe, so may it be!\n\nFathers and teachers, a touching incident befell me once. In my wanderings\nI met in the town of K. my old orderly, Afanasy. It was eight years since\nI had parted from him. He chanced to see me in the market-place,\nrecognized me, ran up to me, and how delighted he was! He simply pounced\non me: \"Master dear, is it you? Is it really you I see?\" He took me home\nwith him.\n\nHe was no longer in the army, he was married and already had two little\nchildren. He and his wife earned their living as costermongers in the\nmarket-place. His room was poor, but bright and clean. He made me sit\ndown, set the samovar, sent for his wife, as though my appearance were a\nfestival for them. He brought me his children: \"Bless them, Father.\"\n\n\"Is it for me to bless them? I am only a humble monk. I will pray for\nthem. And for you, Afanasy Pavlovitch, I have prayed every day since that\nday, for it all came from you,\" said I. And I explained that to him as\nwell as I could. And what do you think? The man kept gazing at me and\ncould not believe that I, his former master, an officer, was now before\nhim in such a guise and position; it made him shed tears.\n\n\"Why are you weeping?\" said I, \"better rejoice over me, dear friend, whom\nI can never forget, for my path is a glad and joyful one.\"\n\nHe did not say much, but kept sighing and shaking his head over me\ntenderly.\n\n\"What has became of your fortune?\" he asked.\n\n\"I gave it to the monastery,\" I answered; \"we live in common.\"\n\nAfter tea I began saying good-by, and suddenly he brought out half a\nrouble as an offering to the monastery, and another half-rouble I saw him\nthrusting hurriedly into my hand: \"That's for you in your wanderings, it\nmay be of use to you, Father.\"\n\nI took his half-rouble, bowed to him and his wife, and went out rejoicing.\nAnd on my way I thought: \"Here we are both now, he at home and I on the\nroad, sighing and shaking our heads, no doubt, and yet smiling joyfully in\nthe gladness of our hearts, remembering how God brought about our\nmeeting.\"\n\nI have never seen him again since then. I had been his master and he my\nservant, but now when we exchanged a loving kiss with softened hearts,\nthere was a great human bond between us. I have thought a great deal about\nthat, and now what I think is this: Is it so inconceivable that that grand\nand simple-hearted unity might in due time become universal among the\nRussian people? I believe that it will come to pass and that the time is\nat hand.\n\nAnd of servants I will add this: In old days when I was young I was often\nangry with servants; \"the cook had served something too hot, the orderly\nhad not brushed my clothes.\" But what taught me better then was a thought\nof my dear brother's, which I had heard from him in childhood: \"Am I worth\nit, that another should serve me and be ordered about by me in his poverty\nand ignorance?\" And I wondered at the time that such simple and self-\nevident ideas should be so slow to occur to our minds.\n\nIt is impossible that there should be no servants in the world, but act so\nthat your servant may be freer in spirit than if he were not a servant.\nAnd why cannot I be a servant to my servant and even let him see it, and\nthat without any pride on my part or any mistrust on his? Why should not\nmy servant be like my own kindred, so that I may take him into my family\nand rejoice in doing so? Even now this can be done, but it will lead to\nthe grand unity of men in the future, when a man will not seek servants\nfor himself, or desire to turn his fellow creatures into servants as he\ndoes now, but on the contrary, will long with his whole heart to be the\nservant of all, as the Gospel teaches.\n\nAnd can it be a dream, that in the end man will find his joy only in deeds\nof light and mercy, and not in cruel pleasures as now, in gluttony,\nfornication, ostentation, boasting and envious rivalry of one with the\nother? I firmly believe that it is not and that the time is at hand.\nPeople laugh and ask: \"When will that time come and does it look like\ncoming?\" I believe that with Christ's help we shall accomplish this great\nthing. And how many ideas there have been on earth in the history of man\nwhich were unthinkable ten years before they appeared! Yet when their\ndestined hour had come, they came forth and spread over the whole earth.\nSo it will be with us, and our people will shine forth in the world, and\nall men will say: \"The stone which the builders rejected has become the\ncorner-stone of the building.\"\n\nAnd we may ask the scornful themselves: If our hope is a dream, when will\nyou build up your edifice and order things justly by your intellect alone,\nwithout Christ? If they declare that it is they who are advancing towards\nunity, only the most simple-hearted among them believe it, so that one may\npositively marvel at such simplicity. Of a truth, they have more fantastic\ndreams than we. They aim at justice, but, denying Christ, they will end by\nflooding the earth with blood, for blood cries out for blood, and he that\ntaketh up the sword shall perish by the sword. And if it were not for\nChrist's covenant, they would slaughter one another down to the last two\nmen on earth. And those two last men would not be able to restrain each\nother in their pride, and the one would slay the other and then himself.\nAnd that would come to pass, were it not for the promise of Christ that\nfor the sake of the humble and meek the days shall be shortened.\n\nWhile I was still wearing an officer's uniform after my duel, I talked\nabout servants in general society, and I remember every one was amazed at\nme. \"What!\" they asked, \"are we to make our servants sit down on the sofa\nand offer them tea?\" And I answered them: \"Why not, sometimes at least?\"\nEvery one laughed. Their question was frivolous and my answer was not\nclear; but the thought in it was to some extent right.\n\n(_g_) _Of Prayer, of Love, and of Contact with other Worlds_\n\nYoung man, be not forgetful of prayer. Every time you pray, if your prayer\nis sincere, there will be new feeling and new meaning in it, which will\ngive you fresh courage, and you will understand that prayer is an\neducation. Remember, too, every day, and whenever you can, repeat to\nyourself, \"Lord, have mercy on all who appear before Thee to-day.\" For\nevery hour and every moment thousands of men leave life on this earth, and\ntheir souls appear before God. And how many of them depart in solitude,\nunknown, sad, dejected that no one mourns for them or even knows whether\nthey have lived or not! And behold, from the other end of the earth\nperhaps, your prayer for their rest will rise up to God though you knew\nthem not nor they you. How touching it must be to a soul standing in dread\nbefore the Lord to feel at that instant that, for him too, there is one to\npray, that there is a fellow creature left on earth to love him too! And\nGod will look on you both more graciously, for if you have had so much\npity on him, how much will He have pity Who is infinitely more loving and\nmerciful than you! And He will forgive him for your sake.\n\nBrothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man even in his sin, for that\nis the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all\nGod's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf,\nevery ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love\neverything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery\nin things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better\nevery day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-\nembracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of\nthought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it, don't harass them, don't\ndeprive them of their happiness, don't work against God's intent. Man, do\nnot pride yourself on superiority to the animals; they are without sin,\nand you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it,\nand leave the traces of your foulness after you--alas, it is true of almost\nevery one of us! Love children especially, for they too are sinless like\nthe angels; they live to soften and purify our hearts and as it were to\nguide us. Woe to him who offends a child! Father Anfim taught me to love\nchildren. The kind, silent man used often on our wanderings to spend the\nfarthings given us on sweets and cakes for the children. He could not pass\nby a child without emotion. That's the nature of the man.\n\nAt some thoughts one stands perplexed, especially at the sight of men's\nsin, and wonders whether one should use force or humble love. Always\ndecide to use humble love. If you resolve on that once for all, you may\nsubdue the whole world. Loving humility is marvelously strong, the\nstrongest of all things, and there is nothing else like it.\n\nEvery day and every hour, every minute, walk round yourself and watch\nyourself, and see that your image is a seemly one. You pass by a little\nchild, you pass by, spiteful, with ugly words, with wrathful heart; you\nmay not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and your image,\nunseemly and ignoble, may remain in his defenseless heart. You don't know\nit, but you may have sown an evil seed in him and it may grow, and all\nbecause you were not careful before the child, because you did not foster\nin yourself a careful, actively benevolent love. Brothers, love is a\nteacher; but one must know how to acquire it, for it is hard to acquire,\nit is dearly bought, it is won slowly by long labor. For we must love not\nonly occasionally, for a moment, but for ever. Every one can love\noccasionally, even the wicked can.\n\nMy brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds senseless, but it\nis right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch\nin one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth. It may be\nsenseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but birds would be happier at\nyour side--a little happier, anyway--and children and all animals, if you\nwere nobler than you are now. It's all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you\nwould pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love, in a sort\nof transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure\nthis ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men.\n\nMy friends, pray to God for gladness. Be glad as children, as the birds of\nheaven. And let not the sin of men confound you in your doings. Fear not\nthat it will wear away your work and hinder its being accomplished. Do not\nsay, \"Sin is mighty, wickedness is mighty, evil environment is mighty, and\nwe are lonely and helpless, and evil environment is wearing us away and\nhindering our good work from being done.\" Fly from that dejection,\nchildren! There is only one means of salvation, then take yourself and\nmake yourself responsible for all men's sins, that is the truth, you know,\nfriends, for as soon as you sincerely make yourself responsible for\neverything and for all men, you will see at once that it is really so, and\nthat you are to blame for every one and for all things. But throwing your\nown indolence and impotence on others you will end by sharing the pride of\nSatan and murmuring against God.\n\nOf the pride of Satan what I think is this: it is hard for us on earth to\ncomprehend it, and therefore it is so easy to fall into error and to share\nit, even imagining that we are doing something grand and fine. Indeed,\nmany of the strongest feelings and movements of our nature we cannot\ncomprehend on earth. Let not that be a stumbling-block, and think not that\nit may serve as a justification to you for anything. For the Eternal Judge\nasks of you what you can comprehend and not what you cannot. You will know\nthat yourself hereafter, for you will behold all things truly then and\nwill not dispute them. On earth, indeed, we are as it were astray, and if\nit were not for the precious image of Christ before us, we should be\nundone and altogether lost, as was the human race before the flood. Much\non earth is hidden from us, but to make up for that we have been given a\nprecious mystic sense of our living bond with the other world, with the\nhigher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not\nhere but in other worlds. That is why the philosophers say that we cannot\napprehend the reality of things on earth.\n\nGod took seeds from different worlds and sowed them on this earth, and His\ngarden grew up and everything came up that could come up, but what grows\nlives and is alive only through the feeling of its contact with other\nmysterious worlds. If that feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, the\nheavenly growth will die away in you. Then you will be indifferent to life\nand even grow to hate it. That's what I think.\n\n_(h) Can a Man judge his Fellow Creatures? Faith to the End_\n\nRemember particularly that you cannot be a judge of any one. For no one\ncan judge a criminal, until he recognizes that he is just such a criminal\nas the man standing before him, and that he perhaps is more than all men\nto blame for that crime. When he understands that, he will be able to be a\njudge. Though that sounds absurd, it is true. If I had been righteous\nmyself, perhaps there would have been no criminal standing before me. If\nyou can take upon yourself the crime of the criminal your heart is\njudging, take it at once, suffer for him yourself, and let him go without\nreproach. And even if the law itself makes you his judge, act in the same\nspirit so far as possible, for he will go away and condemn himself more\nbitterly than you have done. If, after your kiss, he goes away untouched,\nmocking at you, do not let that be a stumbling-block to you. It shows his\ntime has not yet come, but it will come in due course. And if it come not,\nno matter; if not he, then another in his place will understand and\nsuffer, and judge and condemn himself, and the truth will be fulfilled.\nBelieve that, believe it without doubt; for in that lies all the hope and\nfaith of the saints.\n\nWork without ceasing. If you remember in the night as you go to sleep, \"I\nhave not done what I ought to have done,\" rise up at once and do it. If\nthe people around you are spiteful and callous and will not hear you, fall\ndown before them and beg their forgiveness; for in truth you are to blame\nfor their not wanting to hear you. And if you cannot speak to them in\ntheir bitterness, serve them in silence and in humility, never losing\nhope. If all men abandon you and even drive you away by force, then when\nyou are left alone fall on the earth and kiss it, water it with your tears\nand it will bring forth fruit even though no one has seen or heard you in\nyour solitude. Believe to the end, even if all men went astray and you\nwere left the only one faithful; bring your offering even then and praise\nGod in your loneliness. And if two of you are gathered together--then there\nis a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other tenderly and\npraise God, for if only in you two His truth has been fulfilled.\n\nIf you sin yourself and grieve even unto death for your sins or for your\nsudden sin, then rejoice for others, rejoice for the righteous man,\nrejoice that if you have sinned, he is righteous and has not sinned.\n\nIf the evil-doing of men moves you to indignation and overwhelming\ndistress, even to a desire for vengeance on the evil-doers, shun above all\nthings that feeling. Go at once and seek suffering for yourself, as though\nyou were yourself guilty of that wrong. Accept that suffering and bear it\nand your heart will find comfort, and you will understand that you too are\nguilty, for you might have been a light to the evil-doers, even as the one\nman sinless, and you were not a light to them. If you had been a light,\nyou would have lightened the path for others too, and the evil-doer might\nperhaps have been saved by your light from his sin. And even though your\nlight was shining, yet you see men were not saved by it, hold firm and\ndoubt not the power of the heavenly light. Believe that if they were not\nsaved, they will be saved hereafter. And if they are not saved hereafter,\nthen their sons will be saved, for your light will not die even when you\nare dead. The righteous man departs, but his light remains. Men are always\nsaved after the death of the deliverer. Men reject their prophets and slay\nthem, but they love their martyrs and honor those whom they have slain.\nYou are working for the whole, you are acting for the future. Seek no\nreward, for great is your reward on this earth: the spiritual joy which is\nonly vouchsafed to the righteous man. Fear not the great nor the mighty,\nbut be wise and ever serene. Know the measure, know the times, study that.\nWhen you are left alone, pray. Love to throw yourself on the earth and\nkiss it. Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love.\nLove all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the\nearth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don't be ashamed of\nthat ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one; it is not\ngiven to many but only to the elect.\n\n_(i) Of Hell and Hell Fire, a Mystic Reflection_\n\nFathers and teachers, I ponder, \"What is hell?\" I maintain that it is the\nsuffering of being unable to love. Once in infinite existence,\nimmeasurable in time and space, a spiritual creature was given on his\ncoming to earth, the power of saying, \"I am and I love.\" Once, only once,\nthere was given him a moment of active _living_ love, and for that was\nearthly life given him, and with it times and seasons. And that happy\ncreature rejected the priceless gift, prized it and loved it not, scorned\nit and remained callous. Such a one, having left the earth, sees Abraham's\nbosom and talks with Abraham as we are told in the parable of the rich man\nand Lazarus, and beholds heaven and can go up to the Lord. But that is\njust his torment, to rise up to the Lord without ever having loved, to be\nbrought close to those who have loved when he has despised their love. For\nhe sees clearly and says to himself, \"Now I have understanding, and though\nI now thirst to love, there will be nothing great, no sacrifice in my\nlove, for my earthly life is over, and Abraham will not come even with a\ndrop of living water (that is the gift of earthly active life) to cool the\nfiery thirst of spiritual love which burns in me now, though I despised it\non earth; there is no more life for me and will be no more time! Even\nthough I would gladly give my life for others, it can never be, for that\nlife is passed which can be sacrificed for love, and now there is a gulf\nfixed between that life and this existence.\"\n\nThey talk of hell fire in the material sense. I don't go into that mystery\nand I shun it. But I think if there were fire in material sense, they\nwould be glad of it, for I imagine that in material agony, their still\ngreater spiritual agony would be forgotten for a moment. Moreover, that\nspiritual agony cannot be taken from them, for that suffering is not\nexternal but within them. And if it could be taken from them, I think it\nwould be bitterer still for the unhappy creatures. For even if the\nrighteous in Paradise forgave them, beholding their torments, and called\nthem up to heaven in their infinite love, they would only multiply their\ntorments, for they would arouse in them still more keenly a flaming thirst\nfor responsive, active and grateful love which is now impossible. In the\ntimidity of my heart I imagine, however, that the very recognition of this\nimpossibility would serve at last to console them. For accepting the love\nof the righteous together with the impossibility of repaying it, by this\nsubmissiveness and the effect of this humility, they will attain at last,\nas it were, to a certain semblance of that active love which they scorned\nin life, to something like its outward expression.... I am sorry, friends\nand brothers, that I cannot express this clearly. But woe to those who\nhave slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there\ncan be none more miserable then they. They tell us that it is a sin to\npray for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in\nmy secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never\nbe an offense to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my\nlife, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them\nevery day.\n\nOh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of\ntheir certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are\nsome fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud\nspirit entirely. For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are\ntortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God\nand life. They live upon their vindictive pride like a starving man in the\ndesert sucking blood out of his own body. But they are never satisfied,\nand they refuse forgiveness, they curse God Who calls them. They cannot\nbehold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of\nlife should be annihilated, that God should destroy Himself and His own\ncreation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath for ever and\nyearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death....\n\n                  -------------------------------------\n\nHere Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov's manuscript ends. I repeat, it is\nincomplete and fragmentary. Biographical details, for instance, cover only\nFather Zossima's earliest youth. Of his teaching and opinions we find\nbrought together sayings evidently uttered on very different occasions.\nHis utterances during the last few hours have not been kept separate from\nthe rest, but their general character can be gathered from what we have in\nAlexey Fyodorovitch's manuscript.\n\nThe elder's death came in the end quite unexpectedly. For although those\nwho were gathered about him that last evening realized that his death was\napproaching, yet it was difficult to imagine that it would come so\nsuddenly. On the contrary, his friends, as I observed already, seeing him\nthat night apparently so cheerful and talkative, were convinced that there\nwas at least a temporary change for the better in his condition. Even five\nminutes before his death, they said afterwards wonderingly, it was\nimpossible to foresee it. He seemed suddenly to feel an acute pain in his\nchest, he turned pale and pressed his hands to his heart. All rose from\ntheir seats and hastened to him. But though suffering, he still looked at\nthem with a smile, sank slowly from his chair on to his knees, then bowed\nhis face to the ground, stretched out his arms and as though in joyful\necstasy, praying and kissing the ground, quietly and joyfully gave up his\nsoul to God.\n\nThe news of his death spread at once through the hermitage and reached the\nmonastery. The nearest friends of the deceased and those whose duty it was\nfrom their position began to lay out the corpse according to the ancient\nritual, and all the monks gathered together in the church. And before dawn\nthe news of the death reached the town. By the morning all the town was\ntalking of the event, and crowds were flocking from the town to the\nmonastery. But this subject will be treated in the next book; I will only\nadd here that before a day had passed something happened so unexpected, so\nstrange, upsetting, and bewildering in its effect on the monks and the\ntownspeople, that after all these years, that day of general suspense is\nstill vividly remembered in the town.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART III  Book VII. Alyosha Chapter I. The Breath Of Corruption\n\n\nThe body of Father Zossima was prepared for burial according to the\nestablished ritual. As is well known, the bodies of dead monks and hermits\nare not washed. In the words of the Church Ritual: \"If any one of the\nmonks depart in the Lord, the monk designated (that is, whose office it\nis) shall wipe the body with warm water, making first the sign of the\ncross with a sponge on the forehead of the deceased, on the breast, on the\nhands and feet and on the knees, and that is enough.\" All this was done by\nFather Paissy, who then clothed the deceased in his monastic garb and\nwrapped him in his cloak, which was, according to custom, somewhat slit to\nallow of its being folded about him in the form of a cross. On his head he\nput a hood with an eight-cornered cross. The hood was left open and the\ndead man's face was covered with black gauze. In his hands was put an ikon\nof the Saviour. Towards morning he was put in the coffin which had been\nmade ready long before. It was decided to leave the coffin all day in the\ncell, in the larger room in which the elder used to receive his visitors\nand fellow monks. As the deceased was a priest and monk of the strictest\nrule, the Gospel, not the Psalter, had to be read over his body by monks\nin holy orders. The reading was begun by Father Iosif immediately after\nthe requiem service. Father Paissy desired later on to read the Gospel all\nday and night over his dead friend, but for the present he, as well as the\nFather Superintendent of the Hermitage, was very busy and occupied, for\nsomething extraordinary, an unheard-of, even \"unseemly\" excitement and\nimpatient expectation began to be apparent in the monks, and the visitors\nfrom the monastery hostels, and the crowds of people flocking from the\ntown. And as time went on, this grew more and more marked. Both the\nSuperintendent and Father Paissy did their utmost to calm the general\nbustle and agitation.\n\nWhen it was fully daylight, some people began bringing their sick, in most\ncases children, with them from the town--as though they had been waiting\nexpressly for this moment to do so, evidently persuaded that the dead\nelder's remains had a power of healing, which would be immediately made\nmanifest in accordance with their faith. It was only then apparent how\nunquestionably every one in our town had accepted Father Zossima during\nhis lifetime as a great saint. And those who came were far from being all\nof the humbler classes.\n\nThis intense expectation on the part of believers displayed with such\nhaste, such openness, even with impatience and almost insistence,\nimpressed Father Paissy as unseemly. Though he had long foreseen something\nof the sort, the actual manifestation of the feeling was beyond anything\nhe had looked for. When he came across any of the monks who displayed this\nexcitement, Father Paissy began to reprove them. \"Such immediate\nexpectation of something extraordinary,\" he said, \"shows a levity,\npossible to worldly people but unseemly in us.\"\n\nBut little attention was paid him and Father Paissy noticed it uneasily.\nYet he himself (if the whole truth must be told), secretly at the bottom\nof his heart, cherished almost the same hopes and could not but be aware\nof it, though he was indignant at the too impatient expectation around\nhim, and saw in it light-mindedness and vanity. Nevertheless, it was\nparticularly unpleasant to him to meet certain persons, whose presence\naroused in him great misgivings. In the crowd in the dead man's cell he\nnoticed with inward aversion (for which he immediately reproached himself)\nthe presence of Rakitin and of the monk from Obdorsk, who was still\nstaying in the monastery. Of both of them Father Paissy felt for some\nreason suddenly suspicious--though, indeed, he might well have felt the\nsame about others.\n\nThe monk from Obdorsk was conspicuous as the most fussy in the excited\ncrowd. He was to be seen everywhere; everywhere he was asking questions,\neverywhere he was listening, on all sides he was whispering with a\npeculiar, mysterious air. His expression showed the greatest impatience\nand even a sort of irritation.\n\nAs for Rakitin, he, as appeared later, had come so early to the hermitage\nat the special request of Madame Hohlakov. As soon as that good-hearted\nbut weak-minded woman, who could not herself have been admitted to the\nhermitage, waked and heard of the death of Father Zossima, she was\novertaken with such intense curiosity that she promptly dispatched Rakitin\nto the hermitage, to keep a careful look out and report to her by letter\nevery half-hour or so \"_everything that takes place_.\" She regarded\nRakitin as a most religious and devout young man. He was particularly\nclever in getting round people and assuming whatever part he thought most\nto their taste, if he detected the slightest advantage to himself from\ndoing so.\n\nIt was a bright, clear day, and many of the visitors were thronging about\nthe tombs, which were particularly numerous round the church and scattered\nhere and there about the hermitage. As he walked round the hermitage,\nFather Paissy remembered Alyosha and that he had not seen him for some\ntime, not since the night. And he had no sooner thought of him than he at\nonce noticed him in the farthest corner of the hermitage garden, sitting\non the tombstone of a monk who had been famous long ago for his\nsaintliness. He sat with his back to the hermitage and his face to the\nwall, and seemed to be hiding behind the tombstone. Going up to him,\nFather Paissy saw that he was weeping quietly but bitterly, with his face\nhidden in his hands, and that his whole frame was shaking with sobs.\nFather Paissy stood over him for a little.\n\n\"Enough, dear son, enough, dear,\" he pronounced with feeling at last. \"Why\ndo you weep? Rejoice and weep not. Don't you know that this is the\ngreatest of his days? Think only where he is now, at this moment!\"\n\nAlyosha glanced at him, uncovering his face, which was swollen with crying\nlike a child's, but turned away at once without uttering a word and hid\nhis face in his hands again.\n\n\"Maybe it is well,\" said Father Paissy thoughtfully; \"weep if you must,\nChrist has sent you those tears.\"\n\n\"Your touching tears are but a relief to your spirit and will serve to\ngladden your dear heart,\" he added to himself, walking away from Alyosha,\nand thinking lovingly of him. He moved away quickly, however, for he felt\nthat he too might weep looking at him.\n\nMeanwhile the time was passing; the monastery services and the requiems\nfor the dead followed in their due course. Father Paissy again took Father\nIosif's place by the coffin and began reading the Gospel. But before three\no'clock in the afternoon that something took place to which I alluded at\nthe end of the last book, something so unexpected by all of us and so\ncontrary to the general hope, that, I repeat, this trivial incident has\nbeen minutely remembered to this day in our town and all the surrounding\nneighborhood. I may add here, for myself personally, that I feel it almost\nrepulsive to recall that event which caused such frivolous agitation and\nwas such a stumbling-block to many, though in reality it was the most\nnatural and trivial matter. I should, of course, have omitted all mention\nof it in my story, if it had not exerted a very strong influence on the\nheart and soul of the chief, though future, hero of my story, Alyosha,\nforming a crisis and turning-point in his spiritual development, giving a\nshock to his intellect, which finally strengthened it for the rest of his\nlife and gave it a definite aim.\n\nAnd so, to return to our story. When before dawn they laid Father\nZossima's body in the coffin and brought it into the front room, the\nquestion of opening the windows was raised among those who were around the\ncoffin. But this suggestion made casually by some one was unanswered and\nalmost unnoticed. Some of those present may perhaps have inwardly noticed\nit, only to reflect that the anticipation of decay and corruption from the\nbody of such a saint was an actual absurdity, calling for compassion (if\nnot a smile) for the lack of faith and the frivolity it implied. For they\nexpected something quite different.\n\nAnd, behold, soon after midday there were signs of something, at first\nonly observed in silence by those who came in and out and were evidently\neach afraid to communicate the thought in his mind. But by three o'clock\nthose signs had become so clear and unmistakable, that the news swiftly\nreached all the monks and visitors in the hermitage, promptly penetrated\nto the monastery, throwing all the monks into amazement, and finally, in\nthe shortest possible time, spread to the town, exciting every one in it,\nbelievers and unbelievers alike. The unbelievers rejoiced, and as for the\nbelievers some of them rejoiced even more than the unbelievers, for \"men\nlove the downfall and disgrace of the righteous,\" as the deceased elder\nhad said in one of his exhortations.\n\nThe fact is that a smell of decomposition began to come from the coffin,\ngrowing gradually more marked, and by three o'clock it was quite\nunmistakable. In all the past history of our monastery, no such scandal\ncould be recalled, and in no other circumstances could such a scandal have\nbeen possible, as showed itself in unseemly disorder immediately after\nthis discovery among the very monks themselves. Afterwards, even many\nyears afterwards, some sensible monks were amazed and horrified, when they\nrecalled that day, that the scandal could have reached such proportions.\nFor in the past, monks of very holy life had died, God-fearing old men,\nwhose saintliness was acknowledged by all, yet from their humble coffins,\ntoo, the breath of corruption had come, naturally, as from all dead\nbodies, but that had caused no scandal nor even the slightest excitement.\nOf course there had been, in former times, saints in the monastery whose\nmemory was carefully preserved and whose relics, according to tradition,\nshowed no signs of corruption. This fact was regarded by the monks as\ntouching and mysterious, and the tradition of it was cherished as\nsomething blessed and miraculous, and as a promise, by God's grace, of\nstill greater glory from their tombs in the future.\n\nOne such, whose memory was particularly cherished, was an old monk, Job,\nwho had died seventy years before at the age of a hundred and five. He had\nbeen a celebrated ascetic, rigid in fasting and silence, and his tomb was\npointed out to all visitors on their arrival with peculiar respect and\nmysterious hints of great hopes connected with it. (That was the very tomb\non which Father Paissy had found Alyosha sitting in the morning.) Another\nmemory cherished in the monastery was that of the famous Father Varsonofy,\nwho was only recently dead and had preceded Father Zossima in the\neldership. He was reverenced during his lifetime as a crazy saint by all\nthe pilgrims to the monastery. There was a tradition that both of these\nhad lain in their coffins as though alive, that they had shown no signs of\ndecomposition when they were buried and that there had been a holy light\nin their faces. And some people even insisted that a sweet fragrance came\nfrom their bodies.\n\nYet, in spite of these edifying memories, it would be difficult to explain\nthe frivolity, absurdity and malice that were manifested beside the coffin\nof Father Zossima. It is my private opinion that several different causes\nwere simultaneously at work, one of which was the deeply-rooted hostility\nto the institution of elders as a pernicious innovation, an antipathy\nhidden deep in the hearts of many of the monks. Even more powerful was\njealousy of the dead man's saintliness, so firmly established during his\nlifetime that it was almost a forbidden thing to question it. For though\nthe late elder had won over many hearts, more by love than by miracles,\nand had gathered round him a mass of loving adherents, none the less, in\nfact, rather the more on that account he had awakened jealousy and so had\ncome to have bitter enemies, secret and open, not only in the monastery\nbut in the world outside it. He did no one any harm, but \"Why do they\nthink him so saintly?\" And that question alone, gradually repeated, gave\nrise at last to an intense, insatiable hatred of him. That, I believe, was\nwhy many people were extremely delighted at the smell of decomposition\nwhich came so quickly, for not a day had passed since his death. At the\nsame time there were some among those who had been hitherto reverently\ndevoted to the elder, who were almost mortified and personally affronted\nby this incident. This was how the thing happened.\n\nAs soon as signs of decomposition had begun to appear, the whole aspect of\nthe monks betrayed their secret motives in entering the cell. They went\nin, stayed a little while and hastened out to confirm the news to the\ncrowd of other monks waiting outside. Some of the latter shook their heads\nmournfully, but others did not even care to conceal the delight which\ngleamed unmistakably in their malignant eyes. And now no one reproached\nthem for it, no one raised his voice in protest, which was strange, for\nthe majority of the monks had been devoted to the dead elder. But it\nseemed as though God had in this case let the minority get the upper hand\nfor a time.\n\nVisitors from outside, particularly of the educated class, soon went into\nthe cell, too, with the same spying intent. Of the peasantry few went into\nthe cell, though there were crowds of them at the gates of the hermitage.\nAfter three o'clock the rush of worldly visitors was greatly increased and\nthis was no doubt owing to the shocking news. People were attracted who\nwould not otherwise have come on that day and had not intended to come,\nand among them were some personages of high standing. But external decorum\nwas still preserved and Father Paissy, with a stern face, continued firmly\nand distinctly reading aloud the Gospel, apparently not noticing what was\ntaking place around him, though he had, in fact, observed something\nunusual long before. But at last the murmurs, first subdued but gradually\nlouder and more confident, reached even him. \"It shows God's judgment is\nnot as man's,\" Father Paissy heard suddenly. The first to give utterance\nto this sentiment was a layman, an elderly official from the town, known\nto be a man of great piety. But he only repeated aloud what the monks had\nlong been whispering. They had long before formulated this damning\nconclusion, and the worst of it was that a sort of triumphant satisfaction\nat that conclusion became more and more apparent every moment. Soon they\nbegan to lay aside even external decorum and almost seemed to feel they\nhad a sort of right to discard it.\n\n\"And for what reason can _this_ have happened,\" some of the monks said, at\nfirst with a show of regret; \"he had a small frame and his flesh was dried\nup on his bones, what was there to decay?\"\n\n\"It must be a sign from heaven,\" others hastened to add, and their opinion\nwas adopted at once without protest. For it was pointed out, too, that if\nthe decomposition had been natural, as in the case of every dead sinner,\nit would have been apparent later, after a lapse of at least twenty-four\nhours, but this premature corruption \"was in excess of nature,\" and so the\nfinger of God was evident. It was meant for a sign. This conclusion seemed\nirresistible.\n\nGentle Father Iosif, the librarian, a great favorite of the dead man's,\ntried to reply to some of the evil speakers that \"this is not held\neverywhere alike,\" and that the incorruptibility of the bodies of the just\nwas not a dogma of the Orthodox Church, but only an opinion, and that even\nin the most Orthodox regions, at Athos for instance, they were not greatly\nconfounded by the smell of corruption, and there the chief sign of the\nglorification of the saved was not bodily incorruptibility, but the color\nof the bones when the bodies have lain many years in the earth and have\ndecayed in it. \"And if the bones are yellow as wax, that is the great sign\nthat the Lord has glorified the dead saint, if they are not yellow but\nblack, it shows that God has not deemed him worthy of such glory--that is\nthe belief in Athos, a great place, where the Orthodox doctrine has been\npreserved from of old, unbroken and in its greatest purity,\" said Father\nIosif in conclusion.\n\nBut the meek Father's words had little effect and even provoked a mocking\nretort. \"That's all pedantry and innovation, no use listening to it,\" the\nmonks decided. \"We stick to the old doctrine, there are all sorts of\ninnovations nowadays, are we to follow them all?\" added others.\n\n\"We have had as many holy fathers as they had. There they are among the\nTurks, they have forgotten everything. Their doctrine has long been impure\nand they have no bells even,\" the most sneering added.\n\nFather Iosif walked away, grieving the more since he had put forward his\nown opinion with little confidence as though scarcely believing in it\nhimself. He foresaw with distress that something very unseemly was\nbeginning and that there were positive signs of disobedience. Little by\nlittle, all the sensible monks were reduced to silence like Father Iosif.\nAnd so it came to pass that all who loved the elder and had accepted with\ndevout obedience the institution of the eldership were all at once\nterribly cast down and glanced timidly in one another's faces, when they\nmet. Those who were hostile to the institution of elders, as a novelty,\nheld up their heads proudly. \"There was no smell of corruption from the\nlate elder Varsonofy, but a sweet fragrance,\" they recalled malignantly.\n\"But he gained that glory not because he was an elder, but because he was\na holy man.\"\n\nAnd this was followed by a shower of criticism and even blame of Father\nZossima. \"His teaching was false; he taught that life is a great joy and\nnot a vale of tears,\" said some of the more unreasonable. \"He followed the\nfashionable belief, he did not recognize material fire in hell,\" others,\nstill more unreasonable, added. \"He was not strict in fasting, allowed\nhimself sweet things, ate cherry jam with his tea, ladies used to send it\nto him. Is it for a monk of strict rule to drink tea?\" could be heard\namong some of the envious. \"He sat in pride,\" the most malignant declared\nvindictively; \"he considered himself a saint and he took it as his due\nwhen people knelt before him.\" \"He abused the sacrament of confession,\"\nthe fiercest opponents of the institution of elders added in a malicious\nwhisper. And among these were some of the oldest monks, strictest in their\ndevotion, genuine ascetics, who had kept silent during the life of the\ndeceased elder, but now suddenly unsealed their lips. And this was\nterrible, for their words had great influence on young monks who were not\nyet firm in their convictions. The monk from Obdorsk heard all this\nattentively, heaving deep sighs and nodding his head. \"Yes, clearly Father\nFerapont was right in his judgment yesterday,\" and at that moment Father\nFerapont himself made his appearance, as though on purpose to increase the\nconfusion.\n\nI have mentioned already that he rarely left his wooden cell by the\napiary. He was seldom even seen at church and they overlooked this neglect\non the ground of his craziness, and did not keep him to the rules binding\non all the rest. But if the whole truth is to be told, they hardly had a\nchoice about it. For it would have been discreditable to insist on\nburdening with the common regulations so great an ascetic, who prayed day\nand night (he even dropped asleep on his knees). If they had insisted, the\nmonks would have said, \"He is holier than all of us and he follows a rule\nharder than ours. And if he does not go to church, it's because he knows\nwhen he ought to; he has his own rule.\" It was to avoid the chance of\nthese sinful murmurs that Father Ferapont was left in peace.\n\nAs every one was aware, Father Ferapont particularly disliked Father\nZossima. And now the news had reached him in his hut that \"God's judgment\nis not the same as man's,\" and that something had happened which was \"in\nexcess of nature.\" It may well be supposed that among the first to run to\nhim with the news was the monk from Obdorsk, who had visited him the\nevening before and left his cell terror-stricken.\n\nI have mentioned above, that though Father Paissy, standing firm and\nimmovable reading the Gospel over the coffin, could not hear nor see what\nwas passing outside the cell, he gauged most of it correctly in his heart,\nfor he knew the men surrounding him, well. He was not shaken by it, but\nawaited what would come next without fear, watching with penetration and\ninsight for the outcome of the general excitement.\n\nSuddenly an extraordinary uproar in the passage in open defiance of\ndecorum burst on his ears. The door was flung open and Father Ferapont\nappeared in the doorway. Behind him there could be seen accompanying him a\ncrowd of monks, together with many people from the town. They did not,\nhowever, enter the cell, but stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting to\nsee what Father Ferapont would say or do. For they felt with a certain\nawe, in spite of their audacity, that he had not come for nothing.\nStanding in the doorway, Father Ferapont raised his arms, and under his\nright arm the keen inquisitive little eyes of the monk from Obdorsk peeped\nin. He alone, in his intense curiosity, could not resist running up the\nsteps after Father Ferapont. The others, on the contrary, pressed farther\nback in sudden alarm when the door was noisily flung open. Holding his\nhands aloft, Father Ferapont suddenly roared:\n\n\"Casting out I cast out!\" and, turning in all directions, he began at once\nmaking the sign of the cross at each of the four walls and four corners of\nthe cell in succession. All who accompanied Father Ferapont immediately\nunderstood his action. For they knew he always did this wherever he went,\nand that he would not sit down or say a word, till he had driven out the\nevil spirits.\n\n\"Satan, go hence! Satan, go hence!\" he repeated at each sign of the cross.\n\"Casting out I cast out,\" he roared again.\n\nHe was wearing his coarse gown girt with a rope. His bare chest, covered\nwith gray hair, could be seen under his hempen shirt. His feet were bare.\nAs soon as he began waving his arms, the cruel irons he wore under his\ngown could be heard clanking.\n\nFather Paissy paused in his reading, stepped forward and stood before him\nwaiting.\n\n\"What have you come for, worthy Father? Why do you offend against good\norder? Why do you disturb the peace of the flock?\" he said at last,\nlooking sternly at him.\n\n\"What have I come for? You ask why? What is your faith?\" shouted Father\nFerapont crazily. \"I've come here to drive out your visitors, the unclean\ndevils. I've come to see how many have gathered here while I have been\naway. I want to sweep them out with a birch broom.\"\n\n\"You cast out the evil spirit, but perhaps you are serving him yourself,\"\nFather Paissy went on fearlessly. \"And who can say of himself 'I am holy'?\nCan you, Father?\"\n\n\"I am unclean, not holy. I would not sit in an arm-chair and would not\nhave them bow down to me as an idol,\" thundered Father Ferapont. \"Nowadays\nfolk destroy the true faith. The dead man, your saint,\" he turned to the\ncrowd, pointing with his finger to the coffin, \"did not believe in devils.\nHe gave medicine to keep off the devils. And so they have become as common\nas spiders in the corners. And now he has begun to stink himself. In that\nwe see a great sign from God.\"\n\nThe incident he referred to was this. One of the monks was haunted in his\ndreams and, later on, in waking moments, by visions of evil spirits. When\nin the utmost terror he confided this to Father Zossima, the elder had\nadvised continual prayer and rigid fasting. But when that was of no use,\nhe advised him, while persisting in prayer and fasting, to take a special\nmedicine. Many persons were shocked at the time and wagged their heads as\nthey talked over it--and most of all Father Ferapont, to whom some of the\ncensorious had hastened to report this \"extraordinary\" counsel on the part\nof the elder.\n\n\"Go away, Father!\" said Father Paissy, in a commanding voice, \"it's not\nfor man to judge but for God. Perhaps we see here a 'sign' which neither\nyou, nor I, nor any one of us is able to comprehend. Go, Father, and do\nnot trouble the flock!\" he repeated impressively.\n\n\"He did not keep the fasts according to the rule and therefore the sign\nhas come. That is clear and it's a sin to hide it,\" the fanatic, carried\naway by a zeal that outstripped his reason, would not be quieted. \"He was\nseduced by sweetmeats, ladies brought them to him in their pockets, he\nsipped tea, he worshiped his belly, filling it with sweet things and his\nmind with haughty thoughts.... And for this he is put to shame....\"\n\n\"You speak lightly, Father.\" Father Paissy, too, raised his voice. \"I\nadmire your fasting and severities, but you speak lightly like some\nfrivolous youth, fickle and childish. Go away, Father, I command you!\"\nFather Paissy thundered in conclusion.\n\n\"I will go,\" said Ferapont, seeming somewhat taken aback, but still as\nbitter. \"You learned men! You are so clever you look down upon my\nhumbleness. I came hither with little learning and here I have forgotten\nwhat I did know, God Himself has preserved me in my weakness from your\nsubtlety.\"\n\nFather Paissy stood over him, waiting resolutely. Father Ferapont paused\nand, suddenly leaning his cheek on his hand despondently, pronounced in a\nsing-song voice, looking at the coffin of the dead elder:\n\n\"To-morrow they will sing over him 'Our Helper and Defender'--a splendid\nanthem--and over me when I die all they'll sing will be 'What earthly\njoy'--a little canticle,\"(6) he added with tearful regret. \"You are proud\nand puffed up, this is a vain place!\" he shouted suddenly like a madman,\nand with a wave of his hand he turned quickly and quickly descended the\nsteps. The crowd awaiting him below wavered; some followed him at once and\nsome lingered, for the cell was still open, and Father Paissy, following\nFather Ferapont on to the steps, stood watching him. But the excited old\nfanatic was not completely silenced. Walking twenty steps away, he\nsuddenly turned towards the setting sun, raised both his arms and, as\nthough some one had cut him down, fell to the ground with a loud scream.\n\n\"My God has conquered! Christ has conquered the setting sun!\" he shouted\nfrantically, stretching up his hands to the sun, and falling face\ndownwards on the ground, he sobbed like a little child, shaken by his\ntears and spreading out his arms on the ground. Then all rushed up to him;\nthere were exclamations and sympathetic sobs ... a kind of frenzy seemed\nto take possession of them all.\n\n\"This is the one who is a saint! This is the one who is a holy man!\" some\ncried aloud, losing their fear. \"This is he who should be an elder,\"\nothers added malignantly.\n\n\"He wouldn't be an elder ... he would refuse ... he wouldn't serve a\ncursed innovation ... he wouldn't imitate their foolery,\" other voices\nchimed in at once. And it is hard to say how far they might have gone, but\nat that moment the bell rang summoning them to service. All began crossing\nthemselves at once. Father Ferapont, too, got up and crossing himself went\nback to his cell without looking round, still uttering exclamations which\nwere utterly incoherent. A few followed him, but the greater number\ndispersed, hastening to service. Father Paissy let Father Iosif read in\nhis place and went down. The frantic outcries of bigots could not shake\nhim, but his heart was suddenly filled with melancholy for some special\nreason and he felt that. He stood still and suddenly wondered, \"Why am I\nsad even to dejection?\" and immediately grasped with surprise that his\nsudden sadness was due to a very small and special cause. In the crowd\nthronging at the entrance to the cell, he had noticed Alyosha and he\nremembered that he had felt at once a pang at heart on seeing him. \"Can\nthat boy mean so much to my heart now?\" he asked himself, wondering.\n\nAt that moment Alyosha passed him, hurrying away, but not in the direction\nof the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha quickly turned away his eyes and\ndropped them to the ground, and from the boy's look alone, Father Paissy\nguessed what a great change was taking place in him at that moment.\n\n\"Have you, too, fallen into temptation?\" cried Father Paissy. \"Can you be\nwith those of little faith?\" he added mournfully.\n\nAlyosha stood still and gazed vaguely at Father Paissy, but quickly turned\nhis eyes away again and again looked on the ground. He stood sideways and\ndid not turn his face to Father Paissy, who watched him attentively.\n\n\"Where are you hastening? The bell calls to service,\" he asked again, but\nagain Alyosha gave no answer.\n\n\"Are you leaving the hermitage? What, without asking leave, without asking\na blessing?\"\n\nAlyosha suddenly gave a wry smile, cast a strange, very strange, look at\nthe Father to whom his former guide, the former sovereign of his heart and\nmind, his beloved elder, had confided him as he lay dying. And suddenly,\nstill without speaking, waved his hand, as though not caring even to be\nrespectful, and with rapid steps walked towards the gates away from the\nhermitage.\n\n\"You will come back again!\" murmured Father Paissy, looking after him with\nsorrowful surprise.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. A Critical Moment\n\n\nFather Paissy, of course, was not wrong when he decided that his \"dear\nboy\" would come back again. Perhaps indeed, to some extent, he penetrated\nwith insight into the true meaning of Alyosha's spiritual condition. Yet I\nmust frankly own that it would be very difficult for me to give a clear\naccount of that strange, vague moment in the life of the young hero I love\nso much. To Father Paissy's sorrowful question, \"Are you too with those of\nlittle faith?\" I could of course confidently answer for Alyosha, \"No, he\nis not with those of little faith. Quite the contrary.\" Indeed, all his\ntrouble came from the fact that he was of great faith. But still the\ntrouble was there and was so agonizing that even long afterwards Alyosha\nthought of that sorrowful day as one of the bitterest and most fatal days\nof his life. If the question is asked: \"Could all his grief and\ndisturbance have been only due to the fact that his elder's body had shown\nsigns of premature decomposition instead of at once performing miracles?\"\nI must answer without beating about the bush, \"Yes, it certainly was.\" I\nwould only beg the reader not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my\nyoung hero's pure heart. I am far from intending to apologize for him or\nto justify his innocent faith on the ground of his youth, or the little\nprogress he had made in his studies, or any such reason. I must declare,\non the contrary, that I have genuine respect for the qualities of his\nheart. No doubt a youth who received impressions cautiously, whose love\nwas lukewarm, and whose mind was too prudent for his age and so of little\nvalue, such a young man might, I admit, have avoided what happened to my\nhero. But in some cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by\nan emotion, however unreasonable, which springs from a great love, than to\nbe unmoved. And this is even truer in youth, for a young man who is always\nsensible is to be suspected and is of little worth--that's my opinion!\n\n\"But,\" reasonable people will exclaim perhaps, \"every young man cannot\nbelieve in such a superstition and your hero is no model for others.\"\n\nTo this I reply again, \"Yes! my hero had faith, a faith holy and\nsteadfast, but still I am not going to apologize for him.\"\n\nThough I declared above, and perhaps too hastily, that I should not\nexplain or justify my hero, I see that some explanation is necessary for\nthe understanding of the rest of my story. Let me say then, it was not a\nquestion of miracles. There was no frivolous and impatient expectation of\nmiracles in his mind. And Alyosha needed no miracles at the time, for the\ntriumph of some preconceived idea--oh, no, not at all--what he saw before\nall was one figure--the figure of his beloved elder, the figure of that\nholy man whom he revered with such adoration. The fact is that all the\nlove that lay concealed in his pure young heart for every one and\neverything had, for the past year, been concentrated--and perhaps wrongly\nso--on one being, his beloved elder. It is true that being had for so long\nbeen accepted by him as his ideal, that all his young strength and energy\ncould not but turn towards that ideal, even to the forgetting at the\nmoment \"of every one and everything.\" He remembered afterwards how, on\nthat terrible day, he had entirely forgotten his brother Dmitri, about\nwhom he had been so anxious and troubled the day before; he had forgotten,\ntoo, to take the two hundred roubles to Ilusha's father, though he had so\nwarmly intended to do so the preceding evening. But again it was not\nmiracles he needed but only \"the higher justice\" which had been in his\nbelief outraged by the blow that had so suddenly and cruelly wounded his\nheart. And what does it signify that this \"justice\" looked for by Alyosha\ninevitably took the shape of miracles to be wrought immediately by the\nashes of his adored teacher? Why, every one in the monastery cherished the\nsame thought and the same hope, even those whose intellects Alyosha\nrevered, Father Paissy himself, for instance. And so Alyosha, untroubled\nby doubts, clothed his dreams too in the same form as all the rest. And a\nwhole year of life in the monastery had formed the habit of this\nexpectation in his heart. But it was justice, justice, he thirsted for,\nnot simply miracles.\n\nAnd now the man who should, he believed, have been exalted above every one\nin the whole world, that man, instead of receiving the glory that was his\ndue, was suddenly degraded and dishonored! What for? Who had judged him?\nWho could have decreed this? Those were the questions that wrung his\ninexperienced and virginal heart. He could not endure without\nmortification, without resentment even, that the holiest of holy men\nshould have been exposed to the jeering and spiteful mockery of the\nfrivolous crowd so inferior to him. Even had there been no miracles, had\nthere been nothing marvelous to justify his hopes, why this indignity, why\nthis humiliation, why this premature decay, \"in excess of nature,\" as the\nspiteful monks said? Why this \"sign from heaven,\" which they so\ntriumphantly acclaimed in company with Father Ferapont, and why did they\nbelieve they had gained the right to acclaim it? Where is the finger of\nProvidence? Why did Providence hide its face \"at the most critical moment\"\n(so Alyosha thought it), as though voluntarily submitting to the blind,\ndumb, pitiless laws of nature?\n\nThat was why Alyosha's heart was bleeding, and, of course, as I have said\nalready, the sting of it all was that the man he loved above everything on\nearth should be put to shame and humiliated! This murmuring may have been\nshallow and unreasonable in my hero, but I repeat again for the third\ntime--and am prepared to admit that it might be difficult to defend my\nfeeling--I am glad that my hero showed himself not too reasonable at that\nmoment, for any man of sense will always come back to reason in time, but,\nif love does not gain the upper hand in a boy's heart at such an\nexceptional moment, when will it? I will not, however, omit to mention\nsomething strange, which came for a time to the surface of Alyosha's mind\nat this fatal and obscure moment. This new something was the harassing\nimpression left by the conversation with Ivan, which now persistently\nhaunted Alyosha's mind. At this moment it haunted him. Oh, it was not that\nsomething of the fundamental, elemental, so to speak, faith of his soul\nhad been shaken. He loved his God and believed in Him steadfastly, though\nhe was suddenly murmuring against Him. Yet a vague but tormenting and evil\nimpression left by his conversation with Ivan the day before, suddenly\nrevived again now in his soul and seemed forcing its way to the surface of\nhis consciousness.\n\nIt had begun to get dusk when Rakitin, crossing the pine copse from the\nhermitage to the monastery, suddenly noticed Alyosha, lying face downwards\non the ground under a tree, not moving and apparently asleep. He went up\nand called him by his name.\n\n\"You here, Alexey? Can you have--\" he began wondering but broke off. He had\nmeant to say, \"Can you have come to this?\"\n\nAlyosha did not look at him, but from a slight movement Rakitin at once\nsaw that he heard and understood him.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he went on; but the surprise in his face gradually\npassed into a smile that became more and more ironical.\n\n\"I say, I've been looking for you for the last two hours. You suddenly\ndisappeared. What are you about? What foolery is this? You might just look\nat me...\"\n\nAlyosha raised his head, sat up and leaned his back against the tree. He\nwas not crying, but there was a look of suffering and irritability in his\nface. He did not look at Rakitin, however, but looked away to one side of\nhim.\n\n\"Do you know your face is quite changed? There's none of your famous\nmildness to be seen in it. Are you angry with some one? Have they been\nill-treating you?\"\n\n\"Let me alone,\" said Alyosha suddenly, with a weary gesture of his hand,\nstill looking away from him.\n\n\"Oho! So that's how we are feeling! So you can shout at people like other\nmortals. That is a come-down from the angels. I say, Alyosha, you have\nsurprised me, do you hear? I mean it. It's long since I've been surprised\nat anything here. I always took you for an educated man....\"\n\nAlyosha at last looked at him, but vaguely, as though scarcely\nunderstanding what he said.\n\n\"Can you really be so upset simply because your old man has begun to\nstink? You don't mean to say you seriously believed that he was going to\nwork miracles?\" exclaimed Rakitin, genuinely surprised again.\n\n\"I believed, I believe, I want to believe, and I will believe, what more\ndo you want?\" cried Alyosha irritably.\n\n\"Nothing at all, my boy. Damn it all! why, no schoolboy of thirteen\nbelieves in that now. But there.... So now you are in a temper with your\nGod, you are rebelling against Him; He hasn't given promotion, He hasn't\nbestowed the order of merit! Eh, you are a set!\"\n\nAlyosha gazed a long while with his eyes half closed at Rakitin, and there\nwas a sudden gleam in his eyes ... but not of anger with Rakitin.\n\n\"I am not rebelling against my God; I simply 'don't accept His world.' \"\nAlyosha suddenly smiled a forced smile.\n\n\"How do you mean, you don't accept the world?\" Rakitin thought a moment\nover his answer. \"What idiocy is this?\"\n\nAlyosha did not answer.\n\n\"Come, enough nonsense, now to business. Have you had anything to eat to-\nday?\"\n\n\"I don't remember.... I think I have.\"\n\n\"You need keeping up, to judge by your face. It makes one sorry to look at\nyou. You didn't sleep all night either, I hear, you had a meeting in\nthere. And then all this bobbery afterwards. Most likely you've had\nnothing to eat but a mouthful of holy bread. I've got some sausage in my\npocket; I've brought it from the town in case of need, only you won't eat\nsausage....\"\n\n\"Give me some.\"\n\n\"I say! You are going it! Why, it's a regular mutiny, with barricades!\nWell, my boy, we must make the most of it. Come to my place.... I\nshouldn't mind a drop of vodka myself, I am tired to death. Vodka is going\ntoo far for you, I suppose ... or would you like some?\"\n\n\"Give me some vodka too.\"\n\n\"Hullo! You surprise me, brother!\" Rakitin looked at him in amazement.\n\"Well, one way or another, vodka or sausage, this is a jolly fine chance\nand mustn't be missed. Come along.\"\n\nAlyosha got up in silence and followed Rakitin.\n\n\"If your little brother Ivan could see this--wouldn't he be surprised! By\nthe way, your brother Ivan set off to Moscow this morning, did you know?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Alyosha listlessly, and suddenly the image of his brother\nDmitri rose before his mind. But only for a minute, and though it reminded\nhim of something that must not be put off for a moment, some duty, some\nterrible obligation, even that reminder made no impression on him, did not\nreach his heart and instantly faded out of his mind and was forgotten.\nBut, a long while afterwards, Alyosha remembered this.\n\n\"Your brother Ivan declared once that I was a 'liberal booby with no\ntalents whatsoever.' Once you, too, could not resist letting me know I was\n'dishonorable.' Well! I should like to see what your talents and sense of\nhonor will do for you now.\" This phrase Rakitin finished to himself in a\nwhisper.\n\n\"Listen!\" he said aloud, \"let's go by the path beyond the monastery\nstraight to the town. Hm! I ought to go to Madame Hohlakov's by the way.\nOnly fancy, I've written to tell her everything that happened, and would\nyou believe it, she answered me instantly in pencil (the lady has a\npassion for writing notes) that 'she would never have expected _such\nconduct_ from a man of such a reverend character as Father Zossima.' That\nwas her very word: 'conduct.' She is angry too. Eh, you are a set! Stay!\"\nhe cried suddenly again. He suddenly stopped and taking Alyosha by the\nshoulder made him stop too.\n\n\"Do you know, Alyosha,\" he peeped inquisitively into his eyes, absorbed in\na sudden new thought which had dawned on him, and though he was laughing\noutwardly he was evidently afraid to utter that new idea aloud, so\ndifficult he still found it to believe in the strange and unexpected mood\nin which he now saw Alyosha. \"Alyosha, do you know where we had better\ngo?\" he brought out at last timidly, and insinuatingly.\n\n\"I don't care ... where you like.\"\n\n\"Let's go to Grushenka, eh? Will you come?\" pronounced Rakitin at last,\ntrembling with timid suspense.\n\n\"Let's go to Grushenka,\" Alyosha answered calmly, at once, and this prompt\nand calm agreement was such a surprise to Rakitin that he almost started\nback.\n\n\"Well! I say!\" he cried in amazement, but seizing Alyosha firmly by the\narm he led him along the path, still dreading that he would change his\nmind.\n\nThey walked along in silence, Rakitin was positively afraid to talk.\n\n\"And how glad she will be, how delighted!\" he muttered, but lapsed into\nsilence again. And indeed it was not to please Grushenka he was taking\nAlyosha to her. He was a practical person and never undertook anything\nwithout a prospect of gain for himself. His object in this case was\ntwofold, first a revengeful desire to see \"the downfall of the righteous,\"\nand Alyosha's fall \"from the saints to the sinners,\" over which he was\nalready gloating in his imagination, and in the second place he had in\nview a certain material gain for himself, of which more will be said\nlater.\n\n\"So the critical moment has come,\" he thought to himself with spiteful\nglee, \"and we shall catch it on the hop, for it's just what we want.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. An Onion\n\n\nGrushenka lived in the busiest part of the town, near the cathedral\nsquare, in a small wooden lodge in the courtyard belonging to the house of\nthe widow Morozov. The house was a large stone building of two stories,\nold and very ugly. The widow led a secluded life with her two unmarried\nnieces, who were also elderly women. She had no need to let her lodge, but\nevery one knew that she had taken in Grushenka as a lodger, four years\nbefore, solely to please her kinsman, the merchant Samsonov, who was known\nto be the girl's protector. It was said that the jealous old man's object\nin placing his \"favorite\" with the widow Morozov was that the old woman\nshould keep a sharp eye on her new lodger's conduct. But this sharp eye\nsoon proved to be unnecessary, and in the end the widow Morozov seldom met\nGrushenka and did not worry her by looking after her in any way. It is\ntrue that four years had passed since the old man had brought the slim,\ndelicate, shy, timid, dreamy, and sad girl of eighteen from the chief town\nof the province, and much had happened since then. Little was known of the\ngirl's history in the town and that little was vague. Nothing more had\nbeen learnt during the last four years, even after many persons had become\ninterested in the beautiful young woman into whom Agrafena Alexandrovna\nhad meanwhile developed. There were rumors that she had been at seventeen\nbetrayed by some one, some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards\nabandoned by him. The officer had gone away and afterwards married, while\nGrushenka had been left in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however,\nthat though Grushenka had been raised from destitution by the old man,\nSamsonov, she came of a respectable family belonging to the clerical\nclass, that she was the daughter of a deacon or something of the sort.\n\nAnd now after four years the sensitive, injured and pathetic little orphan\nhad become a plump, rosy beauty of the Russian type, a woman of bold and\ndetermined character, proud and insolent. She had a good head for\nbusiness, was acquisitive, saving and careful, and by fair means or foul\nhad succeeded, it was said, in amassing a little fortune. There was only\none point on which all were agreed. Grushenka was not easily to be\napproached and except her aged protector there had not been one man who\ncould boast of her favors during those four years. It was a positive fact,\nfor there had been a good many, especially during the last two years, who\nhad attempted to obtain those favors. But all their efforts had been in\nvain and some of these suitors had been forced to beat an undignified and\neven comic retreat, owing to the firm and ironical resistance they met\nfrom the strong-willed young person. It was known, too, that the young\nperson had, especially of late, been given to what is called\n\"speculation,\" and that she had shown marked abilities in that direction,\nso that many people began to say that she was no better than a Jew. It was\nnot that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for instance, that\nshe had for some time past, in partnership with old Karamazov, actually\ninvested in the purchase of bad debts for a trifle, a tenth of their\nnominal value, and afterwards had made out of them ten times their value.\n\nThe old widower Samsonov, a man of large fortune, was stingy and\nmerciless. He tyrannized over his grown-up sons, but, for the last year\nduring which he had been ill and lost the use of his swollen legs, he had\nfallen greatly under the influence of his protegee, whom he had at first\nkept strictly and in humble surroundings, \"on Lenten fare,\" as the wits\nsaid at the time. But Grushenka had succeeded in emancipating herself,\nwhile she established in him a boundless belief in her fidelity. The old\nman, now long since dead, had had a large business in his day and was also\na noteworthy character, miserly and hard as flint. Though Grushenka's hold\nupon him was so strong that he could not live without her (it had been so\nespecially for the last two years), he did not settle any considerable\nfortune on her and would not have been moved to do so, if she had\nthreatened to leave him. But he had presented her with a small sum, and\neven that was a surprise to every one when it became known.\n\n\"You are a wench with brains,\" he said to her, when he gave her eight\nthousand roubles, \"and you must look after yourself, but let me tell you\nthat except your yearly allowance as before, you'll get nothing more from\nme to the day of my death, and I'll leave you nothing in my will either.\"\n\nAnd he kept his word; he died and left everything to his sons, whom, with\ntheir wives and children, he had treated all his life as servants.\nGrushenka was not even mentioned in his will. All this became known\nafterwards. He helped Grushenka with his advice to increase her capital\nand put business in her way.\n\nWhen Fyodor Pavlovitch, who first came into contact with Grushenka over a\npiece of speculation, ended to his own surprise by falling madly in love\nwith her, old Samsonov, gravely ill as he was, was immensely amused. It is\nremarkable that throughout their whole acquaintance Grushenka was\nabsolutely and spontaneously open with the old man, and he seems to have\nbeen the only person in the world with whom she was so. Of late, when\nDmitri too had come on the scene with his love, the old man left off\nlaughing. On the contrary, he once gave Grushenka a stern and earnest\npiece of advice.\n\n\"If you have to choose between the two, father or son, you'd better choose\nthe old man, if only you make sure the old scoundrel will marry you and\nsettle some fortune on you beforehand. But don't keep on with the captain,\nyou'll get no good out of that.\"\n\nThese were the very words of the old profligate, who felt already that his\ndeath was not far off and who actually died five months later.\n\nI will note, too, in passing, that although many in our town knew of the\ngrotesque and monstrous rivalry of the Karamazovs, father and son, the\nobject of which was Grushenka, scarcely any one understood what really\nunderlay her attitude to both of them. Even Grushenka's two servants\n(after the catastrophe of which we will speak later) testified in court\nthat she received Dmitri Fyodorovitch simply from fear because \"he\nthreatened to murder her.\" These servants were an old cook, invalidish and\nalmost deaf, who came from Grushenka's old home, and her granddaughter, a\nsmart young girl of twenty, who performed the duties of a maid. Grushenka\nlived very economically and her surroundings were anything but luxurious.\nHer lodge consisted of three rooms furnished with mahogany furniture in\nthe fashion of 1820, belonging to her landlady.\n\nIt was quite dark when Rakitin and Alyosha entered her rooms, yet they\nwere not lighted up. Grushenka was lying down in her drawing-room on the\nbig, hard, clumsy sofa, with a mahogany back. The sofa was covered with\nshabby and ragged leather. Under her head she had two white down pillows\ntaken from her bed. She was lying stretched out motionless on her back\nwith her hands behind her head. She was dressed as though expecting some\none, in a black silk dress, with a dainty lace fichu on her head, which\nwas very becoming. Over her shoulders was thrown a lace shawl pinned with\na massive gold brooch. She certainly was expecting some one. She lay as\nthough impatient and weary, her face rather pale and her lips and eyes\nhot, restlessly tapping the arm of the sofa with the tip of her right\nfoot. The appearance of Rakitin and Alyosha caused a slight excitement.\nFrom the hall they could hear Grushenka leap up from the sofa and cry out\nin a frightened voice, \"Who's there?\" But the maid met the visitors and at\nonce called back to her mistress.\n\n\"It's not he, it's nothing, only other visitors.\"\n\n\"What can be the matter?\" muttered Rakitin, leading Alyosha into the\ndrawing-room.\n\nGrushenka was standing by the sofa as though still alarmed. A thick coil\nof her dark brown hair escaped from its lace covering and fell on her\nright shoulder, but she did not notice it and did not put it back till she\nhad gazed at her visitors and recognized them.\n\n\"Ah, it's you, Rakitin? You quite frightened me. Whom have you brought?\nWho is this with you? Good heavens, you have brought him!\" she exclaimed,\nrecognizing Alyosha.\n\n\"Do send for candles!\" said Rakitin, with the free-and-easy air of a most\nintimate friend, who is privileged to give orders in the house.\n\n\"Candles ... of course, candles.... Fenya, fetch him a candle.... Well,\nyou have chosen a moment to bring him!\" she exclaimed again, nodding\ntowards Alyosha, and turning to the looking-glass she began quickly\nfastening up her hair with both hands. She seemed displeased.\n\n\"Haven't I managed to please you?\" asked Rakitin, instantly almost\noffended.\n\n\"You frightened me, Rakitin, that's what it is.\" Grushenka turned with a\nsmile to Alyosha. \"Don't be afraid of me, my dear Alyosha, you cannot\nthink how glad I am to see you, my unexpected visitor. But you frightened\nme, Rakitin, I thought it was Mitya breaking in. You see, I deceived him\njust now, I made him promise to believe me and I told him a lie. I told\nhim that I was going to spend the evening with my old man, Kuzma Kuzmitch,\nand should be there till late counting up his money. I always spend one\nwhole evening a week with him making up his accounts. We lock ourselves in\nand he counts on the reckoning beads while I sit and put things down in\nthe book. I am the only person he trusts. Mitya believes that I am there,\nbut I came back and have been sitting locked in here, expecting some news.\nHow was it Fenya let you in? Fenya, Fenya, run out to the gate, open it\nand look about whether the captain is to be seen! Perhaps he is hiding and\nspying, I am dreadfully frightened.\"\n\n\"There's no one there, Agrafena Alexandrovna, I've just looked out, I keep\nrunning to peep through the crack, I am in fear and trembling myself.\"\n\n\"Are the shutters fastened, Fenya? And we must draw the curtains--that's\nbetter!\" She drew the heavy curtains herself. \"He'd rush in at once if he\nsaw a light. I am afraid of your brother Mitya to-day, Alyosha.\"\n\nGrushenka spoke aloud, and, though she was alarmed, she seemed very happy\nabout something.\n\n\"Why are you so afraid of Mitya to-day?\" inquired Rakitin. \"I should have\nthought you were not timid with him, you'd twist him round your little\nfinger.\"\n\n\"I tell you, I am expecting news, priceless news, so I don't want Mitya at\nall. And he didn't believe, I feel he didn't, that I should stay at Kuzma\nKuzmitch's. He must be in his ambush now, behind Fyodor Pavlovitch's, in\nthe garden, watching for me. And if he's there, he won't come here, so\nmuch the better! But I really have been to Kuzma Kuzmitch's, Mitya\nescorted me there. I told him I should stay there till midnight, and I\nasked him to be sure to come at midnight to fetch me home. He went away\nand I sat ten minutes with Kuzma Kuzmitch and came back here again. Ugh, I\nwas afraid, I ran for fear of meeting him.\"\n\n\"And why are you so dressed up? What a curious cap you've got on!\"\n\n\"How curious you are yourself, Rakitin! I tell you, I am expecting a\nmessage. If the message comes, I shall fly, I shall gallop away and you\nwill see no more of me. That's why I am dressed up, so as to be ready.\"\n\n\"And where are you flying to?\"\n\n\"If you know too much, you'll get old too soon.\"\n\n\"Upon my word! You are highly delighted ... I've never seen you like this\nbefore. You are dressed up as if you were going to a ball.\" Rakitin looked\nher up and down.\n\n\"Much you know about balls.\"\n\n\"And do you know much about them?\"\n\n\"I have seen a ball. The year before last, Kuzma Kuzmitch's son was\nmarried and I looked on from the gallery. Do you suppose I want to be\ntalking to you, Rakitin, while a prince like this is standing here. Such a\nvisitor! Alyosha, my dear boy, I gaze at you and can't believe my eyes.\nGood heavens, can you have come here to see me! To tell you the truth, I\nnever had a thought of seeing you and I didn't think that you would ever\ncome and see me. Though this is not the moment now, I am awfully glad to\nsee you. Sit down on the sofa, here, that's right, my bright young moon. I\nreally can't take it in even now.... Eh, Rakitin, if only you had brought\nhim yesterday or the day before! But I am glad as it is! Perhaps it's\nbetter he has come now, at such a moment, and not the day before\nyesterday.\"\n\nShe gayly sat down beside Alyosha on the sofa, looking at him with\npositive delight. And she really was glad, she was not lying when she said\nso. Her eyes glowed, her lips laughed, but it was a good-hearted merry\nlaugh. Alyosha had not expected to see such a kind expression in her\nface.... He had hardly met her till the day before, he had formed an\nalarming idea of her, and had been horribly distressed the day before by\nthe spiteful and treacherous trick she had played on Katerina Ivanovna. He\nwas greatly surprised to find her now altogether different from what he\nhad expected. And, crushed as he was by his own sorrow, his eyes\ninvoluntarily rested on her with attention. Her whole manner seemed\nchanged for the better since yesterday, there was scarcely any trace of\nthat mawkish sweetness in her speech, of that voluptuous softness in her\nmovements. Everything was simple and good-natured, her gestures were\nrapid, direct, confiding, but she was greatly excited.\n\n\"Dear me, how everything comes together to-day!\" she chattered on again.\n\"And why I am so glad to see you, Alyosha, I couldn't say myself! If you\nask me, I couldn't tell you.\"\n\n\"Come, don't you know why you're glad?\" said Rakitin, grinning. \"You used\nto be always pestering me to bring him, you'd some object, I suppose.\"\n\n\"I had a different object once, but now that's over, this is not the\nmoment. I say, I want you to have something nice. I am so good-natured\nnow. You sit down, too, Rakitin; why are you standing? You've sat down\nalready? There's no fear of Rakitin's forgetting to look after himself.\nLook, Alyosha, he's sitting there opposite us, so offended that I didn't\nask him to sit down before you. Ugh, Rakitin is such a one to take\noffense!\" laughed Grushenka. \"Don't be angry, Rakitin, I'm kind to-day.\nWhy are you so depressed, Alyosha? Are you afraid of me?\" She peeped into\nhis eyes with merry mockery\"\n\n\"He's sad. The promotion has not been given,\" boomed Rakitin.\n\n\"What promotion?\"\n\n\"His elder stinks.\"\n\n\"What? You are talking some nonsense, you want to say something nasty. Be\nquiet, you stupid! Let me sit on your knee, Alyosha, like this.\" She\nsuddenly skipped forward and jumped, laughing, on his knee, like a\nnestling kitten, with her right arm about his neck. \"I'll cheer you up, my\npious boy. Yes, really, will you let me sit on your knee? You won't be\nangry? If you tell me, I'll get off?\"\n\nAlyosha did not speak. He sat afraid to move, he heard her words, \"If you\ntell me, I'll get off,\" but he did not answer. But there was nothing in\nhis heart such as Rakitin, for instance, watching him malignantly from his\ncorner, might have expected or fancied. The great grief in his heart\nswallowed up every sensation that might have been aroused, and, if only he\ncould have thought clearly at that moment, he would have realized that he\nhad now the strongest armor to protect him from every lust and temptation.\nYet in spite of the vague irresponsiveness of his spiritual condition and\nthe sorrow that overwhelmed him, he could not help wondering at a new and\nstrange sensation in his heart. This woman, this \"dreadful\" woman, had no\nterror for him now, none of that terror that had stirred in his soul at\nany passing thought of woman. On the contrary, this woman, dreaded above\nall women, sitting now on his knee, holding him in her arms, aroused in\nhim now a quite different, unexpected, peculiar feeling, a feeling of the\nintensest and purest interest without a trace of fear, of his former\nterror. That was what instinctively surprised him.\n\n\"You've talked nonsense enough,\" cried Rakitin, \"you'd much better give us\nsome champagne. You owe it me, you know you do!\"\n\n\"Yes, I really do. Do you know, Alyosha, I promised him champagne on the\ntop of everything, if he'd bring you? I'll have some too! Fenya, Fenya,\nbring us the bottle Mitya left! Look sharp! Though I am so stingy, I'll\nstand a bottle, not for you, Rakitin, you're a toadstool, but he is a\nfalcon! And though my heart is full of something very different, so be it,\nI'll drink with you. I long for some dissipation.\"\n\n\"But what is the matter with you? And what is this message, may I ask, or\nis it a secret?\" Rakitin put in inquisitively, doing his best to pretend\nnot to notice the snubs that were being continually aimed at him.\n\n\"Ech, it's not a secret, and you know it, too,\" Grushenka said, in a voice\nsuddenly anxious, turning her head towards Rakitin, and drawing a little\naway from Alyosha, though she still sat on his knee with her arm round his\nneck. \"My officer is coming, Rakitin, my officer is coming.\"\n\n\"I heard he was coming, but is he so near?\"\n\n\"He is at Mokroe now; he'll send a messenger from there, so he wrote; I\ngot a letter from him to-day. I am expecting the messenger every minute.\"\n\n\"You don't say so! Why at Mokroe?\"\n\n\"That's a long story, I've told you enough.\"\n\n\"Mitya'll be up to something now--I say! Does he know or doesn't he?\"\n\n\"He know! Of course he doesn't. If he knew, there would be murder. But I\nam not afraid of that now, I am not afraid of his knife. Be quiet,\nRakitin, don't remind me of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, he has bruised my heart.\nAnd I don't want to think of that at this moment. I can think of Alyosha\nhere, I can look at Alyosha ... smile at me, dear, cheer up, smile at my\nfoolishness, at my pleasure.... Ah, he's smiling, he's smiling! How kindly\nhe looks at me! And you know, Alyosha, I've been thinking all this time\nyou were angry with me, because of the day before yesterday, because of\nthat young lady. I was a cur, that's the truth.... But it's a good thing\nit happened so. It was a horrid thing, but a good thing too.\" Grushenka\nsmiled dreamily and a little cruel line showed in her smile. \"Mitya told\nme that she screamed out that I 'ought to be flogged.' I did insult her\ndreadfully. She sent for me, she wanted to make a conquest of me, to win\nme over with her chocolate.... No, it's a good thing it did end like\nthat.\" She smiled again. \"But I am still afraid of your being angry.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's really true,\" Rakitin put in suddenly with genuine surprise.\n\"Alyosha, she is really afraid of a chicken like you.\"\n\n\"He is a chicken to you, Rakitin ... because you've no conscience, that's\nwhat it is! You see, I love him with all my soul, that's how it is!\nAlyosha, do you believe I love you with all my soul?\"\n\n\"Ah, you shameless woman! She is making you a declaration, Alexey!\"\n\n\"Well, what of it, I love him!\"\n\n\"And what about your officer? And the priceless message from Mokroe?\"\n\n\"That is quite different.\"\n\n\"That's a woman's way of looking at it!\"\n\n\"Don't you make me angry, Rakitin.\" Grushenka caught him up hotly. \"This\nis quite different. I love Alyosha in a different way. It's true, Alyosha,\nI had sly designs on you before. For I am a horrid, violent creature. But\nat other times I've looked upon you, Alyosha, as my conscience. I've kept\nthinking 'how any one like that must despise a nasty thing like me.' I\nthought that the day before yesterday, as I ran home from the young\nlady's. I have thought of you a long time in that way, Alyosha, and Mitya\nknows, I've talked to him about it. Mitya understands. Would you believe\nit, I sometimes look at you and feel ashamed, utterly ashamed of\nmyself.... And how, and since when, I began to think about you like that,\nI can't say, I don't remember....\"\n\nFenya came in and put a tray with an uncorked bottle and three glasses of\nchampagne on the table.\n\n\"Here's the champagne!\" cried Rakitin. \"You're excited, Agrafena\nAlexandrovna, and not yourself. When you've had a glass of champagne,\nyou'll be ready to dance. Eh, they can't even do that properly,\" he added,\nlooking at the bottle. \"The old woman's poured it out in the kitchen and\nthe bottle's been brought in warm and without a cork. Well, let me have\nsome, anyway.\"\n\nHe went up to the table, took a glass, emptied it at one gulp and poured\nhimself out another.\n\n\"One doesn't often stumble upon champagne,\" he said, licking his lips.\n\"Now, Alyosha, take a glass, show what you can do! What shall we drink to?\nThe gates of paradise? Take a glass, Grushenka, you drink to the gates of\nparadise, too.\"\n\n\"What gates of paradise?\"\n\nShe took a glass, Alyosha took his, tasted it and put it back.\n\n\"No, I'd better not,\" he smiled gently.\n\n\"And you bragged!\" cried Rakitin.\n\n\"Well, if so, I won't either,\" chimed in Grushenka, \"I really don't want\nany. You can drink the whole bottle alone, Rakitin. If Alyosha has some, I\nwill.\"\n\n\"What touching sentimentality!\" said Rakitin tauntingly; \"and she's\nsitting on his knee, too! He's got something to grieve over, but what's\nthe matter with you? He is rebelling against his God and ready to eat\nsausage....\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"His elder died to-day, Father Zossima, the saint.\"\n\n\"So Father Zossima is dead,\" cried Grushenka. \"Good God, I did not know!\"\nShe crossed herself devoutly. \"Goodness, what have I been doing, sitting\non his knee like this at such a moment!\" She started up as though in\ndismay, instantly slipped off his knee and sat down on the sofa.\n\nAlyosha bent a long wondering look upon her and a light seemed to dawn in\nhis face.\n\n\"Rakitin,\" he said suddenly, in a firm and loud voice; \"don't taunt me\nwith having rebelled against God. I don't want to feel angry with you, so\nyou must be kinder, too, I've lost a treasure such as you have never had,\nand you cannot judge me now. You had much better look at her--do you see\nhow she has pity on me? I came here to find a wicked soul--I felt drawn to\nevil because I was base and evil myself, and I've found a true sister, I\nhave found a treasure--a loving heart. She had pity on me just now....\nAgrafena Alexandrovna, I am speaking of you. You've raised my soul from\nthe depths.\"\n\nAlyosha's lips were quivering and he caught his breath.\n\n\"She has saved you, it seems,\" laughed Rakitin spitefully. \"And she meant\nto get you in her clutches, do you realize that?\"\n\n\"Stay, Rakitin.\" Grushenka jumped up. \"Hush, both of you. Now I'll tell\nyou all about it. Hush, Alyosha, your words make me ashamed, for I am bad\nand not good--that's what I am. And you hush, Rakitin, because you are\ntelling lies. I had the low idea of trying to get him in my clutches, but\nnow you are lying, now it's all different. And don't let me hear anything\nmore from you, Rakitin.\"\n\nAll this Grushenka said with extreme emotion.\n\n\"They are both crazy,\" said Rakitin, looking at them with amazement. \"I\nfeel as though I were in a madhouse. They're both getting so feeble\nthey'll begin crying in a minute.\"\n\n\"I shall begin to cry, I shall,\" repeated Grushenka. \"He called me his\nsister and I shall never forget that. Only let me tell you, Rakitin,\nthough I am bad, I did give away an onion.\"\n\n\"An onion? Hang it all, you really are crazy.\"\n\nRakitin wondered at their enthusiasm. He was aggrieved and annoyed, though\nhe might have reflected that each of them was just passing through a\nspiritual crisis such as does not come often in a lifetime. But though\nRakitin was very sensitive about everything that concerned himself, he was\nvery obtuse as regards the feelings and sensations of others--partly from\nhis youth and inexperience, partly from his intense egoism.\n\n\"You see, Alyosha,\" Grushenka turned to him with a nervous laugh. \"I was\nboasting when I told Rakitin I had given away an onion, but it's not to\nboast I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I\nused to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still\nwith me. It's like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a\nvery wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good\ndeed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire.\nSo her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could\nremember to tell to God; 'She once pulled up an onion in her garden,' said\nhe, 'and gave it to a beggar woman.' And God answered: 'You take that\nonion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be\npulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to\nParadise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.'\nThe angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. 'Come,' said he,\n'catch hold and I'll pull you out.' And he began cautiously pulling her\nout. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake,\nseeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be\npulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking\nthem. 'I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours.' As soon\nas she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and\nshe is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So\nthat's the story, Alyosha; I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman\nmyself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you\nI'll say: 'I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life, that's\nthe only good deed I've done.' So don't praise me, Alyosha, don't think me\ngood, I am bad, I am a wicked woman and you make me ashamed if you praise\nme. Eh, I must confess everything. Listen, Alyosha. I was so anxious to\nget hold of you that I promised Rakitin twenty-five roubles if he would\nbring you to me. Stay, Rakitin, wait!\"\n\nShe went with rapid steps to the table, opened a drawer, pulled out a\npurse and took from it a twenty-five rouble note.\n\n\"What nonsense! What nonsense!\" cried Rakitin, disconcerted.\n\n\"Take it. Rakitin, I owe it you, there's no fear of your refusing it, you\nasked for it yourself.\" And she threw the note to him.\n\n\"Likely I should refuse it,\" boomed Rakitin, obviously abashed, but\ncarrying off his confusion with a swagger. \"That will come in very handy;\nfools are made for wise men's profit.\"\n\n\"And now hold your tongue, Rakitin, what I am going to say now is not for\nyour ears. Sit down in that corner and keep quiet. You don't like us, so\nhold your tongue.\"\n\n\"What should I like you for?\" Rakitin snarled, not concealing his ill-\nhumor. He put the twenty-five rouble note in his pocket and he felt\nashamed at Alyosha's seeing it. He had reckoned on receiving his payment\nlater, without Alyosha's knowing of it, and now, feeling ashamed, he lost\nhis temper. Till that moment he had thought it discreet not to contradict\nGrushenka too flatly in spite of her snubbing, since he had something to\nget out of her. But now he, too, was angry:\n\n\"One loves people for some reason, but what have either of you done for\nme?\"\n\n\"You should love people without a reason, as Alyosha does.\"\n\n\"How does he love you? How has he shown it, that you make such a fuss\nabout it?\"\n\nGrushenka was standing in the middle of the room; she spoke with heat and\nthere were hysterical notes in her voice.\n\n\"Hush, Rakitin, you know nothing about us! And don't dare to speak to me\nlike that again. How dare you be so familiar! Sit in that corner and be\nquiet, as though you were my footman! And now, Alyosha, I'll tell you the\nwhole truth, that you may see what a wretch I am! I am not talking to\nRakitin, but to you. I wanted to ruin you, Alyosha, that's the holy truth;\nI quite meant to. I wanted to so much, that I bribed Rakitin to bring you.\nAnd why did I want to do such a thing? You knew nothing about it, Alyosha,\nyou turned away from me; if you passed me, you dropped your eyes. And I've\nlooked at you a hundred times before to-day; I began asking every one\nabout you. Your face haunted my heart. 'He despises me,' I thought; 'he\nwon't even look at me.' And I felt it so much at last that I wondered at\nmyself for being so frightened of a boy. I'll get him in my clutches and\nlaugh at him. I was full of spite and anger. Would you believe it, nobody\nhere dares talk or think of coming to Agrafena Alexandrovna with any evil\npurpose. Old Kuzma is the only man I have anything to do with here; I was\nbound and sold to him; Satan brought us together, but there has been no\none else. But looking at you, I thought, I'll get him in my clutches and\nlaugh at him. You see what a spiteful cur I am, and you called me your\nsister! And now that man who wronged me has come; I sit here waiting for a\nmessage from him. And do you know what that man has been to me? Five years\nago, when Kuzma brought me here, I used to shut myself up, that no one\nmight have sight or sound of me. I was a silly slip of a girl; I used to\nsit here sobbing; I used to lie awake all night, thinking: 'Where is he\nnow, the man who wronged me? He is laughing at me with another woman, most\nlikely. If only I could see him, if I could meet him again, I'd pay him\nout, I'd pay him out!' At night I used to lie sobbing into my pillow in\nthe dark, and I used to brood over it; I used to tear my heart on purpose\nand gloat over my anger. 'I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out!' That's what\nI used to cry out in the dark. And when I suddenly thought that I should\nreally do nothing to him, and that he was laughing at me then, or perhaps\nhad utterly forgotten me, I would fling myself on the floor, melt into\nhelpless tears, and lie there shaking till dawn. In the morning I would\nget up more spiteful than a dog, ready to tear the whole world to pieces.\nAnd then what do you think? I began saving money, I became hard-hearted,\ngrew stout--grew wiser, would you say? No, no one in the whole world sees\nit, no one knows it, but when night comes on, I sometimes lie as I did\nfive years ago, when I was a silly girl, clenching my teeth and crying all\nnight, thinking, 'I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out!' Do you hear? Well\nthen, now you understand me. A month ago a letter came to me--he was\ncoming, he was a widower, he wanted to see me. It took my breath away;\nthen I suddenly thought: 'If he comes and whistles to call me, I shall\ncreep back to him like a beaten dog.' I couldn't believe myself. Am I so\nabject? Shall I run to him or not? And I've been in such a rage with\nmyself all this month that I am worse than I was five years ago. Do you\nsee now, Alyosha, what a violent, vindictive creature I am? I have shown\nyou the whole truth! I played with Mitya to keep me from running to that\nother. Hush, Rakitin, it's not for you to judge me, I am not speaking to\nyou. Before you came in, I was lying here waiting, brooding, deciding my\nwhole future life, and you can never know what was in my heart. Yes,\nAlyosha, tell your young lady not to be angry with me for what happened\nthe day before yesterday.... Nobody in the whole world knows what I am\ngoing through now, and no one ever can know.... For perhaps I shall take a\nknife with me to-day, I can't make up my mind ...\"\n\nAnd at this \"tragic\" phrase Grushenka broke down, hid her face in her\nhands, flung herself on the sofa pillows, and sobbed like a little child.\n\nAlyosha got up and went to Rakitin.\n\n\"Misha,\" he said, \"don't be angry. She wounded you, but don't be angry.\nYou heard what she said just now? You mustn't ask too much of human\nendurance, one must be merciful.\"\n\nAlyosha said this at the instinctive prompting of his heart. He felt\nobliged to speak and he turned to Rakitin. If Rakitin had not been there,\nhe would have spoken to the air. But Rakitin looked at him ironically and\nAlyosha stopped short.\n\n\"You were so primed up with your elder's teaching last night that now you\nhave to let it off on me, Alexey, man of God!\" said Rakitin, with a smile\nof hatred.\n\n\"Don't laugh, Rakitin, don't smile, don't talk of the dead--he was better\nthan any one in the world!\" cried Alyosha, with tears in his voice. \"I\ndidn't speak to you as a judge but as the lowest of the judged. What am I\nbeside her? I came here seeking my ruin, and said to myself, 'What does it\nmatter?' in my cowardliness, but she, after five years in torment, as soon\nas any one says a word from the heart to her--it makes her forget\neverything, forgive everything, in her tears! The man who has wronged her\nhas come back, he sends for her and she forgives him everything, and\nhastens joyfully to meet him and she won't take a knife with her. She\nwon't! No, I am not like that. I don't know whether you are, Misha, but I\nam not like that. It's a lesson to me.... She is more loving than we....\nHave you heard her speak before of what she has just told us? No, you\nhaven't; if you had, you'd have understood her long ago ... and the person\ninsulted the day before yesterday must forgive her, too! She will, when\nshe knows ... and she shall know.... This soul is not yet at peace with\nitself, one must be tender with it ... there may be a treasure in that\nsoul....\"\n\nAlyosha stopped, because he caught his breath. In spite of his ill-humor\nRakitin looked at him with astonishment. He had never expected such a\ntirade from the gentle Alyosha.\n\n\"She's found some one to plead her cause! Why, are you in love with her?\nAgrafena Alexandrovna, our monk's really in love with you, you've made a\nconquest!\" he cried, with a coarse laugh.\n\nGrushenka lifted her head from the pillow and looked at Alyosha with a\ntender smile shining on her tear-stained face.\n\n\"Let him alone, Alyosha, my cherub; you see what he is, he is not a person\nfor you to speak to. Mihail Osipovitch,\" she turned to Rakitin, \"I meant\nto beg your pardon for being rude to you, but now I don't want to.\nAlyosha, come to me, sit down here.\" She beckoned to him with a happy\nsmile. \"That's right, sit here. Tell me,\" she shook him by the hand and\npeeped into his face, smiling, \"tell me, do I love that man or not? the\nman who wronged me, do I love him or not? Before you came, I lay here in\nthe dark, asking my heart whether I loved him. Decide for me, Alyosha, the\ntime has come, it shall be as you say. Am I to forgive him or not?\"\n\n\"But you have forgiven him already,\" said Alyosha, smiling.\n\n\"Yes, I really have forgiven him,\" Grushenka murmured thoughtfully. \"What\nan abject heart! To my abject heart!\" She snatched up a glass from the\ntable, emptied it at a gulp, lifted it in the air and flung it on the\nfloor. The glass broke with a crash. A little cruel line came into her\nsmile.\n\n\"Perhaps I haven't forgiven him, though,\" she said, with a sort of menace\nin her voice, and she dropped her eyes to the ground as though she were\ntalking to herself. \"Perhaps my heart is only getting ready to forgive. I\nshall struggle with my heart. You see, Alyosha, I've grown to love my\ntears in these five years.... Perhaps I only love my resentment, not him\n...\"\n\n\"Well, I shouldn't care to be in his shoes,\" hissed Rakitin.\n\n\"Well, you won't be, Rakitin, you'll never be in his shoes. You shall\nblack my shoes, Rakitin, that's the place you are fit for. You'll never\nget a woman like me ... and he won't either, perhaps ...\"\n\n\"Won't he? Then why are you dressed up like that?\" said Rakitin, with a\nvenomous sneer.\n\n\"Don't taunt me with dressing up, Rakitin, you don't know all that is in\nmy heart! If I choose to tear off my finery, I'll tear it off at once,\nthis minute,\" she cried in a resonant voice. \"You don't know what that\nfinery is for, Rakitin! Perhaps I shall see him and say: 'Have you ever\nseen me look like this before?' He left me a thin, consumptive cry-baby of\nseventeen. I'll sit by him, fascinate him and work him up. 'Do you see\nwhat I am like now?' I'll say to him; 'well, and that's enough for you, my\ndear sir, there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip!' That may be what\nthe finery is for, Rakitin.\" Grushenka finished with a malicious laugh.\n\"I'm violent and resentful, Alyosha, I'll tear off my finery, I'll destroy\nmy beauty, I'll scorch my face, slash it with a knife, and turn beggar. If\nI choose, I won't go anywhere now to see any one. If I choose, I'll send\nKuzma back all he has ever given me, to-morrow, and all his money and I'll\ngo out charing for the rest of my life. You think I wouldn't do it,\nRakitin, that I would not dare to do it? I would, I would, I could do it\ndirectly, only don't exasperate me ... and I'll send him about his\nbusiness, I'll snap my fingers in his face, he shall never see me again!\"\n\nShe uttered the last words in an hysterical scream, but broke down again,\nhid her face in her hands, buried it in the pillow and shook with sobs.\n\nRakitin got up.\n\n\"It's time we were off,\" he said, \"it's late, we shall be shut out of the\nmonastery.\"\n\nGrushenka leapt up from her place.\n\n\"Surely you don't want to go, Alyosha!\" she cried, in mournful surprise.\n\"What are you doing to me? You've stirred up my feeling, tortured me, and\nnow you'll leave me to face this night alone!\"\n\n\"He can hardly spend the night with you! Though if he wants to, let him!\nI'll go alone,\" Rakitin scoffed jeeringly.\n\n\"Hush, evil tongue!\" Grushenka cried angrily at him; \"you never said such\nwords to me as he has come to say.\"\n\n\"What has he said to you so special?\" asked Rakitin irritably.\n\n\"I can't say, I don't know. I don't know what he said to me, it went\nstraight to my heart; he has wrung my heart.... He is the first, the only\none who has pitied me, that's what it is. Why did you not come before, you\nangel?\" She fell on her knees before him as though in a sudden frenzy.\n\"I've been waiting all my life for some one like you, I knew that some one\nlike you would come and forgive me. I believed that, nasty as I am, some\none would really love me, not only with a shameful love!\"\n\n\"What have I done to you?\" answered Alyosha, bending over her with a\ntender smile, and gently taking her by the hands; \"I only gave you an\nonion, nothing but a tiny little onion, that was all!\"\n\nHe was moved to tears himself as he said it. At that moment there was a\nsudden noise in the passage, some one came into the hall. Grushenka jumped\nup, seeming greatly alarmed. Fenya ran noisily into the room, crying out:\n\n\"Mistress, mistress darling, a messenger has galloped up,\" she cried,\nbreathless and joyful. \"A carriage from Mokroe for you, Timofey the\ndriver, with three horses, they are just putting in fresh horses.... A\nletter, here's the letter, mistress.\"\n\nA letter was in her hand and she waved it in the air all the while she\ntalked. Grushenka snatched the letter from her and carried it to the\ncandle. It was only a note, a few lines. She read it in one instant.\n\n\"He has sent for me,\" she cried, her face white and distorted, with a wan\nsmile; \"he whistles! Crawl back, little dog!\"\n\nBut only for one instant she stood as though hesitating; suddenly the\nblood rushed to her head and sent a glow to her cheeks.\n\n\"I will go,\" she cried; \"five years of my life! Good-by! Good-by, Alyosha,\nmy fate is sealed. Go, go, leave me all of you, don't let me see you\nagain! Grushenka is flying to a new life.... Don't you remember evil\nagainst me either, Rakitin. I may be going to my death! Ugh! I feel as\nthough I were drunk!\"\n\nShe suddenly left them and ran into her bedroom.\n\n\"Well, she has no thoughts for us now!\" grumbled Rakitin. \"Let's go, or we\nmay hear that feminine shriek again. I am sick of all these tears and\ncries.\"\n\nAlyosha mechanically let himself be led out. In the yard stood a covered\ncart. Horses were being taken out of the shafts, men were running to and\nfro with a lantern. Three fresh horses were being led in at the open gate.\nBut when Alyosha and Rakitin reached the bottom of the steps, Grushenka's\nbedroom window was suddenly opened and she called in a ringing voice after\nAlyosha:\n\n\"Alyosha, give my greetings to your brother Mitya and tell him not to\nremember evil against me, though I have brought him misery. And tell him,\ntoo, in my words: 'Grushenka has fallen to a scoundrel, and not to you,\nnoble heart.' And add, too, that Grushenka loved him only one hour, only\none short hour she loved him--so let him remember that hour all his\nlife--say, 'Grushenka tells you to!' \"\n\nShe ended in a voice full of sobs. The window was shut with a slam.\n\n\"H'm, h'm!\" growled Rakitin, laughing, \"she murders your brother Mitya and\nthen tells him to remember it all his life! What ferocity!\"\n\nAlyosha made no reply, he seemed not to have heard. He walked fast beside\nRakitin as though in a terrible hurry. He was lost in thought and moved\nmechanically. Rakitin felt a sudden twinge as though he had been touched\non an open wound. He had expected something quite different by bringing\nGrushenka and Alyosha together. Something very different from what he had\nhoped for had happened.\n\n\"He is a Pole, that officer of hers,\" he began again, restraining himself;\n\"and indeed he is not an officer at all now. He served in the customs in\nSiberia, somewhere on the Chinese frontier, some puny little beggar of a\nPole, I expect. Lost his job, they say. He's heard now that Grushenka's\nsaved a little money, so he's turned up again--that's the explanation of\nthe mystery.\"\n\nAgain Alyosha seemed not to hear. Rakitin could not control himself.\n\n\"Well, so you've saved the sinner?\" he laughed spitefully. \"Have you\nturned the Magdalene into the true path? Driven out the seven devils, eh?\nSo you see the miracles you were looking out for just now have come to\npass!\"\n\n\"Hush, Rakitin,\" Alyosha answered with an aching heart.\n\n\"So you despise me now for those twenty-five roubles? I've sold my friend,\nyou think. But you are not Christ, you know, and I am not Judas.\"\n\n\"Oh, Rakitin, I assure you I'd forgotten about it,\" cried Alyosha, \"you\nremind me of it yourself....\"\n\nBut this was the last straw for Rakitin.\n\n\"Damnation take you all and each of you!\" he cried suddenly, \"why the\ndevil did I take you up? I don't want to know you from this time forward.\nGo alone, there's your road!\"\n\nAnd he turned abruptly into another street, leaving Alyosha alone in the\ndark. Alyosha came out of the town and walked across the fields to the\nmonastery.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. Cana Of Galilee\n\n\nIt was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned\nto the hermitage; the door-keeper let him in by a special entrance. It had\nstruck nine o'clock--the hour of rest and repose after a day of such\nagitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the\nelder's cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the\ncell but Father Paissy, reading the Gospel in solitude over the coffin,\nand the young novice Porfiry, who, exhausted by the previous night's\nconversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping the\ndeep sound sleep of youth on the floor of the other room. Though Father\nPaissy heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction.\nAlyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees\nand began to pray.\n\nHis soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings; no single sensation\nstood out distinctly; on the contrary, one drove out another in a slow,\ncontinual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to\nsay, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again he saw that coffin before him,\nthe hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant\ngrief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came\nin, he fell down before the coffin as before a holy shrine, but joy, joy\nwas glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was\nopen, the air was fresh and cool. \"So the smell must have become stronger,\nif they opened the window,\" thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the\nsmell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful and humiliating a\nfew hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began\nquietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically.\nFragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went\nout again at once, to be succeeded by others. But yet there was reigning\nin his soul a sense of the wholeness of things--something steadfast and\ncomforting--and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying\nardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love....\n\nBut when he had begun to pray, he passed suddenly to something else, and\nsank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it.\nHe began listening to what Father Paissy was reading, but worn out with\nexhaustion he gradually began to doze.\n\n\"_And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee;_\" read Father\nPaissy. \"_And the mother of Jesus was there; And both Jesus was called,\nand his disciples, to the marriage._\"\n\n\"Marriage? What's that?... A marriage!\" floated whirling through Alyosha's\nmind. \"There is happiness for her, too.... She has gone to the feast....\nNo, she has not taken the knife.... That was only a tragic phrase.... Well\n... tragic phrases should be forgiven, they must be. Tragic phrases\ncomfort the heart.... Without them, sorrow would be too heavy for men to\nbear. Rakitin has gone off to the back alley. As long as Rakitin broods\nover his wrongs, he will always go off to the back alley.... But the high\nroad ... The road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun\nis at the end of it.... Ah!... What's being read?\"...\n\n\"_And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have\nno wine_\" ... Alyosha heard.\n\n\"Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it, I love that\npassage: it's Cana of Galilee, the first miracle.... Ah, that miracle! Ah,\nthat sweet miracle! It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited,\nHe worked His first miracle to help men's gladness.... 'He who loves men\nloves their gladness, too' ... He was always repeating that, it was one of\nhis leading ideas.... 'There's no living without joy,' Mitya says.... Yes,\nMitya.... 'Everything that is true and good is always full of\nforgiveness,' he used to say that, too\" ...\n\n\"_Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what has it to do with thee or me? Mine\nhour is not yet come._\n\n\"_His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do\nit_\" ...\n\n\"Do it.... Gladness, the gladness of some poor, very poor, people.... Of\ncourse they were poor, since they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding....\nThe historians write that, in those days, the people living about the Lake\nof Gennesaret were the poorest that can possibly be imagined ... and\nanother great heart, that other great being, His Mother, knew that He had\ncome not only to make His great terrible sacrifice. She knew that His\nheart was open even to the simple, artless merrymaking of some obscure and\nunlearned people, who had warmly bidden Him to their poor wedding. 'Mine\nhour is not yet come,' He said, with a soft smile (He must have smiled\ngently to her). And, indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings\nHe had come down to earth? And yet He went and did as she asked Him....\nAh, he is reading again\"....\n\n\"_Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled\nthem up to the brim._\n\n\"_And he saith unto them, Draw out now and bear unto the governor of the\nfeast. And they bare it._\n\n\"_When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and\nknew not whence it was; (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the\ngovernor of the feast called the bridegroom,_\n\n\"_And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine;\nand when men have well drunk, that which is worse; but thou hast kept the\ngood wine until now._\"\n\n\"But what's this, what's this? Why is the room growing wider?... Ah, yes\n... It's the marriage, the wedding ... yes, of course. Here are the\nguests, here are the young couple sitting, and the merry crowd and ...\nWhere is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again the\nwalls are receding.... Who is getting up there from the great table?\nWhat!... He here, too? But he's in the coffin ... but he's here, too. He\nhas stood up, he sees me, he is coming here.... God!\"...\n\nYes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little, thin old man, with tiny\nwrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now,\nand he was in the same dress as he had worn yesterday sitting with them,\nwhen the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes\nwere shining. How was this, then? He, too, had been called to the feast.\nHe, too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee....\n\n\"Yes, my dear, I am called, too, called and bidden,\" he heard a soft voice\nsaying over him. \"Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You\ncome and join us too.\"\n\nIt was his voice, the voice of Father Zossima. And it must be he, since he\ncalled him!\n\nThe elder raised Alyosha by the hand and he rose from his knees.\n\n\"We are rejoicing,\" the little, thin old man went on. \"We are drinking the\nnew wine, the wine of new, great gladness; do you see how many guests?\nHere are the bride and bridegroom, here is the wise governor of the feast,\nhe is tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a\nbeggar, so I, too, am here. And many here have given only an onion\neach--only one little onion.... What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle\none, you, my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an\nonion to-day. Begin your work, dear one, begin it, gentle one!... Do you\nsee our Sun, do you see Him?\"\n\n\"I am afraid ... I dare not look,\" whispered Alyosha.\n\n\"Do not fear Him. He is terrible in His greatness, awful in His sublimity,\nbut infinitely merciful. He has made Himself like unto us from love and\nrejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine that the gladness of\nthe guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests, He is calling\nnew ones unceasingly for ever and ever.... There they are bringing new\nwine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels....\"\n\nSomething glowed in Alyosha's heart, something filled it till it ached,\ntears of rapture rose from his soul.... He stretched out his hands,\nuttered a cry and waked up.\n\nAgain the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading\nof the Gospel. But Alyosha did not listen to the reading. It was strange,\nhe had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet, and\nsuddenly, as though thrown forward, with three firm rapid steps he went\nright up to the coffin. His shoulder brushed against Father Paissy without\nhis noticing it. Father Paissy raised his eyes for an instant from his\nbook, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was\nhappening to the boy. Alyosha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at\nthe covered, motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the ikon on\nhis breast and the peaked cap with the octangular cross, on his head. He\nhad only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in\nhis ears. He was listening, still expecting other words, but suddenly he\nturned sharply and went out of the cell.\n\nHe did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down; his soul,\noverflowing with rapture, yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault\nof heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless\nabove him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the\nhorizon. The fresh, motionless, still night enfolded the earth. The white\ntowers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire\nsky. The gorgeous autumn flowers, in the beds round the house, were\nslumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the\nsilence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of\nthe stars....\n\nAlyosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did\nnot know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so\nirresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it weeping, sobbing\nand watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love\nit for ever and ever. \"Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love\nthose tears,\" echoed in his soul.\n\nWhat was he weeping over?\n\nOh! in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were\nshining to him from the abyss of space, and \"he was not ashamed of that\necstasy.\" There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of\nGod, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over \"in contact\nwith other worlds.\" He longed to forgive every one and for everything, and\nto beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for\neverything. \"And others are praying for me too,\" echoed again in his soul.\nBut with every instant he felt clearly and, as it were, tangibly, that\nsomething firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his\nsoul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his\nmind--and it was for all his life and for ever and ever. He had fallen on\nthe earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew and\nfelt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, all\nhis life long, could Alyosha forget that minute.\n\n\"Some one visited my soul in that hour,\" he used to say afterwards, with\nimplicit faith in his words.\n\nWithin three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of\nhis elder, who had bidden him \"sojourn in the world.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook VIII. Mitya Chapter I. Kuzma Samsonov\n\n\nBut Dmitri, to whom Grushenka, flying away to a new life, had left her\nlast greetings, bidding him remember the hour of her love for ever, knew\nnothing of what had happened to her, and was at that moment in a condition\nof feverish agitation and activity. For the last two days he had been in\nsuch an inconceivable state of mind that he might easily have fallen ill\nwith brain fever, as he said himself afterwards. Alyosha had not been able\nto find him the morning before, and Ivan had not succeeded in meeting him\nat the tavern on the same day. The people at his lodgings, by his orders,\nconcealed his movements.\n\nHe had spent those two days literally rushing in all directions,\n\"struggling with his destiny and trying to save himself,\" as he expressed\nit himself afterwards, and for some hours he even made a dash out of the\ntown on urgent business, terrible as it was to him to lose sight of\nGrushenka for a moment. All this was explained afterwards in detail, and\nconfirmed by documentary evidence; but for the present we will only note\nthe most essential incidents of those two terrible days immediately\npreceding the awful catastrophe, that broke so suddenly upon him.\n\nThough Grushenka had, it is true, loved him for an hour, genuinely and\nsincerely, yet she tortured him sometimes cruelly and mercilessly. The\nworst of it was that he could never tell what she meant to do. To prevail\nupon her by force or kindness was also impossible: she would yield to\nnothing. She would only have become angry and turned away from him\naltogether, he knew that well already. He suspected, quite correctly, that\nshe, too, was passing through an inward struggle, and was in a state of\nextraordinary indecision, that she was making up her mind to something,\nand unable to determine upon it. And so, not without good reason, he\ndivined, with a sinking heart, that at moments she must simply hate him\nand his passion. And so, perhaps, it was, but what was distressing\nGrushenka he did not understand. For him the whole tormenting question lay\nbetween him and Fyodor Pavlovitch.\n\nHere, we must note, by the way, one certain fact: he was firmly persuaded\nthat Fyodor Pavlovitch would offer, or perhaps had offered, Grushenka\nlawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptuary\nhoped to gain his object for three thousand roubles. Mitya had reached\nthis conclusion from his knowledge of Grushenka and her character. That\nwas how it was that he could believe at times that all Grushenka's\nuneasiness rose from not knowing which of them to choose, which was most\nto her advantage.\n\nStrange to say, during those days it never occurred to him to think of the\napproaching return of the \"officer,\" that is, of the man who had been such\na fatal influence in Grushenka's life, and whose arrival she was expecting\nwith such emotion and dread. It is true that of late Grushenka had been\nvery silent about it. Yet he was perfectly aware of a letter she had\nreceived a month ago from her seducer, and had heard of it from her own\nlips. He partly knew, too, what the letter contained. In a moment of spite\nGrushenka had shown him that letter, but to her astonishment he attached\nhardly any consequence to it. It would be hard to say why this was.\nPerhaps, weighed down by all the hideous horror of his struggle with his\nown father for this woman, he was incapable of imagining any danger more\nterrible, at any rate for the time. He simply did not believe in a suitor\nwho suddenly turned up again after five years' disappearance, still less\nin his speedy arrival. Moreover, in the \"officer's\" first letter which had\nbeen shown to Mitya, the possibility of his new rival's visit was very\nvaguely suggested. The letter was very indefinite, high-flown, and full of\nsentimentality. It must be noted that Grushenka had concealed from him the\nlast lines of the letter, in which his return was alluded to more\ndefinitely. He had, besides, noticed at that moment, he remembered\nafterwards, a certain involuntary proud contempt for this missive from\nSiberia on Grushenka's face. Grushenka told him nothing of what had passed\nlater between her and this rival; so that by degrees he had completely\nforgotten the officer's existence.\n\nHe felt that whatever might come later, whatever turn things might take,\nhis final conflict with Fyodor Pavlovitch was close upon him, and must be\ndecided before anything else. With a sinking heart he was expecting every\nmoment Grushenka's decision, always believing that it would come suddenly,\non the impulse of the moment. All of a sudden she would say to him: \"Take\nme, I'm yours for ever,\" and it would all be over. He would seize her and\nbear her away at once to the ends of the earth. Oh, then he would bear her\naway at once, as far, far away as possible; to the farthest end of Russia,\nif not of the earth, then he would marry her, and settle down with her\nincognito, so that no one would know anything about them, there, here, or\nanywhere. Then, oh, then, a new life would begin at once!\n\nOf this different, reformed and \"virtuous\" life (\"it must, it must be\nvirtuous\") he dreamed feverishly at every moment. He thirsted for that\nreformation and renewal. The filthy morass, in which he had sunk of his\nown free will, was too revolting to him, and, like very many men in such\ncases, he put faith above all in change of place. If only it were not for\nthese people, if only it were not for these circumstances, if only he\ncould fly away from this accursed place--he would be altogether\nregenerated, would enter on a new path. That was what he believed in, and\nwhat he was yearning for.\n\nBut all this could only be on condition of the first, the _happy_ solution\nof the question. There was another possibility, a different and awful\nending. Suddenly she might say to him: \"Go away. I have just come to terms\nwith Fyodor Pavlovitch. I am going to marry him and don't want you\"--and\nthen ... but then.... But Mitya did not know what would happen then. Up to\nthe last hour he didn't know. That must be said to his credit. He had no\ndefinite intentions, had planned no crime. He was simply watching and\nspying in agony, while he prepared himself for the first, happy solution\nof his destiny. He drove away any other idea, in fact. But for that ending\na quite different anxiety arose, a new, incidental, but yet fatal and\ninsoluble difficulty presented itself.\n\nIf she were to say to him: \"I'm yours; take me away,\" how could he take\nher away? Where had he the means, the money to do it? It was just at this\ntime that all sources of revenue from Fyodor Pavlovitch, doles which had\ngone on without interruption for so many years, ceased. Grushenka had\nmoney, of course, but with regard to this Mitya suddenly evinced\nextraordinary pride; he wanted to carry her away and begin the new life\nwith her himself, at his own expense, not at hers. He could not conceive\nof taking her money, and the very idea caused him a pang of intense\nrepulsion. I won't enlarge on this fact or analyze it here, but confine\nmyself to remarking that this was his attitude at the moment. All this may\nhave arisen indirectly and unconsciously from the secret stings of his\nconscience for the money of Katerina Ivanovna that he had dishonestly\nappropriated. \"I've been a scoundrel to one of them, and I shall be a\nscoundrel again to the other directly,\" was his feeling then, as he\nexplained after: \"and when Grushenka knows, she won't care for such a\nscoundrel.\"\n\nWhere then was he to get the means, where was he to get the fateful money?\nWithout it, all would be lost and nothing could be done, \"and only because\nI hadn't the money. Oh, the shame of it!\"\n\nTo anticipate things: he did, perhaps, know where to get the money, knew,\nperhaps, where it lay at that moment. I will say no more of this here, as\nit will all be clear later. But his chief trouble, I must explain however\nobscurely, lay in the fact that to have that sum he knew of, to _have the\nright_ to take it, he must first restore Katerina Ivanovna's three\nthousand--if not, \"I'm a common pickpocket, I'm a scoundrel, and I don't\nwant to begin a new life as a scoundrel,\" Mitya decided. And so he made up\nhis mind to move heaven and earth to return Katerina Ivanovna that three\nthousand, and that _first of all_. The final stage of this decision, so to\nsay, had been reached only during the last hours, that is, after his last\ninterview with Alyosha, two days before, on the high-road, on the evening\nwhen Grushenka had insulted Katerina Ivanovna, and Mitya, after hearing\nAlyosha's account of it, had admitted that he was a scoundrel, and told\nhim to tell Katerina Ivanovna so, if it could be any comfort to her. After\nparting from his brother on that night, he had felt in his frenzy that it\nwould be better \"to murder and rob some one than fail to pay my debt to\nKatya. I'd rather every one thought me a robber and a murderer, I'd rather\ngo to Siberia than that Katya should have the right to say that I deceived\nher and stole her money, and used her money to run away with Grushenka and\nbegin a new life! That I can't do!\" So Mitya decided, grinding his teeth,\nand he might well fancy at times that his brain would give way. But\nmeanwhile he went on struggling....\n\nStrange to say, though one would have supposed there was nothing left for\nhim but despair--for what chance had he, with nothing in the world, to\nraise such a sum?--yet to the very end he persisted in hoping that he would\nget that three thousand, that the money would somehow come to him of\nitself, as though it might drop from heaven. That is just how it is with\npeople who, like Dmitri, have never had anything to do with money, except\nto squander what has come to them by inheritance without any effort of\ntheir own, and have no notion how money is obtained. A whirl of the most\nfantastic notions took possession of his brain immediately after he had\nparted with Alyosha two days before, and threw his thoughts into a tangle\nof confusion. This is how it was he pitched first on a perfectly wild\nenterprise. And perhaps to men of that kind in such circumstances the most\nimpossible, fantastic schemes occur first, and seem most practical.\n\nHe suddenly determined to go to Samsonov, the merchant who was Grushenka's\nprotector, and to propose a \"scheme\" to him, and by means of it to obtain\nfrom him at once the whole of the sum required. Of the commercial value of\nhis scheme he had no doubt, not the slightest, and was only uncertain how\nSamsonov would look upon his freak, supposing he were to consider it from\nany but the commercial point of view. Though Mitya knew the merchant by\nsight, he was not acquainted with him and had never spoken a word to him.\nBut for some unknown reason he had long entertained the conviction that\nthe old reprobate, who was lying at death's door, would perhaps not at all\nobject now to Grushenka's securing a respectable position, and marrying a\nman \"to be depended upon.\" And he believed not only that he would not\nobject, but that this was what he desired, and, if opportunity arose, that\nhe would be ready to help. From some rumor, or perhaps from some stray\nword of Grushenka's, he had gathered further that the old man would\nperhaps prefer him to Fyodor Pavlovitch for Grushenka.\n\nPossibly many of the readers of my novel will feel that in reckoning on\nsuch assistance, and being ready to take his bride, so to speak, from the\nhands of her protector, Dmitri showed great coarseness and want of\ndelicacy. I will only observe that Mitya looked upon Grushenka's past as\nsomething completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity and\nresolved with all the fervor of his passion that when once Grushenka told\nhim she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a\nnew Grushenka and a new Dmitri, free from every vice. They would forgive\none another and would begin their lives afresh. As for Kuzma Samsonov,\nDmitri looked upon him as a man who had exercised a fateful influence in\nthat remote past of Grushenka's, though she had never loved him, and who\nwas now himself a thing of the past, completely done with, and, so to say,\nnon-existent. Besides, Mitya hardly looked upon him as a man at all, for\nit was known to every one in the town that he was only a shattered wreck,\nwhose relations with Grushenka had changed their character and were now\nsimply paternal, and that this had been so for a long time.\n\nIn any case there was much simplicity on Mitya's part in all this, for in\nspite of all his vices, he was a very simple-hearted man. It was an\ninstance of this simplicity that Mitya was seriously persuaded that, being\non the eve of his departure for the next world, old Kuzma must sincerely\nrepent of his past relations with Grushenka, and that she had no more\ndevoted friend and protector in the world than this, now harmless old man.\n\nAfter his conversation with Alyosha, at the cross-roads, he hardly slept\nall night, and at ten o'clock next morning, he was at the house of\nSamsonov and telling the servant to announce him. It was a very large and\ngloomy old house of two stories, with a lodge and outhouses. In the lower\nstory lived Samsonov's two married sons with their families, his old\nsister, and his unmarried daughter. In the lodge lived two of his clerks,\none of whom also had a large family. Both the lodge and the lower story\nwere overcrowded, but the old man kept the upper floor to himself, and\nwould not even let the daughter live there with him, though she waited\nupon him, and in spite of her asthma was obliged at certain fixed hours,\nand at any time he might call her, to run upstairs to him from below.\n\nThis upper floor contained a number of large rooms kept purely for show,\nfurnished in the old-fashioned merchant style, with long monotonous rows\nof clumsy mahogany chairs along the walls, with glass chandeliers under\nshades, and gloomy mirrors on the walls. All these rooms were entirely\nempty and unused, for the old man kept to one room, a small, remote\nbedroom, where he was waited upon by an old servant with a kerchief on her\nhead, and by a lad, who used to sit on the locker in the passage. Owing to\nhis swollen legs, the old man could hardly walk at all, and was only\nrarely lifted from his leather arm-chair, when the old woman supporting\nhim led him up and down the room once or twice. He was morose and taciturn\neven with this old woman.\n\nWhen he was informed of the arrival of the \"captain,\" he at once refused\nto see him. But Mitya persisted and sent his name up again. Samsonov\nquestioned the lad minutely: What he looked like? Whether he was drunk?\nWas he going to make a row? The answer he received was: that he was sober,\nbut wouldn't go away. The old man again refused to see him. Then Mitya,\nwho had foreseen this, and purposely brought pencil and paper with him,\nwrote clearly on the piece of paper the words: \"On most important business\nclosely concerning Agrafena Alexandrovna,\" and sent it up to the old man.\n\nAfter thinking a little Samsonov told the lad to take the visitor to the\ndrawing-room, and sent the old woman downstairs with a summons to his\nyounger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a man over\nsix foot and of exceptional physical strength, who was closely-shaven and\ndressed in the European style, though his father still wore a kaftan and a\nbeard, came at once without a comment. All the family trembled before the\nfather. The old man had sent for this giant, not because he was afraid of\nthe \"captain\" (he was by no means of a timorous temper), but in order to\nhave a witness in case of any emergency. Supported by his son and the\nservant-lad, he waddled at last into the drawing-room. It may be assumed\nthat he felt considerable curiosity. The drawing-room in which Mitya was\nawaiting him was a vast, dreary room that laid a weight of depression on\nthe heart. It had a double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and\nthree immense chandeliers with glass lusters covered with shades.\n\nMitya was sitting on a little chair at the entrance, awaiting his fate\nwith nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door,\nseventy feet away, Mitya jumped up at once, and with his long, military\nstride walked to meet him. Mitya was well dressed, in a frock-coat,\nbuttoned up, with a round hat and black gloves in his hands, just as he\nhad been three days before at the elder's, at the family meeting with his\nfather and brothers. The old man waited for him, standing dignified and\nunbending, and Mitya felt at once that he had looked him through and\nthrough as he advanced. Mitya was greatly impressed, too, with Samsonov's\nimmensely swollen face. His lower lip, which had always been thick, hung\ndown now, looking like a bun. He bowed to his guest in dignified silence,\nmotioned him to a low chair by the sofa, and, leaning on his son's arm he\nbegan lowering himself on to the sofa opposite, groaning painfully, so\nthat Mitya, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and\nsensitively conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the\ndignified person he had ventured to disturb.\n\n\"What is it you want of me, sir?\" said the old man, deliberately,\ndistinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated.\n\nMitya started, leapt up, but sat down again. Then he began at once\nspeaking with loud, nervous haste, gesticulating, and in a positive\nfrenzy. He was unmistakably a man driven into a corner, on the brink of\nruin, catching at the last straw, ready to sink if he failed. Old Samsonov\nprobably grasped all this in an instant, though his face remained cold and\nimmovable as a statue's.\n\n\"Most honored sir, Kuzma Kuzmitch, you have no doubt heard more than once\nof my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, who robbed me\nof my inheritance from my mother ... seeing the whole town is gossiping\nabout it ... for here every one's gossiping of what they shouldn't ... and\nbesides, it might have reached you through Grushenka ... I beg your\npardon, through Agrafena Alexandrovna ... Agrafena Alexandrovna, the lady\nfor whom I have the highest respect and esteem ...\"\n\nSo Mitya began, and broke down at the first sentence. We will not\nreproduce his speech word for word, but will only summarize the gist of\nit. Three months ago, he said, he had of express intention (Mitya\npurposely used these words instead of \"intentionally\") consulted a lawyer\nin the chief town of the province, \"a distinguished lawyer, Kuzma\nKuzmitch, Pavel Pavlovitch Korneplodov. You have perhaps heard of him? A\nman of vast intellect, the mind of a statesman ... he knows you, too ...\nspoke of you in the highest terms ...\" Mitya broke down again. But these\nbreaks did not deter him. He leapt instantly over the gaps, and struggled\non and on.\n\nThis Korneplodov, after questioning him minutely, and inspecting the\ndocuments he was able to bring him (Mitya alluded somewhat vaguely to\nthese documents, and slurred over the subject with special haste),\nreported that they certainly might take proceedings concerning the village\nof Tchermashnya, which ought, he said, to have come to him, Mitya, from\nhis mother, and so checkmate the old villain, his father ... \"because\nevery door was not closed and justice might still find a loophole.\" In\nfact, he might reckon on an additional sum of six or even seven thousand\nroubles from Fyodor Pavlovitch, as Tchermashnya was worth, at least,\ntwenty-five thousand, he might say twenty-eight thousand, in fact,\n\"thirty, thirty, Kuzma Kuzmitch, and would you believe it, I didn't get\nseventeen from that heartless man!\" So he, Mitya, had thrown the business\nup, for the time, knowing nothing about the law, but on coming here was\nstruck dumb by a cross-claim made upon him (here Mitya went adrift again\nand again took a flying leap forward), \"so will not you, excellent and\nhonored Kuzma Kuzmitch, be willing to take up all my claims against that\nunnatural monster, and pay me a sum down of only three thousand?... You\nsee, you cannot, in any case, lose over it. On my honor, my honor, I swear\nthat. Quite the contrary, you may make six or seven thousand instead of\nthree.\" Above all, he wanted this concluded that very day.\n\n\"I'll do the business with you at a notary's, or whatever it is ... in\nfact, I'm ready to do anything.... I'll hand over all the deeds ...\nwhatever you want, sign anything ... and we could draw up the agreement at\nonce ... and if it were possible, if it were only possible, that very\nmorning.... You could pay me that three thousand, for there isn't a\ncapitalist in this town to compare with you, and so would save me from ...\nwould save me, in fact ... for a good, I might say an honorable action....\nFor I cherish the most honorable feelings for a certain person, whom you\nknow well, and care for as a father. I would not have come, indeed, if it\nhad not been as a father. And, indeed, it's a struggle of three in this\nbusiness, for it's fate--that's a fearful thing, Kuzma Kuzmitch! A tragedy,\nKuzma Kuzmitch, a tragedy! And as you've dropped out long ago, it's a tug-\nof-war between two. I'm expressing it awkwardly, perhaps, but I'm not a\nliterary man. You see, I'm on the one side, and that monster on the other.\nSo you must choose. It's either I or the monster. It all lies in your\nhands--the fate of three lives, and the happiness of two.... Excuse me, I'm\nmaking a mess of it, but you understand ... I see from your venerable eyes\nthat you understand ... and if you don't understand, I'm done for ... so\nyou see!\"\n\nMitya broke off his clumsy speech with that, \"so you see!\" and jumping up\nfrom his seat, awaited the answer to his foolish proposal. At the last\nphrase he had suddenly become hopelessly aware that it had all fallen\nflat, above all, that he had been talking utter nonsense.\n\n\"How strange it is! On the way here it seemed all right, and now it's\nnothing but nonsense.\" The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind.\nAll the while he had been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching\nhim with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment in\nsuspense, Kuzma Kuzmitch pronounced at last in the most positive and\nchilling tone:\n\n\"Excuse me, we don't undertake such business.\"\n\nMitya suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him.\n\n\"What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmitch?\" he muttered, with a pale smile. \"I\nsuppose it's all up with me--what do you think?\"\n\n\"Excuse me....\"\n\nMitya remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a\nmovement in the old man's face. He started.\n\n\"You see, sir, business of that sort's not in our line,\" said the old man\nslowly. \"There's the court, and the lawyers--it's a perfect misery. But if\nyou like, there is a man here you might apply to.\"\n\n\"Good heavens! Who is it? You're my salvation, Kuzma Kuzmitch,\" faltered\nMitya.\n\n\"He doesn't live here, and he's not here just now. He is a peasant, he\ndoes business in timber. His name is Lyagavy. He's been haggling with\nFyodor Pavlovitch for the last year, over your copse at Tchermashnya. They\ncan't agree on the price, maybe you've heard? Now he's come back again and\nis staying with the priest at Ilyinskoe, about twelve versts from the\nVolovya station. He wrote to me, too, about the business of the copse,\nasking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovitch means to go and see him himself. So if\nyou were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to make Lyagavy the\noffer you've made me, he might possibly--\"\n\n\"A brilliant idea!\" Mitya interrupted ecstatically. \"He's the very man, it\nwould just suit him. He's haggling with him for it, being asked too much,\nand here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property\nitself. Ha ha ha!\"\n\nAnd Mitya suddenly went off into his short, wooden laugh, startling\nSamsonov.\n\n\"How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmitch?\" cried Mitya effusively.\n\n\"Don't mention it,\" said Samsonov, inclining his head.\n\n\"But you don't know, you've saved me. Oh, it was a true presentiment\nbrought me to you.... So now to this priest!\"\n\n\"No need of thanks.\"\n\n\"I'll make haste and fly there. I'm afraid I've overtaxed your strength. I\nshall never forget it. It's a Russian says that, Kuzma Kuzmitch, a R-r-\nrussian!\"\n\n\"To be sure!\"\n\nMitya seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in the\nold man's eye. Mitya drew back his hand, but at once blamed himself for\nhis mistrustfulness.\n\n\"It's because he's tired,\" he thought.\n\n\"For her sake! For her sake, Kuzma Kuzmitch! You understand that it's for\nher,\" he cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed, turned\nsharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door without\nlooking back. He was trembling with delight.\n\n\"Everything was on the verge of ruin and my guardian angel saved me,\" was\nthe thought in his mind. And if such a business man as Samsonov (a most\nworthy old man, and what dignity!) had suggested this course, then ...\nthen success was assured. He would fly off immediately. \"I will be back\nbefore night, I shall be back at night and the thing is done. Could the\nold man have been laughing at me?\" exclaimed Mitya, as he strode towards\nhis lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing, but that the advice was\npractical \"from such a business man\" with an understanding of the\nbusiness, with an understanding of this Lyagavy (curious surname!). Or--the\nold man was laughing at him.\n\nAlas! The second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when\nthe catastrophe had happened, old Samsonov himself confessed, laughing,\nthat he had made a fool of the \"captain.\" He was a cold, spiteful and\nsarcastic man, liable to violent antipathies. Whether it was the\n\"captain's\" excited face, or the foolish conviction of the \"rake and\nspendthrift,\" that he, Samsonov, could be taken in by such a cock-and-bull\nstory as his scheme, or his jealousy of Grushenka, in whose name this\n\"scapegrace\" had rushed in on him with such a tale to get money which\nworked on the old man, I can't tell. But at the instant when Mitya stood\nbefore him, feeling his legs grow weak under him, and frantically\nexclaiming that he was ruined, at that moment the old man looked at him\nwith intense spite, and resolved to make a laughing-stock of him. When\nMitya had gone, Kuzma Kuzmitch, white with rage, turned to his son and\nbade him see to it that that beggar be never seen again, and never\nadmitted even into the yard, or else he'd--\n\nHe did not utter his threat. But even his son, who often saw him enraged,\ntrembled with fear. For a whole hour afterwards, the old man was shaking\nwith anger, and by evening he was worse, and sent for the doctor.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. Lyagavy\n\n\nSo he must drive at full speed, and he had not the money for horses. He\nhad forty kopecks, and that was all, all that was left after so many years\nof prosperity! But he had at home an old silver watch which had long\nceased to go. He snatched it up and carried it to a Jewish watchmaker who\nhad a shop in the market-place. The Jew gave him six roubles for it.\n\n\"And I didn't expect that,\" cried Mitya, ecstatically. (He was still in a\nstate of ecstasy.) He seized his six roubles and ran home. At home he\nborrowed three roubles from the people of the house, who loved him so much\nthat they were pleased to give it him, though it was all they had. Mitya\nin his excitement told them on the spot that his fate would be decided\nthat day, and he described, in desperate haste, the whole scheme he had\nput before Samsonov, the latter's decision, his own hopes for the future,\nand so on. These people had been told many of their lodger's secrets\nbefore, and so looked upon him as a gentleman who was not at all proud,\nand almost one of themselves. Having thus collected nine roubles Mitya\nsent for posting-horses to take him to the Volovya station. This was how\nthe fact came to be remembered and established that \"at midday, on the day\nbefore the event, Mitya had not a farthing, and that he had sold his watch\nto get money and had borrowed three roubles from his landlord, all in the\npresence of witnesses.\"\n\nI note this fact, later on it will be apparent why I do so.\n\nThough he was radiant with the joyful anticipation that he would at last\nsolve all his difficulties, yet, as he drew near Volovya station, he\ntrembled at the thought of what Grushenka might be doing in his absence.\nWhat if she made up her mind to-day to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch? This was\nwhy he had gone off without telling her and why he left orders with his\nlandlady not to let out where he had gone, if any one came to inquire for\nhim.\n\n\"I must, I must get back to-night,\" he repeated, as he was jolted along in\nthe cart, \"and I dare say I shall have to bring this Lyagavy back here ...\nto draw up the deed.\" So mused Mitya, with a throbbing heart, but alas!\nhis dreams were not fated to be carried out.\n\nTo begin with, he was late, taking a short cut from Volovya station which\nturned out to be eighteen versts instead of twelve. Secondly, he did not\nfind the priest at home at Ilyinskoe; he had gone off to a neighboring\nvillage. While Mitya, setting off there with the same exhausted horses,\nwas looking for him, it was almost dark.\n\nThe priest, a shy and amiable looking little man, informed him at once\nthat though Lyagavy had been staying with him at first, he was now at\nSuhoy Possyolok, that he was staying the night in the forester's cottage,\nas he was buying timber there too. At Mitya's urgent request that he would\ntake him to Lyagavy at once, and by so doing \"save him, so to speak,\" the\npriest agreed, after some demur, to conduct him to Suhoy Possyolok; his\ncuriosity was obviously aroused. But, unluckily, he advised their going on\nfoot, as it would not be \"much over\" a verst. Mitya, of course, agreed,\nand marched off with his yard-long strides, so that the poor priest almost\nran after him. He was a very cautious man, though not old.\n\nMitya at once began talking to him, too, of his plans, nervously and\nexcitedly asking advice in regard to Lyagavy, and talking all the way. The\npriest listened attentively, but gave little advice. He turned off Mitya's\nquestions with: \"I don't know. Ah, I can't say. How can I tell?\" and so\non. When Mitya began to speak of his quarrel with his father over his\ninheritance, the priest was positively alarmed, as he was in some way\ndependent on Fyodor Pavlovitch. He inquired, however, with surprise, why\nhe called the peasant-trader Gorstkin, Lyagavy, and obligingly explained\nto Mitya that, though the man's name really was Lyagavy, he was never\ncalled so, as he would be grievously offended at the name, and that he\nmust be sure to call him Gorstkin, \"or you'll do nothing with him; he\nwon't even listen to you,\" said the priest in conclusion.\n\nMitya was somewhat surprised for a moment, and explained that that was\nwhat Samsonov had called him. On hearing this fact, the priest dropped the\nsubject, though he would have done well to put into words his doubt\nwhether, if Samsonov had sent him to that peasant, calling him Lyagavy,\nthere was not something wrong about it and he was turning him into\nridicule. But Mitya had no time to pause over such trifles. He hurried,\nstriding along, and only when he reached Suhoy Possyolok did he realize\nthat they had come not one verst, nor one and a half, but at least three.\nThis annoyed him, but he controlled himself.\n\nThey went into the hut. The forester lived in one half of the hut, and\nGorstkin was lodging in the other, the better room the other side of the\npassage. They went into that room and lighted a tallow candle. The hut was\nextremely overheated. On the table there was a samovar that had gone out,\na tray with cups, an empty rum bottle, a bottle of vodka partly full, and\nsome half-eaten crusts of wheaten bread. The visitor himself lay stretched\nat full length on the bench, with his coat crushed up under his head for a\npillow, snoring heavily. Mitya stood in perplexity.\n\n\"Of course I must wake him. My business is too important. I've come in\nsuch haste. I'm in a hurry to get back to-day,\" he said in great\nagitation. But the priest and the forester stood in silence, not giving\ntheir opinion. Mitya went up and began trying to wake him himself; he\ntried vigorously, but the sleeper did not wake.\n\n\"He's drunk,\" Mitya decided. \"Good Lord! What am I to do? What am I to\ndo?\" And, terribly impatient, he began pulling him by the arms, by the\nlegs, shaking his head, lifting him up and making him sit on the bench.\nYet, after prolonged exertions, he could only succeed in getting the\ndrunken man to utter absurd grunts, and violent, but inarticulate oaths.\n\n\"No, you'd better wait a little,\" the priest pronounced at last, \"for he's\nobviously not in a fit state.\"\n\n\"He's been drinking the whole day,\" the forester chimed in.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Mitya. \"If only you knew how important it is to me\nand how desperate I am!\"\n\n\"No, you'd better wait till morning,\" the priest repeated.\n\n\"Till morning? Mercy! that's impossible!\"\n\nAnd in his despair he was on the point of attacking the sleeping man\nagain, but stopped short at once, realizing the uselessness of his\nefforts. The priest said nothing, the sleepy forester looked gloomy.\n\n\"What terrible tragedies real life contrives for people,\" said Mitya, in\ncomplete despair. The perspiration was streaming down his face. The priest\nseized the moment to put before him, very reasonably, that, even if he\nsucceeded in wakening the man, he would still be drunk and incapable of\nconversation. \"And your business is important,\" he said, \"so you'd\ncertainly better put it off till morning.\" With a gesture of despair Mitya\nagreed.\n\n\"Father, I will stay here with a light, and seize the favorable moment. As\nsoon as he wakes I'll begin. I'll pay you for the light,\" he said to the\nforester, \"for the night's lodging, too; you'll remember Dmitri Karamazov.\nOnly, Father, I don't know what we're to do with you. Where will you\nsleep?\"\n\n\"No, I'm going home. I'll take his horse and get home,\" he said,\nindicating the forester. \"And now I'll say good-by. I wish you all\nsuccess.\"\n\nSo it was settled. The priest rode off on the forester's horse, delighted\nto escape, though he shook his head uneasily, wondering whether he ought\nnot next day to inform his benefactor Fyodor Pavlovitch of this curious\nincident, \"or he may in an unlucky hour hear of it, be angry, and withdraw\nhis favor.\"\n\nThe forester, scratching himself, went back to his room without a word,\nand Mitya sat on the bench to \"catch the favorable moment,\" as he\nexpressed it. Profound dejection clung about his soul like a heavy mist. A\nprofound, intense dejection! He sat thinking, but could reach no\nconclusion. The candle burnt dimly, a cricket chirped; it became\ninsufferably close in the overheated room. He suddenly pictured the\ngarden, the path behind the garden, the door of his father's house\nmysteriously opening and Grushenka running in. He leapt up from the bench.\n\n\"It's a tragedy!\" he said, grinding his teeth. Mechanically he went up to\nthe sleeping man and looked in his face. He was a lean, middle-aged\npeasant, with a very long face, flaxen curls, and a long, thin, reddish\nbeard, wearing a blue cotton shirt and a black waistcoat, from the pocket\nof which peeped the chain of a silver watch. Mitya looked at his face with\nintense hatred, and for some unknown reason his curly hair particularly\nirritated him.\n\nWhat was insufferably humiliating was, that after leaving things of such\nimportance and making such sacrifices, he, Mitya, utterly worn out, should\nwith business of such urgency be standing over this dolt on whom his whole\nfate depended, while he snored as though there were nothing the matter, as\nthough he'd dropped from another planet.\n\n\"Oh, the irony of fate!\" cried Mitya, and, quite losing his head, he fell\nagain to rousing the tipsy peasant. He roused him with a sort of ferocity,\npulled at him, pushed him, even beat him; but after five minutes of vain\nexertions, he returned to his bench in helpless despair, and sat down.\n\n\"Stupid! Stupid!\" cried Mitya. \"And how dishonorable it all is!\" something\nmade him add. His head began to ache horribly. \"Should he fling it up and\ngo away altogether?\" he wondered. \"No, wait till to-morrow now. I'll stay\non purpose. What else did I come for? Besides, I've no means of going. How\nam I to get away from here now? Oh, the idiocy of it!\"\n\nBut his head ached more and more. He sat without moving, and unconsciously\ndozed off and fell asleep as he sat. He seemed to have slept for two hours\nor more. He was waked up by his head aching so unbearably that he could\nhave screamed. There was a hammering in his temples, and the top of his\nhead ached. It was a long time before he could wake up fully and\nunderstand what had happened to him.\n\nAt last he realized that the room was full of charcoal fumes from the\nstove, and that he might die of suffocation. And the drunken peasant still\nlay snoring. The candle guttered and was about to go out. Mitya cried out,\nand ran staggering across the passage into the forester's room. The\nforester waked up at once, but hearing that the other room was full of\nfumes, to Mitya's surprise and annoyance, accepted the fact with strange\nunconcern, though he did go to see to it.\n\n\"But he's dead, he's dead! and ... what am I to do then?\" cried Mitya\nfrantically.\n\nThey threw open the doors, opened a window and the chimney. Mitya brought\na pail of water from the passage. First he wetted his own head, then,\nfinding a rag of some sort, dipped it into the water, and put it on\nLyagavy's head. The forester still treated the matter contemptuously, and\nwhen he opened the window said grumpily:\n\n\"It'll be all right, now.\"\n\nHe went back to sleep, leaving Mitya a lighted lantern. Mitya fussed about\nthe drunken peasant for half an hour, wetting his head, and gravely\nresolved not to sleep all night. But he was so worn out that when he sat\ndown for a moment to take breath, he closed his eyes, unconsciously\nstretched himself full length on the bench and slept like the dead.\n\nIt was dreadfully late when he waked. It was somewhere about nine o'clock.\nThe sun was shining brightly in the two little windows of the hut. The\ncurly-headed peasant was sitting on the bench and had his coat on. He had\nanother samovar and another bottle in front of him. Yesterday's bottle had\nalready been finished, and the new one was more than half empty. Mitya\njumped up and saw at once that the cursed peasant was drunk again,\nhopelessly and incurably. He stared at him for a moment with wide opened\neyes. The peasant was silently and slyly watching him, with insulting\ncomposure, and even a sort of contemptuous condescension, so Mitya\nfancied. He rushed up to him.\n\n\"Excuse me, you see ... I ... you've most likely heard from the forester\nhere in the hut. I'm Lieutenant Dmitri Karamazov, the son of the old\nKaramazov whose copse you are buying.\"\n\n\"That's a lie!\" said the peasant, calmly and confidently.\n\n\"A lie? You know Fyodor Pavlovitch?\"\n\n\"I don't know any of your Fyodor Pavlovitches,\" said the peasant, speaking\nthickly.\n\n\"You're bargaining with him for the copse, for the copse. Do wake up, and\ncollect yourself. Father Pavel of Ilyinskoe brought me here. You wrote to\nSamsonov, and he has sent me to you,\" Mitya gasped breathlessly.\n\n\"You're l-lying!\" Lyagavy blurted out again. Mitya's legs went cold.\n\n\"For mercy's sake! It isn't a joke! You're drunk, perhaps. Yet you can\nspeak and understand ... or else ... I understand nothing!\"\n\n\"You're a painter!\"\n\n\"For mercy's sake! I'm Karamazov, Dmitri Karamazov. I have an offer to\nmake you, an advantageous offer ... very advantageous offer, concerning\nthe copse!\"\n\nThe peasant stroked his beard importantly.\n\n\"No, you've contracted for the job and turned out a scamp. You're a\nscoundrel!\"\n\n\"I assure you you're mistaken,\" cried Mitya, wringing his hands in\ndespair. The peasant still stroked his beard, and suddenly screwed up his\neyes cunningly.\n\n\"No, you show me this: you tell me the law that allows roguery. D'you\nhear? You're a scoundrel! Do you understand that?\"\n\nMitya stepped back gloomily, and suddenly \"something seemed to hit him on\nthe head,\" as he said afterwards. In an instant a light seemed to dawn in\nhis mind, \"a light was kindled and I grasped it all.\" He stood, stupefied,\nwondering how he, after all a man of intelligence, could have yielded to\nsuch folly, have been led into such an adventure, and have kept it up for\nalmost twenty-four hours, fussing round this Lyagavy, wetting his head.\n\n\"Why, the man's drunk, dead drunk, and he'll go on drinking now for a\nweek; what's the use of waiting here? And what if Samsonov sent me here on\npurpose? What if she--? Oh, God, what have I done?\"\n\nThe peasant sat watching him and grinning. Another time Mitya might have\nkilled the fool in a fury, but now he felt as weak as a child. He went\nquietly to the bench, took up his overcoat, put it on without a word, and\nwent out of the hut. He did not find the forester in the next room; there\nwas no one there. He took fifty kopecks in small change out of his pocket\nand put them on the table for his night's lodging, the candle, and the\ntrouble he had given. Coming out of the hut he saw nothing but forest all\nround. He walked at hazard, not knowing which way to turn out of the hut,\nto the right or to the left. Hurrying there the evening before with the\npriest, he had not noticed the road. He had no revengeful feeling for\nanybody, even for Samsonov, in his heart. He strode along a narrow forest\npath, aimless, dazed, without heeding where he was going. A child could\nhave knocked him down, so weak was he in body and soul. He got out of the\nforest somehow, however, and a vista of fields, bare after the harvest,\nstretched as far as the eye could see.\n\n\"What despair! What death all round!\" he repeated, striding on and on.\n\nHe was saved by meeting an old merchant who was being driven across\ncountry in a hired trap. When he overtook him, Mitya asked the way, and it\nturned out that the old merchant, too, was going to Volovya. After some\ndiscussion Mitya got into the trap. Three hours later they arrived. At\nVolovya, Mitya at once ordered posting-horses to drive to the town, and\nsuddenly realized that he was appallingly hungry. While the horses were\nbeing harnessed, an omelette was prepared for him. He ate it all in an\ninstant, ate a huge hunk of bread, ate a sausage, and swallowed three\nglasses of vodka. After eating, his spirits and his heart grew lighter. He\nflew towards the town, urged on the driver, and suddenly made a new and\n\"unalterable\" plan to procure that \"accursed money\" before evening. \"And\nto think, only to think that a man's life should be ruined for the sake of\nthat paltry three thousand!\" he cried, contemptuously. \"I'll settle it to-\nday.\" And if it had not been for the thought of Grushenka and of what\nmight have happened to her, which never left him, he would perhaps have\nbecome quite cheerful again.... But the thought of her was stabbing him to\nthe heart every moment, like a sharp knife.\n\nAt last they arrived, and Mitya at once ran to Grushenka.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. Gold-Mines\n\n\nThis was the visit of Mitya of which Grushenka had spoken to Rakitin with\nsuch horror. She was just then expecting the \"message,\" and was much\nrelieved that Mitya had not been to see her that day or the day before.\nShe hoped that \"please God he won't come till I'm gone away,\" and he\nsuddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her\nhands she suggested at once that he should walk with her to Samsonov's,\nwhere she said she absolutely must go \"to settle his accounts,\" and when\nMitya accompanied her at once, she said good-by to him at the gate, making\nhim promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Mitya, too,\nwas delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonov's she\ncould not be going to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, \"if only she's not lying,\" he\nadded at once. But he thought she was not lying from what he saw.\n\nHe was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman,\nat once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to\nher, and how she may be betraying him, but, when shaken, heartbroken,\nconvinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to her; at the first glance\nat her face, her gay, laughing, affectionate face, he revives at once,\nlays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his\njealousy.\n\nAfter leaving Grushenka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much\nstill to do that day! But a load had been lifted from his heart, anyway.\n\n\"Now I must only make haste and find out from Smerdyakov whether anything\nhappened there last night, whether, by any chance, she went to Fyodor\nPavlovitch; ough!\" floated through his mind.\n\nBefore he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in\nhis restless heart.\n\nJealousy! \"Othello was not jealous, he was trustful,\" observed Pushkin.\nAnd that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great\npoet. Othello's soul was shattered and his whole outlook clouded simply\nbecause _his ideal was destroyed_. But Othello did not begin hiding,\nspying, peeping. He was trustful, on the contrary. He had to be led up,\npushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the\nidea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible\nto picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous\nman can descend without a qualm of conscience. And yet it's not as though\nthe jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of\nlofty feelings, whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice, may yet\nhide under tables, bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the\nlowest ignominy of spying and eavesdropping.\n\nOthello was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness--not incapable\nof forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it--though his soul was as\ninnocent and free from malice as a babe's. It is not so with the really\njealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make up their\nmind to and overlook, and what they can forgive! The jealous are the\nreadiest of all to forgive, and all women know it. The jealous man can\nforgive extraordinarily quickly (though, of course, after a violent\nscene), and he is able to forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved,\nthe very kisses and embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be\nconvinced that it has all been \"for the last time,\" and that his rival\nwill vanish from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth,\nor that he himself will carry her away somewhere, where that dreaded rival\nwill not get near her. Of course the reconciliation is only for an hour.\nFor, even if the rival did disappear next day, he would invent another one\nand would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what there was in a love\nthat had to be so watched over, what a love could be worth that needed\nsuch strenuous guarding. But that the jealous will never understand. And\nyet among them are men of noble hearts. It is remarkable, too, that those\nvery men of noble hearts, standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and\nspying, never feel the stings of conscience at that moment, anyway, though\nthey understand clearly enough with their \"noble hearts\" the shameful\ndepths to which they have voluntarily sunk.\n\nAt the sight of Grushenka, Mitya's jealousy vanished, and, for an instant\nhe became trustful and generous, and positively despised himself for his\nevil feelings. But it only proved that, in his love for the woman, there\nwas an element of something far higher than he himself imagined, that it\nwas not only a sensual passion, not only the \"curve of her body,\" of which\nhe had talked to Alyosha. But, as soon as Grushenka had gone, Mitya began\nto suspect her of all the low cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no\nsting of conscience at it.\n\nAnd so jealousy surged up in him again. He had, in any case, to make\nhaste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a small,\ntemporary loan of money. The nine roubles had almost all gone on his\nexpedition. And, as we all know, one can't take a step without money. But\nhe had thought over in the cart where he could get a loan. He had a brace\nof fine dueling pistols in a case, which he had not pawned till then\nbecause he prized them above all his possessions.\n\nIn the \"Metropolis\" tavern he had some time since made acquaintance with a\nyoung official and had learnt that this very opulent bachelor was\npassionately fond of weapons. He used to buy pistols, revolvers, daggers,\nhang them on his wall and show them to acquaintances. He prided himself on\nthem, and was quite a specialist on the mechanism of the revolver. Mitya,\nwithout stopping to think, went straight to him, and offered to pawn his\npistols to him for ten roubles. The official, delighted, began trying to\npersuade him to sell them outright. But Mitya would not consent, so the\nyoung man gave him ten roubles, protesting that nothing would induce him\nto take interest. They parted friends.\n\nMitya was in haste; he rushed towards Fyodor Pavlovitch's by the back way,\nto his arbor, to get hold of Smerdyakov as soon as possible. In this way\nthe fact was established that three or four hours before a certain event,\nof which I shall speak later on, Mitya had not a farthing, and pawned for\nten roubles a possession he valued, though, three hours later, he was in\npossession of thousands.... But I am anticipating. From Marya Kondratyevna\n(the woman living near Fyodor Pavlovitch's) he learned the very disturbing\nfact of Smerdyakov's illness. He heard the story of his fall in the\ncellar, his fit, the doctor's visit, Fyodor Pavlovitch's anxiety; he heard\nwith interest, too, that his brother Ivan had set off that morning for\nMoscow.\n\n\"Then he must have driven through Volovya before me,\" thought Dmitri, but\nhe was terribly distressed about Smerdyakov. \"What will happen now? Who'll\nkeep watch for me? Who'll bring me word?\" he thought. He began greedily\nquestioning the women whether they had seen anything the evening before.\nThey quite understood what he was trying to find out, and completely\nreassured him. No one had been there. Ivan Fyodorovitch had been there the\nnight; everything had been perfectly as usual. Mitya grew thoughtful. He\nwould certainly have to keep watch to-day, but where? Here or at\nSamsonov's gate? He decided that he must be on the look out both here and\nthere, and meanwhile ... meanwhile.... The difficulty was that he had to\ncarry out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure\nof its success, but he must not delay acting upon it. Mitya resolved to\nsacrifice an hour to it: \"In an hour I shall know everything, I shall\nsettle everything, and then, then, first of all to Samsonov's. I'll\ninquire whether Grushenka's there and instantly be back here again, stay\ntill eleven, and then to Samsonov's again to bring her home.\" This was\nwhat he decided.\n\nHe flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, dressed, and\nwent to Madame Hohlakov's. Alas! he had built his hopes on her. He had\nresolved to borrow three thousand from that lady. And what was more, he\nfelt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to lend it to him. It\nmay be wondered why, if he felt so certain, he had not gone to her at\nfirst, one of his own sort, so to speak, instead of to Samsonov, a man he\ndid not know, who was not of his own class, and to whom he hardly knew how\nto speak.\n\nBut the fact was that he had never known Madame Hohlakov well, and had\nseen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could not\nendure him. She had detested him from the first because he was engaged to\nKaterina Ivanovna, while she had, for some reason, suddenly conceived the\ndesire that Katerina Ivanovna should throw him over, and marry the\n\"charming, chivalrously refined Ivan, who had such excellent manners.\"\nMitya's manners she detested. Mitya positively laughed at her, and had\nonce said about her that she was just as lively and at her ease as she was\nuncultivated. But that morning in the cart a brilliant idea had struck\nhim: \"If she is so anxious I should not marry Katerina Ivanovna\" (and he\nknew she was positively hysterical upon the subject) \"why should she\nrefuse me now that three thousand, just to enable me to leave Katya and\nget away from her for ever. These spoilt fine ladies, if they set their\nhearts on anything, will spare no expense to satisfy their caprice.\nBesides, she's so rich,\" Mitya argued.\n\nAs for his \"plan\" it was just the same as before; it consisted of the\noffer of his rights to Tchermashnya--but not with a commercial object, as\nit had been with Samsonov, not trying to allure the lady with the\npossibility of making a profit of six or seven thousand--but simply as a\nsecurity for the debt. As he worked out this new idea, Mitya was enchanted\nwith it, but so it always was with him in all his undertakings, in all his\nsudden decisions. He gave himself up to every new idea with passionate\nenthusiasm. Yet, when he mounted the steps of Madame Hohlakov's house he\nfelt a shiver of fear run down his spine. At that moment he saw fully, as\na mathematical certainty, that this was his last hope, that if this broke\ndown, nothing else was left him in the world, but to \"rob and murder some\none for the three thousand.\" It was half-past seven when he rang at the\nbell.\n\nAt first fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was announced he\nwas received with extraordinary rapidity. \"As though she were waiting for\nme,\" thought Mitya, and as soon as he had been led to the drawing-room,\nthe lady of the house herself ran in, and declared at once that she was\nexpecting him.\n\n\"I was expecting you! I was expecting you! Though I'd no reason to suppose\nyou would come to see me, as you will admit yourself. Yet, I did expect\nyou. You may marvel at my instinct, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but I was\nconvinced all the morning that you would come.\"\n\n\"That is certainly wonderful, madam,\" observed Mitya, sitting down limply,\n\"but I have come to you on a matter of great importance.... On a matter of\nsupreme importance for me, that is, madam ... for me alone ... and I\nhasten--\"\n\n\"I know you've come on most important business, Dmitri Fyodorovitch; it's\nnot a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous\n(have you heard about Father Zossima?). This is a case of mathematics: you\ncouldn't help coming, after all that has passed with Katerina Ivanovna;\nyou couldn't, you couldn't, that's a mathematical certainty.\"\n\n\"The realism of actual life, madam, that's what it is. But allow me to\nexplain--\"\n\n\"Realism indeed, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I'm all for realism now. I've seen\ntoo much of miracles. You've heard that Father Zossima is dead?\"\n\n\"No, madam, it's the first time I've heard of it.\" Mitya was a little\nsurprised. The image of Alyosha rose to his mind.\n\n\"Last night, and only imagine--\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said Mitya, \"I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a desperate\nposition, and that if you don't help me, everything will come to grief,\nand I first of all. Excuse me for the triviality of the expression, but\nI'm in a fever--\"\n\n\"I know, I know that you're in a fever. You could hardly fail to be, and\nwhatever you may say to me, I know beforehand. I have long been thinking\nover your destiny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I am watching over it and studying\nit.... Oh, believe me, I'm an experienced doctor of the soul, Dmitri\nFyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"Madam, if you are an experienced doctor, I'm certainly an experienced\npatient,\" said Mitya, with an effort to be polite, \"and I feel that if you\nare watching over my destiny in this way, you will come to my help in my\nruin, and so allow me, at least to explain to you the plan with which I\nhave ventured to come to you ... and what I am hoping of you.... I have\ncome, madam--\"\n\n\"Don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for help, you're\nnot the first I have helped, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You have most likely\nheard of my cousin, Madame Belmesov. Her husband was ruined, 'had come to\ngrief,' as you characteristically express it, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I\nrecommended him to take to horse-breeding, and now he's doing well. Have\nyou any idea of horse-breeding, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?\"\n\n\"Not the faintest, madam; ah, madam, not the faintest!\" cried Mitya, in\nnervous impatience, positively starting from his seat. \"I simply implore\nyou, madam, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes of free speech that\nI may just explain to you everything, the whole plan with which I have\ncome. Besides, I am short of time. I'm in a fearful hurry,\" Mitya cried\nhysterically, feeling that she was just going to begin talking again, and\nhoping to cut her short. \"I have come in despair ... in the last gasp of\ndespair, to beg you to lend me the sum of three thousand, a loan, but on\nsafe, most safe security, madam, with the most trustworthy guarantees!\nOnly let me explain--\"\n\n\"You must tell me all that afterwards, afterwards!\" Madame Hohlakov with a\ngesture demanded silence in her turn, \"and whatever you may tell me, I\nknow it all beforehand; I've told you so already. You ask for a certain\nsum, for three thousand, but I can give you more, immeasurably more, I\nwill save you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but you must listen to me.\"\n\nMitya started from his seat again.\n\n\"Madam, will you really be so good!\" he cried, with strong feeling. \"Good\nGod, you've saved me! You have saved a man from a violent death, from a\nbullet.... My eternal gratitude--\"\n\n\"I will give you more, infinitely more than three thousand!\" cried Madame\nHohlakov, looking with a radiant smile at Mitya's ecstasy.\n\n\"Infinitely? But I don't need so much. I only need that fatal three\nthousand, and on my part I can give security for that sum with infinite\ngratitude, and I propose a plan which--\"\n\n\"Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, it's said and done.\" Madame Hohlakov cut him\nshort, with the modest triumph of beneficence: \"I have promised to save\nyou, and I will save you. I will save you as I did Belmesov. What do you\nthink of the gold-mines, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?\"\n\n\"Of the gold-mines, madam? I have never thought anything about them.\"\n\n\"But I have thought of them for you. Thought of them over and over again.\nI have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a hundred\ntimes as you've walked past, saying to myself: That's a man of energy who\nought to be at the gold-mines. I've studied your gait and come to the\nconclusion: that's a man who would find gold.\"\n\n\"From my gait, madam?\" said Mitya, smiling.\n\n\"Yes, from your gait. You surely don't deny that character can be told\nfrom the gait, Dmitri Fyodorovitch? Science supports the idea. I'm all for\nscience and realism now. After all this business with Father Zossima,\nwhich has so upset me, from this very day I'm a realist and I want to\ndevote myself to practical usefulness. I'm cured. 'Enough!' as Turgenev\nsays.\"\n\n\"But, madam, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me--\"\n\n\"It is yours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" Madame Hohlakov cut in at once. \"The\nmoney is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand, but three million,\nDmitri Fyodorovitch, in less than no time. I'll make you a present of the\nidea: you shall find gold-mines, make millions, return and become a\nleading man, and wake us up and lead us to better things. Are we to leave\nit all to the Jews? You will found institutions and enterprises of all\nsorts. You will help the poor, and they will bless you. This is the age of\nrailways, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You'll become famous and indispensable to\nthe Department of Finance, which is so badly off at present. The\ndepreciation of the rouble keeps me awake at night, Dmitri Fyodorovitch;\npeople don't know that side of me--\"\n\n\"Madam, madam!\" Dmitri interrupted with an uneasy presentiment. \"I shall\nindeed, perhaps, follow your advice, your wise advice, madam.... I shall\nperhaps set off ... to the gold-mines.... I'll come and see you again\nabout it ... many times, indeed ... but now, that three thousand you so\ngenerously ... oh, that would set me free, and if you could to-day ... you\nsee, I haven't a minute, a minute to lose to-day--\"\n\n\"Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, enough!\" Madame Hohlakov interrupted\nemphatically. \"The question is, will you go to the gold-mines or not; have\nyou quite made up your mind? Answer yes or no.\"\n\n\"I will go, madam, afterwards.... I'll go where you like ... but now--\"\n\n\"Wait!\" cried Madame Hohlakov. And jumping up and running to a handsome\nbureau with numerous little drawers, she began pulling out one drawer\nafter another, looking for something with desperate haste.\n\n\"The three thousand,\" thought Mitya, his heart almost stopping, \"and at\nthe instant ... without any papers or formalities ... that's doing things\nin gentlemanly style! She's a splendid woman, if only she didn't talk so\nmuch!\"\n\n\"Here!\" cried Madame Hohlakov, running back joyfully to Mitya, \"here is\nwhat I was looking for!\"\n\nIt was a tiny silver ikon on a cord, such as is sometimes worn next the\nskin with a cross.\n\n\"This is from Kiev, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" she went on reverently, \"from\nthe relics of the Holy Martyr, Varvara. Let me put it on your neck myself,\nand with it dedicate you to a new life, to a new career.\"\n\nAnd she actually put the cord round his neck, and began arranging it. In\nextreme embarrassment, Mitya bent down and helped her, and at last he got\nit under his neck-tie and collar through his shirt to his chest.\n\n\"Now you can set off,\" Madame Hohlakov pronounced, sitting down\ntriumphantly in her place again.\n\n\"Madam, I am so touched. I don't know how to thank you, indeed ... for\nsuch kindness, but ... If only you knew how precious time is to me....\nThat sum of money, for which I shall be indebted to your generosity....\nOh, madam, since you are so kind, so touchingly generous to me,\" Mitya\nexclaimed impulsively, \"then let me reveal to you ... though, of course,\nyou've known it a long time ... that I love somebody here.... I have been\nfalse to Katya ... Katerina Ivanovna I should say.... Oh, I've behaved\ninhumanly, dishonorably to her, but I fell in love here with another woman\n... a woman whom you, madam, perhaps, despise, for you know everything\nalready, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three\nthousand now--\"\n\n\"Leave everything, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" Madame Hohlakov interrupted in\nthe most decisive tone. \"Leave everything, especially women. Gold-mines\nare your goal, and there's no place for women there. Afterwards, when you\ncome back rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the\nhighest society. That will be a modern girl, a girl of education and\nadvanced ideas. By that time the dawning woman question will have gained\nground, and the new woman will have appeared.\"\n\n\"Madam, that's not the point, not at all....\" Mitya clasped his hands in\nentreaty.\n\n\"Yes, it is, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, just what you need; the very thing\nyou're yearning for, though you don't realize it yourself. I am not at all\nopposed to the present woman movement, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The\ndevelopment of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the\nnear future--that's my ideal. I've a daughter myself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\npeople don't know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author,\nShtchedrin, on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much about the\nvocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two\nlines: 'I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman.\nPersevere.' And I signed myself, 'A Mother.' I thought of signing myself\n'A contemporary Mother,' and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple\n'Mother'; there's more moral beauty in that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. And the\nword 'contemporary' might have reminded him of '_The Contemporary_'--a\npainful recollection owing to the censorship.... Good Heavens, what is the\nmatter!\"\n\n\"Madam!\" cried Mitya, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in\nhelpless entreaty. \"You will make me weep if you delay what you have so\ngenerously--\"\n\n\"Oh, do weep, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, do weep! That's a noble feeling ...\nsuch a path lies open before you! Tears will ease your heart, and later on\nyou will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose\nto share your joy with me--\"\n\n\"But allow me, too!\" Mitya cried suddenly. \"For the last time I entreat\nyou, tell me, can I have the sum you promised me to-day, if not, when may\nI come for it?\"\n\n\"What sum, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?\"\n\n\"The three thousand you promised me ... that you so generously--\"\n\n\"Three thousand? Roubles? Oh, no, I haven't got three thousand,\" Madame\nHohlakov announced with serene amazement. Mitya was stupefied.\n\n\"Why, you said just now ... you said ... you said it was as good as in my\nhands--\"\n\n\"Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. In that case you\nmisunderstood me. I was talking of the gold-mines. It's true I promised\nyou more, infinitely more than three thousand, I remember it all now, but\nI was referring to the gold-mines.\"\n\n\"But the money? The three thousand?\" Mitya exclaimed, awkwardly.\n\n\"Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Dmitri\nFyodorovitch. I'm quarreling with my steward about it, and I've just\nborrowed five hundred roubles from Miuesov, myself. No, no, I've no money.\nAnd, do you know, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, if I had, I wouldn't give it to\nyou. In the first place I never lend money. Lending money means losing\nfriends. And I wouldn't give it to you particularly. I wouldn't give it\nyou, because I like you and want to save you, for all you need is the\ngold-mines, the gold-mines, the gold-mines!\"\n\n\"Oh, the devil!\" roared Mitya, and with all his might brought his fist\ndown on the table.\n\n\"Aie! Aie!\" cried Madame Hohlakov, alarmed, and she flew to the other end\nof the drawing-room.\n\nMitya spat on the ground, and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the\nhouse, into the street, into the darkness! He walked like one possessed,\nand beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself\ntwo days previously, before Alyosha, the last time he saw him in the dark,\non the road. What those blows upon his breast signified, _on that spot_,\nand what he meant by it--that was, for the time, a secret which was known\nto no one in the world, and had not been told even to Alyosha. But that\nsecret meant for him more than disgrace; it meant ruin, suicide. So he had\ndetermined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand that would pay\nhis debt to Katerina Ivanovna, and so remove from his breast, from _that\nspot on his breast_, the shame he carried upon it, that weighed on his\nconscience. All this will be fully explained to the reader later on, but\nnow that his last hope had vanished, this man, so strong in appearance,\nburst out crying like a little child a few steps from the Hohlakovs'\nhouse. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his\ntears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly\nbecame aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing\nwail from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down.\n\n\"Good Lord, you've nearly killed me! Why don't you look where you're\ngoing, scapegrace?\"\n\n\"Why, it's you!\" cried Mitya, recognizing the old woman in the dark. It\nwas the old servant who waited on Samsonov, whom Mitya had particularly\nnoticed the day before.\n\n\"And who are you, my good sir?\" said the old woman, in quite a different\nvoice. \"I don't know you in the dark.\"\n\n\"You live at Kuzma Kuzmitch's. You're the servant there?\"\n\n\"Just so, sir, I was only running out to Prohoritch's.... But I don't know\nyou now.\"\n\n\"Tell me, my good woman, is Agrafena Alexandrovna there now?\" said Mitya,\nbeside himself with suspense. \"I saw her to the house some time ago.\"\n\n\"She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while, and went off again.\"\n\n\"What? Went away?\" cried Mitya. \"When did she go?\"\n\n\"Why, as soon as she came. She only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma\nKuzmitch a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away.\"\n\n\"You're lying, damn you!\" roared Mitya.\n\n\"Aie! Aie!\" shrieked the old woman, but Mitya had vanished.\n\nHe ran with all his might to the house where Grushenka lived. At the\nmoment he reached it, Grushenka was on her way to Mokroe. It was not more\nthan a quarter of an hour after her departure.\n\nFenya was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matryona, in the\nkitchen when \"the captain\" ran in. Fenya uttered a piercing shriek on\nseeing him.\n\n\"You scream?\" roared Mitya, \"where is she?\"\n\nBut without giving the terror-stricken Fenya time to utter a word, he fell\nall of a heap at her feet.\n\n\"Fenya, for Christ's sake, tell me, where is she?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear, I don't know. You may kill me\nbut I can't tell you.\" Fenya swore and protested. \"You went out with her\nyourself not long ago--\"\n\n\"She came back!\"\n\n\"Indeed she didn't. By God I swear she didn't come back.\"\n\n\"You're lying!\" shouted Mitya. \"From your terror I know where she is.\"\n\nHe rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily.\nBut she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste, or she\nmight not have fared so well. But as he ran, he surprised both Fenya and\nold Matryona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar,\nwith a pestle in it, a small brass pestle, not much more than six inches\nlong. Mitya already had opened the door with one hand when, with the\nother, he snatched up the pestle, and thrust it in his side-pocket.\n\n\"Oh, Lord! He's going to murder some one!\" cried Fenya, flinging up her\nhands.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. In The Dark\n\n\nWhere was he running? \"Where could she be except at Fyodor Pavlovitch's?\nShe must have run straight to him from Samsonov's, that was clear now. The\nwhole intrigue, the whole deceit was evident.\" ... It all rushed whirling\nthrough his mind. He did not run to Marya Kondratyevna's. \"There was no\nneed to go there ... not the slightest need ... he must raise no alarm ...\nthey would run and tell directly.... Marya Kondratyevna was clearly in the\nplot, Smerdyakov too, he too, all had been bought over!\"\n\nHe formed another plan of action: he ran a long way round Fyodor\nPavlovitch's house, crossing the lane, running down Dmitrovsky Street,\nthen over the little bridge, and so came straight to the deserted alley at\nthe back, which was empty and uninhabited, with, on one side the hurdle\nfence of a neighbor's kitchen-garden, on the other the strong high fence,\nthat ran all round Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. Here he chose a spot,\napparently the very place, where according to the tradition, he knew\nLizaveta had once climbed over it: \"If she could climb over it,\" the\nthought, God knows why, occurred to him, \"surely I can.\" He did in fact\njump up, and instantly contrived to catch hold of the top of the fence.\nThen he vigorously pulled himself up and sat astride on it. Close by, in\nthe garden stood the bath-house, but from the fence he could see the\nlighted windows of the house too.\n\n\"Yes, the old man's bedroom is lighted up. She's there!\" and he leapt from\nthe fence into the garden. Though he knew Grigory was ill and very likely\nSmerdyakov, too, and that there was no one to hear him, he instinctively\nhid himself, stood still, and began to listen. But there was dead silence\non all sides and, as though of design, complete stillness, not the\nslightest breath of wind.\n\n\"And naught but the whispering silence,\" the line for some reason rose to\nhis mind. \"If only no one heard me jump over the fence! I think not.\"\nStanding still for a minute, he walked softly over the grass in the\ngarden, avoiding the trees and shrubs. He walked slowly, creeping\nstealthily at every step, listening to his own footsteps. It took him five\nminutes to reach the lighted window. He remembered that just under the\nwindow there were several thick and high bushes of elder and whitebeam.\nThe door from the house into the garden on the left-hand side, was shut;\nhe had carefully looked on purpose to see, in passing. At last he reached\nthe bushes and hid behind them. He held his breath. \"I must wait now,\" he\nthought, \"to reassure them, in case they heard my footsteps and are\nlistening ... if only I don't cough or sneeze.\"\n\nHe waited two minutes. His heart was beating violently, and, at moments,\nhe could scarcely breathe. \"No, this throbbing at my heart won't stop,\" he\nthought. \"I can't wait any longer.\" He was standing behind a bush in the\nshadow. The light of the window fell on the front part of the bush.\n\n\"How red the whitebeam berries are!\" he murmured, not knowing why. Softly\nand noiselessly, step by step, he approached the window, and raised\nhimself on tiptoe. All Fyodor Pavlovitch's bedroom lay open before him. It\nwas not a large room, and was divided in two parts by a red screen,\n\"Chinese,\" as Fyodor Pavlovitch used to call it. The word \"Chinese\"\nflashed into Mitya's mind, \"and behind the screen, is Grushenka,\" thought\nMitya. He began watching Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was wearing his new\nstriped-silk dressing-gown, which Mitya had never seen, and a silk cord\nwith tassels round the waist. A clean, dandified shirt of fine linen with\ngold studs peeped out under the collar of the dressing-gown. On his head\nFyodor Pavlovitch had the same red bandage which Alyosha had seen.\n\n\"He has got himself up,\" thought Mitya.\n\nHis father was standing near the window, apparently lost in thought.\nSuddenly he jerked up his head, listened a moment, and hearing nothing\nwent up to the table, poured out half a glass of brandy from a decanter\nand drank it off. Then he uttered a deep sigh, again stood still a moment,\nwalked carelessly up to the looking-glass on the wall, with his right hand\nraised the red bandage on his forehead a little, and began examining his\nbruises and scars, which had not yet disappeared.\n\n\"He's alone,\" thought Mitya, \"in all probability he's alone.\"\n\nFyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the looking-glass, turned suddenly to\nthe window and looked out. Mitya instantly slipped away into the shadow.\n\n\"She may be there behind the screen. Perhaps she's asleep by now,\" he\nthought, with a pang at his heart. Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the\nwindow. \"He's looking for her out of the window, so she's not there. Why\nshould he stare out into the dark? He's wild with impatience.\" ... Mitya\nslipped back at once, and fell to gazing in at the window again. The old\nman was sitting down at the table, apparently disappointed. At last he put\nhis elbow on the table, and laid his right cheek against his hand. Mitya\nwatched him eagerly.\n\n\"He's alone, he's alone!\" he repeated again. \"If she were here, his face\nwould be different.\"\n\nStrange to say, a queer, irrational vexation rose up in his heart that she\nwas not here. \"It's not that she's not here,\" he explained to himself,\nimmediately, \"but that I can't tell for certain whether she is or not.\"\nMitya remembered afterwards that his mind was at that moment exceptionally\nclear, that he took in everything to the slightest detail, and missed no\npoint. But a feeling of misery, the misery of uncertainty and indecision,\nwas growing in his heart with every instant. \"Is she here or not?\" The\nangry doubt filled his heart, and suddenly, making up his mind, he put out\nhis hand and softly knocked on the window frame. He knocked the signal the\nold man had agreed upon with Smerdyakov, twice slowly and then three times\nmore quickly, the signal that meant \"Grushenka is here!\"\n\nThe old man started, jerked up his head, and, jumping up quickly, ran to\nthe window. Mitya slipped away into the shadow. Fyodor Pavlovitch opened\nthe window and thrust his whole head out.\n\n\"Grushenka, is it you? Is it you?\" he said, in a sort of trembling half-\nwhisper. \"Where are you, my angel, where are you?\" He was fearfully\nagitated and breathless.\n\n\"He's alone.\" Mitya decided.\n\n\"Where are you?\" cried the old man again; and he thrust his head out\nfarther, thrust it out to the shoulders, gazing in all directions, right\nand left. \"Come here, I've a little present for you. Come, I'll show\nyou....\"\n\n\"He means the three thousand,\" thought Mitya.\n\n\"But where are you? Are you at the door? I'll open it directly.\"\n\nAnd the old man almost climbed out of the window, peering out to the\nright, where there was a door into the garden, trying to see into the\ndarkness. In another second he would certainly have run out to open the\ndoor without waiting for Grushenka's answer.\n\nMitya looked at him from the side without stirring. The old man's profile\nthat he loathed so, his pendent Adam's apple, his hooked nose, his lips\nthat smiled in greedy expectation, were all brightly lighted up by the\nslanting lamplight falling on the left from the room. A horrible fury of\nhatred suddenly surged up in Mitya's heart: \"There he was, his rival, the\nman who had tormented him, had ruined his life!\" It was a rush of that\nsudden, furious, revengeful anger of which he had spoken, as though\nforeseeing it, to Alyosha, four days ago in the arbor, when, in answer to\nAlyosha's question, \"How can you say you'll kill our father?\" \"I don't\nknow, I don't know,\" he had said then. \"Perhaps I shall not kill him,\nperhaps I shall. I'm afraid he'll suddenly be so loathsome to me at that\nmoment. I hate his double chin, his nose, his eyes, his shameless grin. I\nfeel a personal repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of, that's what may be\ntoo much for me.\" ... This personal repulsion was growing unendurable.\nMitya was beside himself, he suddenly pulled the brass pestle out of his\npocket.\n\n                  -------------------------------------\n\n\"God was watching over me then,\" Mitya himself said afterwards. At that\nvery moment Grigory waked up on his bed of sickness. Earlier in the\nevening he had undergone the treatment which Smerdyakov had described to\nIvan. He had rubbed himself all over with vodka mixed with a secret, very\nstrong decoction, had drunk what was left of the mixture while his wife\nrepeated a \"certain prayer\" over him, after which he had gone to bed.\nMarfa Ignatyevna had tasted the stuff, too, and, being unused to strong\ndrink, slept like the dead beside her husband.\n\nBut Grigory waked up in the night, quite suddenly, and, after a moment's\nreflection, though he immediately felt a sharp pain in his back, he sat up\nin bed. Then he deliberated again, got up and dressed hurriedly. Perhaps\nhis conscience was uneasy at the thought of sleeping while the house was\nunguarded \"in such perilous times.\" Smerdyakov, exhausted by his fit, lay\nmotionless in the next room. Marfa Ignatyevna did not stir. \"The stuff's\nbeen too much for the woman,\" Grigory thought, glancing at her, and\ngroaning, he went out on the steps. No doubt he only intended to look out\nfrom the steps, for he was hardly able to walk, the pain in his back and\nhis right leg was intolerable. But he suddenly remembered that he had not\nlocked the little gate into the garden that evening. He was the most\npunctual and precise of men, a man who adhered to an unchangeable routine,\nand habits that lasted for years. Limping and writhing with pain he went\ndown the steps and towards the garden. Yes, the gate stood wide open.\nMechanically he stepped into the garden. Perhaps he fancied something,\nperhaps caught some sound, and, glancing to the left he saw his master's\nwindow open. No one was looking out of it then.\n\n\"What's it open for? It's not summer now,\" thought Grigory, and suddenly,\nat that very instant he caught a glimpse of something extraordinary before\nhim in the garden. Forty paces in front of him a man seemed to be running\nin the dark, a sort of shadow was moving very fast.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" cried Grigory beside himself, and forgetting the pain in his\nback, he hurried to intercept the running figure. He took a short cut,\nevidently he knew the garden better; the flying figure went towards the\nbath-house, ran behind it and rushed to the garden fence. Grigory\nfollowed, not losing sight of him, and ran, forgetting everything. He\nreached the fence at the very moment the man was climbing over it. Grigory\ncried out, beside himself, pounced on him, and clutched his leg in his two\nhands.\n\nYes, his foreboding had not deceived him. He recognized him, it was he,\nthe \"monster,\" the \"parricide.\"\n\n\"Parricide!\" the old man shouted so that the whole neighborhood could\nhear, but he had not time to shout more, he fell at once, as though struck\nby lightning.\n\nMitya jumped back into the garden and bent over the fallen man. In Mitya's\nhands was a brass pestle, and he flung it mechanically in the grass. The\npestle fell two paces from Grigory, not in the grass but on the path, in a\nmost conspicuous place. For some seconds he examined the prostrate figure\nbefore him. The old man's head was covered with blood. Mitya put out his\nhand and began feeling it. He remembered afterwards clearly, that he had\nbeen awfully anxious to make sure whether he had broken the old man's\nskull, or simply stunned him with the pestle. But the blood was flowing\nhorribly; and in a moment Mitya's fingers were drenched with the hot\nstream. He remembered taking out of his pocket the clean white\nhandkerchief with which he had provided himself for his visit to Madame\nHohlakov, and putting it to the old man's head, senselessly trying to wipe\nthe blood from his face and temples. But the handkerchief was instantly\nsoaked with blood.\n\n\"Good heavens! what am I doing it for?\" thought Mitya, suddenly pulling\nhimself together. \"If I have broken his skull, how can I find out now? And\nwhat difference does it make now?\" he added, hopelessly. \"If I've killed\nhim, I've killed him.... You've come to grief, old man, so there you must\nlie!\" he said aloud. And suddenly turning to the fence, he vaulted over it\ninto the lane and fell to running--the handkerchief soaked with blood he\nheld, crushed up in his right fist, and as he ran he thrust it into the\nback pocket of his coat. He ran headlong, and the few passers-by who met\nhim in the dark, in the streets, remembered afterwards that they had met a\nman running that night. He flew back again to the widow Morozov's house.\n\nImmediately after he had left it that evening, Fenya had rushed to the\nchief porter, Nazar Ivanovitch, and besought him, for Christ's sake, \"not\nto let the captain in again to-day or to-morrow.\" Nazar Ivanovitch\npromised, but went upstairs to his mistress who had suddenly sent for him,\nand meeting his nephew, a boy of twenty, who had recently come from the\ncountry, on the way up told him to take his place, but forgot to mention\n\"the captain.\" Mitya, running up to the gate, knocked. The lad instantly\nrecognized him, for Mitya had more than once tipped him. Opening the gate\nat once, he let him in, and hastened to inform him with a good-humored\nsmile that \"Agrafena Alexandrovna is not at home now, you know.\"\n\n\"Where is she then, Prohor?\" asked Mitya, stopping short.\n\n\"She set off this evening, some two hours ago, with Timofey, to Mokroe.\"\n\n\"What for?\" cried Mitya.\n\n\"That I can't say. To see some officer. Some one invited her and horses\nwere sent to fetch her.\"\n\nMitya left him, and ran like a madman to Fenya.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. A Sudden Resolution\n\n\nShe was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother; they were both just\ngoing to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovitch, they had not locked themselves\nin. Mitya ran in, pounced on Fenya and seized her by the throat.\n\n\"Speak at once! Where is she? With whom is she now, at Mokroe?\" he roared\nfuriously.\n\nBoth the women squealed.\n\n\"Aie! I'll tell you. Aie! Dmitri Fyodorovitch, darling, I'll tell you\neverything directly, I won't hide anything,\" gabbled Fenya, frightened to\ndeath; \"she's gone to Mokroe, to her officer.\"\n\n\"What officer?\" roared Mitya.\n\n\"To her officer, the same one she used to know, the one who threw her over\nfive years ago,\" cackled Fenya, as fast as she could speak.\n\nMitya withdrew the hands with which he was squeezing her throat. He stood\nfacing her, pale as death, unable to utter a word, but his eyes showed\nthat he realized it all, all, from the first word, and guessed the whole\nposition. Poor Fenya was not in a condition at that moment to observe\nwhether he understood or not. She remained sitting on the trunk as she had\nbeen when he ran into the room, trembling all over, holding her hands out\nbefore her as though trying to defend herself. She seemed to have grown\nrigid in that position. Her wide-opened, scared eyes were fixed immovably\nupon him. And to make matters worse, both his hands were smeared with\nblood. On the way, as he ran, he must have touched his forehead with them,\nwiping off the perspiration, so that on his forehead and his right cheek\nwere blood-stained patches. Fenya was on the verge of hysterics. The old\ncook had jumped up and was staring at him like a mad woman, almost\nunconscious with terror.\n\nMitya stood for a moment, then mechanically sank on to a chair next to\nFenya. He sat, not reflecting but, as it were, terror-stricken, benumbed.\nYet everything was clear as day: that officer, he knew about him, he knew\neverything perfectly, he had known it from Grushenka herself, had known\nthat a letter had come from him a month before. So that for a month, for a\nwhole month, this had been going on, a secret from him, till the very\narrival of this new man, and he had never thought of him! But how could\nhe, how could he not have thought of him? Why was it he had forgotten this\nofficer, like that, forgotten him as soon as he heard of him? That was the\nquestion that faced him like some monstrous thing. And he looked at this\nmonstrous thing with horror, growing cold with horror.\n\nBut suddenly, as gently and mildly as a gentle and affectionate child, he\nbegan speaking to Fenya as though he had utterly forgotten how he had\nscared and hurt her just now. He fell to questioning Fenya with an extreme\npreciseness, astonishing in his position, and though the girl looked\nwildly at his blood-stained hands, she, too, with wonderful readiness and\nrapidity, answered every question as though eager to put the whole truth\nand nothing but the truth before him. Little by little, even with a sort\nof enjoyment, she began explaining every detail, not wanting to torment\nhim, but, as it were, eager to be of the utmost service to him. She\ndescribed the whole of that day, in great detail, the visit of Rakitin and\nAlyosha, how she, Fenya, had stood on the watch, how the mistress had set\noff, and how she had called out of the window to Alyosha to give him,\nMitya, her greetings, and to tell him \"to remember for ever how she had\nloved him for an hour.\"\n\nHearing of the message, Mitya suddenly smiled, and there was a flush of\ncolor on his pale cheeks. At the same moment Fenya said to him, not a bit\nafraid now to be inquisitive:\n\n\"Look at your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They're all over blood!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Mitya mechanically. He looked carelessly at his hands and\nat once forgot them and Fenya's question.\n\nHe sank into silence again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had run in.\nHis first horror was over, but evidently some new fixed determination had\ntaken possession of him. He suddenly stood up, smiling dreamily.\n\n\"What has happened to you, sir?\" said Fenya, pointing to his hands again.\nShe spoke compassionately, as though she felt very near to him now in his\ngrief. Mitya looked at his hands again.\n\n\"That's blood, Fenya,\" he said, looking at her with a strange expression.\n\"That's human blood, and my God! why was it shed? But ... Fenya ...\nthere's a fence here\" (he looked at her as though setting her a riddle),\n\"a high fence, and terrible to look at. But at dawn to-morrow, when the\nsun rises, Mitya will leap over that fence.... You don't understand what\nfence, Fenya, and, never mind.... You'll hear to-morrow and understand ...\nand now, good-by. I won't stand in her way. I'll step aside, I know how to\nstep aside. Live, my joy.... You loved me for an hour, remember Mityenka\nKaramazov so for ever.... She always used to call me Mityenka, do you\nremember?\"\n\nAnd with those words he went suddenly out of the kitchen. Fenya was almost\nmore frightened at this sudden departure than she had been when he ran in\nand attacked her.\n\nJust ten minutes later Dmitri went in to Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, the young\nofficial with whom he had pawned his pistols. It was by now half-past\neight, and Pyotr Ilyitch had finished his evening tea, and had just put\nhis coat on again to go to the \"Metropolis\" to play billiards. Mitya\ncaught him coming out.\n\nSeeing him with his face all smeared with blood, the young man uttered a\ncry of surprise.\n\n\"Good heavens! What is the matter?\"\n\n\"I've come for my pistols,\" said Mitya, \"and brought you the money. And\nthanks very much. I'm in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyitch, please make haste.\"\n\nPyotr Ilyitch grew more and more surprised; he suddenly caught sight of a\nbundle of bank-notes in Mitya's hand, and what was more, he had walked in\nholding the notes as no one walks in and no one carries money: he had them\nin his right hand, and held them outstretched as if to show them.\nPerhotin's servant-boy, who met Mitya in the passage, said afterwards that\nhe walked into the passage in the same way, with the money outstretched in\nhis hand, so he must have been carrying them like that even in the\nstreets. They were all rainbow-colored hundred-rouble notes, and the\nfingers holding them were covered with blood.\n\nWhen Pyotr Ilyitch was questioned later on as to the sum of money, he said\nthat it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been\ntwo thousand, or perhaps three, but it was a big, \"fat\" bundle. \"Dmitri\nFyodorovitch,\" so he testified afterwards, \"seemed unlike himself, too;\nnot drunk, but, as it were, exalted, lost to everything, but at the same\ntime, as it were, absorbed, as though pondering and searching for\nsomething and unable to come to a decision. He was in great haste,\nanswered abruptly and very strangely, and at moments seemed not at all\ndejected but quite cheerful.\"\n\n\"But what _is_ the matter with you? What's wrong?\" cried Pyotr Ilyitch,\nlooking wildly at his guest. \"How is it that you're all covered with\nblood? Have you had a fall? Look at yourself!\"\n\nHe took him by the elbow and led him to the glass.\n\nSeeing his blood-stained face, Mitya started and scowled wrathfully.\n\n\"Damnation! That's the last straw,\" he muttered angrily, hurriedly\nchanging the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked\nthe handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be\nsoaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe\nGrigory's face). There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not\nmerely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not\nbe pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor.\n\n\"Oh, damn it!\" he said. \"Haven't you a rag of some sort ... to wipe my\nface?\"\n\n\"So you're only stained, not wounded? You'd better wash,\" said Pyotr\nIlyitch. \"Here's a wash-stand. I'll pour you out some water.\"\n\n\"A wash-stand? That's all right ... but where am I to put this?\"\n\nWith the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred-rouble\nnotes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though it were for him to\ndecide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own money.\n\n\"In your pocket, or on the table here. They won't be lost.\"\n\n\"In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right.... But, I say, that's all\nnonsense,\" he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption.\n\"Look here, let's first settle that business of the pistols. Give them\nback to me. Here's your money ... because I am in great need of them ...\nand I haven't a minute, a minute to spare.\"\n\nAnd taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to Pyotr\nIlyitch.\n\n\"But I shan't have change enough. Haven't you less?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting\nhis own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones.\n\n\"No, they're all alike,\" he added, and again he looked inquiringly at\nPyotr Ilyitch.\n\n\"How have you grown so rich?\" the latter asked. \"Wait, I'll send my boy to\nPlotnikov's, they close late--to see if they won't change it. Here, Misha!\"\nhe called into the passage.\n\n\"To Plotnikov's shop--first-rate!\" cried Mitya, as though struck by an\nidea. \"Misha,\" he turned to the boy as he came in, \"look here, run to\nPlotnikov's and tell them that Dmitri Fyodorovitch sends his greetings,\nand will be there directly.... But listen, listen, tell them to have\nchampagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was\nto take to Mokroe. I took four dozen with me then,\" he added (suddenly\naddressing Pyotr Ilyitch); \"they know all about it, don't you trouble,\nMisha,\" he turned again to the boy. \"Stay, listen; tell them to put in\ncheese, Strasburg pies, smoked fish, ham, caviare, and everything,\neverything they've got, up to a hundred roubles, or a hundred and twenty\nas before.... But wait: don't let them forget dessert, sweets, pears,\nwater-melons, two or three or four--no, one melon's enough, and chocolate,\ncandy, toffee, fondants; in fact, everything I took to Mokroe before,\nthree hundred roubles' worth with the champagne ... let it be just the\nsame again. And remember, Misha, if you are called Misha--His name is\nMisha, isn't it?\" He turned to Pyotr Ilyitch again.\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" Protr Ilyitch intervened, listening and watching him\nuneasily, \"you'd better go yourself and tell them. He'll muddle it.\"\n\n\"He will, I see he will! Eh, Misha! Why, I was going to kiss you for the\ncommission.... If you don't make a mistake, there's ten roubles for you,\nrun along, make haste.... Champagne's the chief thing, let them bring up\nchampagne. And brandy, too, and red and white wine, and all I had then....\nThey know what I had then.\"\n\n\"But listen!\" Pyotr Ilyitch interrupted with some impatience. \"I say, let\nhim simply run and change the money and tell them not to close, and you go\nand tell them.... Give him your note. Be off, Misha! Put your best leg\nforward!\"\n\nPyotr Ilyitch seemed to hurry Misha off on purpose, because the boy\nremained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently\nunderstanding little of Mitya's orders, gazing up with amazement and\nterror at his blood-stained face and the trembling bloodstained fingers\nthat held the notes.\n\n\"Well, now come and wash,\" said Pyotr Ilyitch sternly. \"Put the money on\nthe table or else in your pocket.... That's right, come along. But take\noff your coat.\"\n\nAnd beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again:\n\n\"Look, your coat's covered with blood, too!\"\n\n\"That ... it's not the coat. It's only a little here on the sleeve.... And\nthat's only here where the handkerchief lay. It must have soaked through.\nI must have sat on the handkerchief at Fenya's, and the blood's come\nthrough,\" Mitya explained at once with a childlike unconsciousness that\nwas astounding. Pyotr Ilyitch listened, frowning.\n\n\"Well, you must have been up to something; you must have been fighting\nwith some one,\" he muttered.\n\nThey began to wash. Pyotr Ilyitch held the jug and poured out the water.\nMitya, in desperate haste, scarcely soaped his hands (they were trembling,\nand Pyotr Ilyitch remembered it afterwards). But the young official\ninsisted on his soaping them thoroughly and rubbing them more. He seemed\nto exercise more and more sway over Mitya, as time went on. It may be\nnoted in passing that he was a young man of sturdy character.\n\n\"Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now rub your face; here, on your\ntemples, by your ear.... Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going?\nLook, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's all bloody,\" observed Mitya, looking at the cuff of his shirt.\n\n\"Then change your shirt.\"\n\n\"I haven't time. You see I'll ...\" Mitya went on with the same confiding\ningenuousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and putting on his\ncoat. \"I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat....\nYou see!\"\n\n\"Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with\nsome one? In the tavern again, as before? Have you been beating that\ncaptain again?\" Pyotr Ilyitch asked him reproachfully. \"Whom have you been\nbeating now ... or killing, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Mitya.\n\n\"Why 'nonsense'?\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" said Mitya, and he suddenly laughed. \"I smashed an old\nwoman in the market-place just now.\"\n\n\"Smashed? An old woman?\"\n\n\"An old man!\" cried Mitya, looking Pyotr Ilyitch straight in the face,\nlaughing, and shouting at him as though he were deaf.\n\n\"Confound it! An old woman, an old man.... Have you killed some one?\"\n\n\"We made it up. We had a row--and made it up. In a place I know of. We\nparted friends. A fool.... He's forgiven me.... He's sure to have forgiven\nme by now ... if he had got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me\"--Mitya\nsuddenly winked--\"only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyitch, damn him!\nDon't worry about him! I don't want to just now!\" Mitya snapped out,\nresolutely.\n\n\"Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with every one for? ... Just\nas you did with that captain over some nonsense.... You've been fighting\nand now you're rushing off on the spree--that's you all over! Three dozen\nchampagne--what do you want all that for?\"\n\n\"Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honor I've no time now. I should\nlike to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And\nthere's no need, it's too late for talking. Where's my money? Where have I\nput it?\" he cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets.\n\n\"You put it on the table ... yourself.... Here it is. Had you forgotten?\nMoney's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It's\nan odd thing, at six o'clock you pledged them for ten roubles, and now\nyou've got thousands. Two or three I should say.\"\n\n\"Three, you bet,\" laughed Mitya, stuffing the notes into the side-pocket\nof his trousers.\n\n\"You'll lose it like that. Have you found a gold-mine?\"\n\n\"The mines? The gold-mines?\" Mitya shouted at the top of his voice and\nwent off into a roar of laughter. \"Would you like to go to the mines,\nPerhotin? There's a lady here who'll stump up three thousand for you, if\nonly you'll go. She did it for me, she's so awfully fond of gold-mines. Do\nyou know Madame Hohlakov?\"\n\n\"I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give\nyou three thousand? Did she really?\" said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him\ndubiously.\n\n\"As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies\nupwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov,\nand ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and\nfind out.\"\n\n\"I don't know on what terms you are ... since you say it so positively, I\nsuppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand, but\ninstead of going to Siberia you're spending it all.... Where are you\nreally off to now, eh?\"\n\n\"To Mokroe.\"\n\n\"To Mokroe? But it's night!\"\n\n\"Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught,\" cried Mitya suddenly.\n\n\"How 'naught'? You say that with all those thousands!\"\n\n\"I'm not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I'm talking of the\nfemale character.\n\n\n    Fickle is the heart of woman\n    Treacherous and full of vice;\n\n\nI agree with Ulysses. That's what he says.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you!\"\n\n\"Am I drunk?\"\n\n\"Not drunk, but worse.\"\n\n\"I'm drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that's enough!\"\n\n\"What are you doing, loading the pistol?\"\n\n\"I'm loading the pistol.\"\n\nUnfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder horn, and\ncarefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and,\nbefore inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle.\n\n\"Why are you looking at the bullet?\" asked Pyotr Ilyitch, watching him\nwith uneasy curiosity.\n\n\"Oh, a fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your brain, would\nyou look at it or not?\"\n\n\"Why look at it?\"\n\n\"It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's\nlike. But that's foolishness, a moment's foolishness. Now that's done,\" he\nadded, putting in the bullet and driving it home with the ramrod. \"Pyotr\nIlyitch, my dear fellow, that's nonsense, all nonsense, and if only you\nknew what nonsense! Give me a little piece of paper now.\"\n\n\"Here's some paper.\"\n\n\"No, a clean new piece, writing-paper. That's right.\"\n\nAnd taking a pen from the table, Mitya rapidly wrote two lines, folded the\npaper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols\nin the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at\nPyotr Ilyitch with a slow, thoughtful smile.\n\n\"Now, let's go.\"\n\n\"Where are we going? No, wait a minute.... Are you thinking of putting\nthat bullet in your brain, perhaps?\" Pyotr Ilyitch asked uneasily.\n\n\"I was fooling about the bullet! I want to live. I love life! You may be\nsure of that. I love golden-haired Phoebus and his warm light.... Dear\nPyotr Ilyitch, do you know how to step aside?\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'stepping aside'?\"\n\n\"Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate. And to\nlet the one I hate become dear--that's what making way means! And to say to\nthem: God bless you, go your way, pass on, while I--\"\n\n\"While you--?\"\n\n\"That's enough, let's go.\"\n\n\"Upon my word. I'll tell some one to prevent your going there,\" said Pyotr\nIlyitch, looking at him. \"What are you going to Mokroe for, now?\"\n\n\"There's a woman there, a woman. That's enough for you. You shut up.\"\n\n\"Listen, though you're such a savage I've always liked you.... I feel\nanxious.\"\n\n\"Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage you say. Savages, savages! That's what I\nam always saying. Savages! Why, here's Misha! I was forgetting him.\"\n\nMisha ran in, post-haste, with a handful of notes in change, and reported\nthat every one was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs'; \"They're carrying down\nthe bottles, and the fish, and the tea; it will all be ready directly.\"\nMitya seized ten roubles and handed it to Pyotr Ilyitch, then tossed\nanother ten-rouble note to Misha.\n\n\"Don't dare to do such a thing!\" cried Pyotr Ilyitch. \"I won't have it in\nmy house, it's a bad, demoralizing habit. Put your money away. Here, put\nit here, why waste it? It would come in handy to-morrow, and I dare say\nyou'll be coming to me to borrow ten roubles again. Why do you keep\nputting the notes in your side-pocket? Ah, you'll lose them!\"\n\n\"I say, my dear fellow, let's go to Mokroe together.\"\n\n\"What should I go for?\"\n\n\"I say, let's open a bottle at once, and drink to life! I want to drink,\nand especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I?\"\n\n\"Very well, we can go to the 'Metropolis.' I was just going there.\"\n\n\"I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikovs', in the back\nroom. Shall I ask you a riddle?\"\n\n\"Ask away.\"\n\nMitya took the piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and\nshowed it. In a large, distinct hand was written: \"I punish myself for my\nwhole life, my whole life I punish!\"\n\n\"I will certainly speak to some one, I'll go at once,\" said Pyotr Ilyitch,\nafter reading the paper.\n\n\"You won't have time, dear boy, come and have a drink. March!\"\n\nPlotnikov's shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to\nPyotr Ilyitch's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no\nmeans a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything\nthat could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all sort, wines\n\"bottled by the brothers Eliseyev,\" fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar,\nand so on. There were three shop-assistants and two errand boys always\nemployed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the landowners\nhad gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished\nas before, every year with increasing prosperity; there were plenty of\npurchasers for their goods.\n\nThey were awaiting Mitya with impatience in the shop. They had vivid\nrecollections of how he had bought, three or four weeks ago, wine and\ngoods of all sorts to the value of several hundred roubles, paid for in\ncash (they would never have let him have anything on credit, of course).\nThey remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred-rouble\nnotes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining,\nwithout reflecting, or caring to reflect what use so much wine and\nprovisions would be to him. The story was told all over the town that,\ndriving off then with Grushenka to Mokroe, he had \"spent three thousand in\none night and the following day, and had come back from the spree without\na penny.\" He had picked up a whole troop of gypsies (encamped in our\nneighborhood at the time), who for two days got money without stint out of\nhim while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People\nused to tell, laughing at Mitya, how he had given champagne to grimy-\nhanded peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and\nStrasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitya to his face was rather a risky\nproceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the\ntavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that all he had got out of\nGrushenka by this \"escapade\" was \"permission to kiss her foot, and that\nwas the utmost she had allowed him.\"\n\nBy the time Mitya and Pyotr Ilyitch reached the shop, they found a cart\nwith three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with Andrey, the\ndriver, ready waiting for Mitya at the entrance. In the shop they had\nalmost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only\nwaiting for Mitya's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Pyotr\nIlyitch was astounded.\n\n\"Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?\" he asked Mitya.\n\n\"I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the\nshop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofey, but Timofey\nnow has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andrey?\"\n\n\"They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I\ngot Timofey ready to start. I know how he'll go. Their pace won't be ours,\nDmitri Fyodorovitch. How could it be? They won't get there an hour\nearlier!\" Andrey, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a full-\nskirted coat, and with a kaftan on his arm, replied warmly.\n\n\"Fifty roubles for vodka if we're only an hour behind them.\"\n\n\"I warrant the time, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Ech, they won't be half an hour\nbefore us, let alone an hour.\"\n\nThough Mitya bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders\nstrangely, as it were disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a\nsentence and forgot the end of it. Pyotr Ilyitch found himself obliged to\ncome to the rescue.\n\n\"Four hundred roubles' worth, not less than four hundred roubles' worth,\njust as it was then,\" commanded Mitya. \"Four dozen champagne, not a bottle\nless.\"\n\n\"What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay!\" cried Pyotr Ilyitch.\n\"What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred roubles'\nworth here?\"\n\nThe officious shopmen began explaining with oily politeness that the first\nbox contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and only \"the most\nindispensable articles,\" such as savories, sweets, toffee, etc. But the\nmain part of the goods ordered would be packed and sent off, as on the\nprevious occasion, in a special cart also with three horses traveling at\nfull speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than\nDmitri Fyodorovitch himself.\n\n\"Not more than an hour! Not more than an hour! And put in more toffee and\nfondants. The girls there are so fond of it,\" Mitya insisted hotly.\n\n\"The fondants are all right. But what do you want with four dozen of\nchampagne? One would be enough,\" said Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angry. He\nbegan bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and refused to be\nsatisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred roubles. In the end\nit was agreed that only three hundred roubles' worth should be sent.\n\n\"Well, you may go to the devil!\" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second thoughts.\n\"What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it's cost you\nnothing.\"\n\n\"This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry.\" Mitya drew him into a\nroom at the back of the shop. \"They'll give us a bottle here directly.\nWe'll taste it. Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me, for you're a nice\nfellow, the sort I like.\"\n\nMitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a\ndirty dinner-napkin. Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the champagne\nsoon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. \"First-class\noysters, the last lot in.\"\n\n\"Hang the oysters. I don't eat them. And we don't need anything,\" cried\nPyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.\n\n\"There's no time for oysters,\" said Mitya. \"And I'm not hungry. Do you\nknow, friend,\" he said suddenly, with feeling, \"I never have liked all\nthis disorder.\"\n\n\"Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word,\nthat's enough to make any one angry!\"\n\n\"That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order\nin me, no higher order. But ... that's all over. There's no need to grieve\nabout it. It's too late, damn it! My whole life has been disorder, and one\nmust set it in order. Is that a pun, eh?\"\n\n\"You're raving, not making puns!\"\n\n\n    \"Glory be to God in Heaven,\n    Glory be to God in me....\n\n\n\"That verse came from my heart once, it's not a verse, but a tear.... I\nmade it myself ... not while I was pulling the captain's beard,\nthough....\"\n\n\"Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?\"\n\n\"Why do I bring him in? Foolery! All things come to an end; all things are\nmade equal. That's the long and short of it.\"\n\n\"You know, I keep thinking of your pistols.\"\n\n\"That's all foolery, too! Drink, and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've\nloved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let's drink to life, dear\nboy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel,\nbut I'm satisfied with myself. And yet I'm tortured by the thought that\nI'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm\nready to bless God and His creation directly, but ... I must kill one\nnoxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others.... Let\nus drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life?\nNothing! To life, and to one queen of queens!\"\n\n\"Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like.\"\n\nThey drank a glass each. Although Mitya was excited and expansive, yet he\nwas melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety\nwere weighing upon him.\n\n\"Misha ... here's your Misha come! Misha, come here, my boy, drink this\nglass to Phoebus, the golden-haired, of to-morrow morn....\"\n\n\"What are you giving it him for?\" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably.\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!\"\n\n\"E--ech!\"\n\nMisha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out.\n\n\"He'll remember it afterwards,\" Mitya remarked. \"Woman, I love woman! What\nis woman? The queen of creation! My heart is sad, my heart is sad, Pyotr\nIlyitch. Do you remember Hamlet? 'I am very sorry, good Horatio! Alas,\npoor Yorick!' Perhaps that's me, Yorick? Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull\nafterwards.\"\n\nPyotr Ilyitch listened in silence. Mitya, too, was silent for a while.\n\n\"What dog's that you've got here?\" he asked the shopman, casually,\nnoticing a pretty little lap-dog with dark eyes, sitting in the corner.\n\n\"It belongs to Varvara Alexyevna, the mistress,\" answered the clerk. \"She\nbrought it and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her.\"\n\n\"I saw one like it ... in the regiment ...\" murmured Mitya dreamily, \"only\nthat one had its hind leg broken.... By the way, Pyotr Ilyitch, I wanted\nto ask you: have you ever stolen anything in your life?\"\n\n\"What a question!\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know. I don't\nmean government money, every one steals that, and no doubt you do,\ntoo....\"\n\n\"You go to the devil.\"\n\n\"I'm talking of other people's money. Stealing straight out of a pocket?\nOut of a purse, eh?\"\n\n\"I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old. I took\nit off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my hand.\"\n\n\"Well, and what happened?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed, and\ngave it back.\"\n\n\"And what then?\"\n\n\"Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?\"\n\n\"I have,\" said Mitya, winking slyly.\n\n\"What have you stolen?\" inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously.\n\n\"I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave\nit back three days after.\"\n\nAs he said this, Mitya suddenly got up.\n\n\"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won't you come now?\" called Andrey from the door of\nthe shop.\n\n\"Are you ready? We'll come!\" Mitya started. \"A few more last words\nand--Andrey, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well!\nThat box\" (the one with the pistols) \"put under my seat. Good-by, Pyotr\nIlyitch, don't remember evil against me.\"\n\n\"But you're coming back to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Will you settle the little bill now?\" cried the clerk, springing forward.\n\n\"Oh, yes, the bill. Of course.\"\n\nHe pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three\nhundred roubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the\nshop. Every one followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck.\nAndrey, coughing from the brandy he had just swallowed, jumped up on the\nbox. But Mitya was only just taking his seat when suddenly to his surprise\nhe saw Fenya before him. She ran up panting, clasped her hands before him\nwith a cry, and plumped down at his feet.\n\n\"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear good Dmitri Fyodorovitch, don't harm my\nmistress. And it was I told you all about it.... And don't murder him, he\ncame first, he's hers! He'll marry Agrafena Alexandrovna now. That's why\nhe's come back from Siberia. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear, don't take a\nfellow creature's life!\"\n\n\"Tut--tut--tut! That's it, is it? So you're off there to make trouble!\"\nmuttered Pyotr Ilyitch. \"Now, it's all clear, as clear as daylight. Dmitri\nFyodorovitch, give me your pistols at once if you mean to behave like a\nman,\" he shouted aloud to Mitya. \"Do you hear, Dmitri?\"\n\n\"The pistols? Wait a bit, brother, I'll throw them into the pool on the\nroad,\" answered Mitya. \"Fenya, get up, don't kneel to me. Mitya won't hurt\nany one, the silly fool won't hurt any one again. But I say, Fenya,\" he\nshouted, after having taken his seat. \"I hurt you just now, so forgive me\nand have pity on me, forgive a scoundrel.... But it doesn't matter if you\ndon't. It's all the same now. Now then, Andrey, look alive, fly along full\nspeed!\"\n\nAndrey whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing.\n\n\"Good-by, Pyotr Ilyitch! My last tear is for you!...\"\n\n\"He's not drunk, but he keeps babbling like a lunatic,\" Pyotr Ilyitch\nthought as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay and see the cart\npacked with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they would\ndeceive and defraud Mitya. But, suddenly feeling vexed with himself, he\nturned away with a curse and went to the tavern to play billiards.\n\n\"He's a fool, though he's a good fellow,\" he muttered as he went. \"I've\nheard of that officer, Grushenka's former flame. Well, if he has turned\nup.... Ech, those pistols! Damn it all! I'm not his nurse! Let them do\nwhat they like! Besides, it'll all come to nothing. They're a set of\nbrawlers, that's all. They'll drink and fight, fight and make friends\nagain. They are not men who do anything real. What does he mean by 'I'm\nstepping aside, I'm punishing myself?' It'll come to nothing! He's shouted\nsuch phrases a thousand times, drunk, in the taverns. But now he's not\ndrunk. 'Drunk in spirit'--they're fond of fine phrases, the villains. Am I\nhis nurse? He must have been fighting, his face was all over blood. With\nwhom? I shall find out at the 'Metropolis.' And his handkerchief was\nsoaked in blood.... It's still lying on my floor.... Hang it!\"\n\nHe reached the tavern in a bad humor and at once made up a game. The game\ncheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of\nhis partners that Dmitri Karamazov had come in for some cash\nagain--something like three thousand roubles, and had gone to Mokroe again\nto spend it with Grushenka.... This news roused singular interest in his\nlisteners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with a strange gravity.\nThey left off playing.\n\n\"Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand?\"\n\nQuestions were asked. The story of Madame Hohlakov's present was received\nwith skepticism.\n\n\"Hasn't he robbed his old father?--that's the question.\"\n\n\"Three thousand! There's something odd about it.\"\n\n\"He boasted aloud that he would kill his father; we all heard him, here.\nAnd it was three thousand he talked about ...\"\n\nPyotr Ilyitch listened. All at once he became short and dry in his\nanswers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitya's face and hands,\nthough he had meant to speak of it at first.\n\nThey began a third game, and by degrees the talk about Mitya died away.\nBut by the end of the third game, Pyotr Ilyitch felt no more desire for\nbilliards; he laid down the cue, and without having supper as he had\nintended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the market-place he\nstood still in perplexity, wondering at himself. He realized that what he\nwanted was to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch's and find out if anything had\nhappened there. \"On account of some stupid nonsense--as it's sure to turn\nout--am I going to wake up the household and make a scandal? Fooh! damn it,\nis it my business to look after them?\"\n\nIn a very bad humor he went straight home, and suddenly remembered Fenya.\n\"Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now,\" he thought with\nvexation, \"I should have heard everything.\" And the desire to speak to\nher, and so find out, became so pressing and importunate that when he was\nhalf-way home he turned abruptly and went towards the house where\nGrushenka lodged. Going up to the gate he knocked. The sound of the knock\nin the silence of the night sobered him and made him feel annoyed. And no\none answered him; every one in the house was asleep.\n\n\"And I shall be making a fuss!\" he thought, with a feeling of positive\ndiscomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he fell to knocking\nagain with all his might, filling the street with clamor.\n\n\"Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will!\" he muttered at each\nknock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he redoubled his knocks on\nthe gate.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. \"I Am Coming, Too!\"\n\n\nBut Dmitri Fyodorovitch was speeding along the road. It was a little more\nthan twenty versts to Mokroe, but Andrey's three horses galloped at such a\npace that the distance might be covered in an hour and a quarter. The\nswift motion revived Mitya. The air was fresh and cool, there were big\nstars shining in the sky. It was the very night, and perhaps the very\nhour, in which Alyosha fell on the earth, and rapturously swore to love it\nfor ever and ever.\n\nAll was confusion, confusion, in Mitya's soul, but although many things\nwere goading his heart, at that moment his whole being was yearning for\nher, his queen, to whom he was flying to look on her for the last time.\nOne thing I can say for certain; his heart did not waver for one instant.\nI shall perhaps not be believed when I say that this jealous lover felt\nnot the slightest jealousy of this new rival, who seemed to have sprung\nout of the earth. If any other had appeared on the scene, he would have\nbeen jealous at once, and would perhaps have stained his fierce hands with\nblood again. But as he flew through the night, he felt no envy, no\nhostility even, for the man who had been her first lover.... It is true he\nhad not yet seen him.\n\n\"Here there was no room for dispute: it was her right and his; this was\nher first love which, after five years, she had not forgotten; so she had\nloved him only for those five years, and I, how do I come in? What right\nhave I? Step aside, Mitya, and make way! What am I now? Now everything is\nover apart from the officer--even if he had not appeared, everything would\nbe over ...\"\n\nThese words would roughly have expressed his feelings, if he had been\ncapable of reasoning. But he could not reason at that moment. His present\nplan of action had arisen without reasoning. At Fenya's first words, it\nhad sprung from feeling, and been adopted in a flash, with all its\nconsequences. And yet, in spite of his resolution, there was confusion in\nhis soul, an agonizing confusion: his resolution did not give him peace.\nThere was so much behind that tortured him. And it seemed strange to him,\nat moments, to think that he had written his own sentence of death with\npen and paper: \"I punish myself,\" and the paper was lying there in his\npocket, ready; the pistol was loaded; he had already resolved how, next\nmorning, he would meet the first warm ray of \"golden-haired Phoebus.\"\n\nAnd yet he could not be quit of the past, of all that he had left behind\nand that tortured him. He felt that miserably, and the thought of it sank\ninto his heart with despair. There was one moment when he felt an impulse\nto stop Andrey, to jump out of the cart, to pull out his loaded pistol,\nand to make an end of everything without waiting for the dawn. But that\nmoment flew by like a spark. The horses galloped on, \"devouring space,\"\nand as he drew near his goal, again the thought of her, of her alone, took\nmore and more complete possession of his soul, chasing away the fearful\nimages that had been haunting it. Oh, how he longed to look upon her, if\nonly for a moment, if only from a distance!\n\n\"She's now with _him_,\" he thought, \"now I shall see what she looks like\nwith him, her first love, and that's all I want.\" Never had this woman,\nwho was such a fateful influence in his life, aroused such love in his\nbreast, such new and unknown feeling, surprising even to himself, a\nfeeling tender to devoutness, to self-effacement before her! \"I will\nefface myself!\" he said, in a rush of almost hysterical ecstasy.\n\nThey had been galloping nearly an hour. Mitya was silent, and though\nAndrey was, as a rule, a talkative peasant, he did not utter a word,\neither. He seemed afraid to talk, he only whipped up smartly his three\nlean, but mettlesome, bay horses. Suddenly Mitya cried out in horrible\nanxiety:\n\n\"Andrey! What if they're asleep?\"\n\nThis thought fell upon him like a blow. It had not occurred to him before.\n\n\"It may well be that they're gone to bed, by now, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.\"\n\nMitya frowned as though in pain. Yes, indeed ... he was rushing there ...\nwith such feelings ... while they were asleep ... she was asleep, perhaps,\nthere too.... An angry feeling surged up in his heart.\n\n\"Drive on, Andrey! Whip them up! Look alive!\" he cried, beside himself.\n\n\"But maybe they're not in bed!\" Andrey went on after a pause. \"Timofey\nsaid they were a lot of them there--\"\n\n\"At the station?\"\n\n\"Not at the posting-station, but at Plastunov's, at the inn, where they\nlet out horses, too.\"\n\n\"I know. So you say there are a lot of them? How's that? Who are they?\"\ncried Mitya, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news.\n\n\"Well, Timofey was saying they're all gentlefolk. Two from our town--who\nthey are I can't say--and there are two others, strangers, maybe more\nbesides. I didn't ask particularly. They've set to playing cards, so\nTimofey said.\"\n\n\"Cards?\"\n\n\"So, maybe they're not in bed if they're at cards. It's most likely not\nmore than eleven.\"\n\n\"Quicker, Andrey! Quicker!\" Mitya cried again, nervously.\n\n\"May I ask you something, sir?\" said Andrey, after a pause. \"Only I'm\nafraid of angering you, sir.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Why, Fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you not to\nharm her mistress, and some one else, too ... so you see, sir-- It's I am\ntaking you there ... forgive me, sir, it's my conscience ... maybe it's\nstupid of me to speak of it--\"\n\nMitya suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind.\n\n\"Are you a driver?\" he asked frantically.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver\nwho wouldn't make way for any one, but would just drive on and crush\npeople? No, a driver mustn't run over people. One can't run over a man.\nOne can't spoil people's lives. And if you have spoilt a life--punish\nyourself.... If only you've spoilt, if only you've ruined any one's\nlife--punish yourself and go away.\"\n\nThese phrases burst from Mitya almost hysterically. Though Andrey was\nsurprised at him, he kept up the conversation.\n\n\"That's right, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, you're quite right, one mustn't crush\nor torment a man, or any kind of creature, for every creature is created\nby God. Take a horse, for instance, for some folks, even among us drivers,\ndrive anyhow. Nothing will restrain them, they just force it along.\"\n\n\"To hell?\" Mitya interrupted, and went off into his abrupt, short laugh.\n\"Andrey, simple soul,\" he seized him by the shoulders again, \"tell me,\nwill Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov go to hell, or not, what do you think?\"\n\n\"I don't know, darling, it depends on you, for you are ... you see, sir,\nwhen the Son of God was nailed on the Cross and died, He went straight\ndown to hell from the Cross, and set free all sinners that were in agony.\nAnd the devil groaned, because he thought that he would get no more\nsinners in hell. And God said to him, then, 'Don't groan, for you shall\nhave all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the chief judges, and the\nrich men, and shall be filled up as you have been in all the ages till I\ncome again.' Those were His very words ...\"\n\n\"A peasant legend! Capital! Whip up the left, Andrey!\"\n\n\"So you see, sir, who it is hell's for,\" said Andrey, whipping up the left\nhorse, \"but you're like a little child ... that's how we look on you ...\nand though you're hasty-tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you for your\nkind heart.\"\n\n\"And you, do you forgive me, Andrey?\"\n\n\"What should I forgive you for, sir? You've never done me any harm.\"\n\n\"No, for every one, for every one, you here alone, on the road, will you\nforgive me for every one? Speak, simple peasant heart!\"\n\n\"Oh, sir! I feel afraid of driving you, your talk is so strange.\"\n\nBut Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to\nhimself.\n\n\"Lord, receive me, with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let me\npass by Thy judgment ... do not condemn me, for I have condemned myself,\ndo not condemn me, for I love Thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but I love\nThee. If Thou sendest me to hell, I shall love Thee there, and from there\nI shall cry out that I love Thee for ever and ever.... But let me love to\nthe end.... Here and now for just five hours ... till the first light of\nThy day ... for I love the queen of my soul ... I love her and I cannot\nhelp loving her. Thou seest my whole heart.... I shall gallop up, I shall\nfall before her and say, 'You are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell\nand forget your victim ... never fret yourself about me!' \"\n\n\"Mokroe!\" cried Andrey, pointing ahead with his whip.\n\nThrough the pale darkness of the night loomed a solid black mass of\nbuildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village of\nMokroe numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were\nasleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled.\n\n\"Drive on, Andrey, I come!\" Mitya exclaimed, feverishly.\n\n\"They're not asleep,\" said Andrey again, pointing with his whip to the\nPlastunovs' inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six\nwindows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up.\n\n\"They're not asleep,\" Mitya repeated joyously. \"Quicker, Andrey! Gallop!\nDrive up with a dash! Set the bells ringing! Let all know that I have\ncome. I'm coming! I'm coming, too!\"\n\nAndrey lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with a dash and\npulled up his steaming, panting horses at the high flight of steps.\n\nMitya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper, on his way to bed,\npeeped out from the steps curious to see who had arrived.\n\n\"Trifon Borissovitch, is that you?\"\n\nThe innkeeper bent down, looked intently, ran down the steps, and rushed\nup to the guest with obsequious delight.\n\n\"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, your honor! Do I see you again?\"\n\nTrifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of middle height,\nwith a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising,\nespecially with the peasants of Mokroe, but he had the power of assuming\nthe most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his\ninterest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one\nside, and a full-skirted coat. He had saved a good sum of money, but was\nfor ever dreaming of improving his position. More than half the peasants\nwere in his clutches, every one in the neighborhood was in debt to him.\nFrom the neighboring landowners he bought and rented lands which were\nworked by the peasants, in payment of debts which they could never shake\noff. He was a widower, with four grown-up daughters. One of them was\nalready a widow and lived in the inn with her two children, his\ngrandchildren, and worked for him like a charwoman. Another of his\ndaughters was married to a petty official, and in one of the rooms of the\ninn, on the wall could be seen, among the family photographs, a miniature\nphotograph of this official in uniform and official epaulettes. The two\nyounger daughters used to wear fashionable blue or green dresses, fitting\ntight at the back, and with trains a yard long, on Church holidays or when\nthey went to pay visits. But next morning they would get up at dawn, as\nusual, sweep out the rooms with a birch-broom, empty the slops, and clean\nup after lodgers.\n\nIn spite of the thousands of roubles he had saved, Trifon Borissovitch was\nvery fond of emptying the pockets of a drunken guest, and remembering that\nnot a month ago he had, in twenty-four hours, made two if not three\nhundred roubles out of Dmitri, when he had come on his escapade with\nGrushenka, he met him now with eager welcome, scenting his prey the moment\nMitya drove up to the steps.\n\n\"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear sir, we see you once more!\"\n\n\"Stay, Trifon Borissovitch,\" began Mitya, \"first and foremost, where is\nshe?\"\n\n\"Agrafena Alexandrovna?\" The inn-keeper understood at once, looking\nsharply into Mitya's face. \"She's here, too ...\"\n\n\"With whom? With whom?\"\n\n\"Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a Pole, to judge from his\nspeech. He sent the horses for her from here; and there's another with\nhim, a friend of his, or a fellow traveler, there's no telling. They're\ndressed like civilians.\"\n\n\"Well, are they feasting? Have they money?\"\n\n\"Poor sort of a feast! Nothing to boast of, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"Nothing to boast of? And who are the others?\"\n\n\"They're two gentlemen from the town.... They've come back from Tcherny,\nand are putting up here. One's quite a young gentleman, a relative of Mr.\nMiuesov, he must be, but I've forgotten his name ... and I expect you know\nthe other, too, a gentleman called Maximov. He's been on a pilgrimage, so\nhe says, to the monastery in the town. He's traveling with this young\nrelation of Mr. Miuesov.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Stay, listen, Trifon Borissovitch. Tell me the chief thing: What of her?\nHow is she?\"\n\n\"Oh, she's only just come. She's sitting with them.\"\n\n\"Is she cheerful? Is she laughing?\"\n\n\"No, I think she's not laughing much. She's sitting quite dull. She's\ncombing the young gentleman's hair.\"\n\n\"The Pole--the officer?\"\n\n\"He's not young, and he's not an officer, either. Not him, sir. It's the\nyoung gentleman that's Mr. Miuesov's relation ... I've forgotten his name.\"\n\n\"Kalganov.\"\n\n\"That's it, Kalganov!\"\n\n\"All right. I'll see for myself. Are they playing cards?\"\n\n\"They have been playing, but they've left off. They've been drinking tea,\nthe official gentleman asked for liqueurs.\"\n\n\"Stay, Trifon Borissovitch, stay, my good soul, I'll see for myself. Now\nanswer one more question: are the gypsies here?\"\n\n\"You can't have the gypsies now, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The authorities have\nsent them away. But we've Jews that play the cymbals and the fiddle in the\nvillage, so one might send for them. They'd come.\"\n\n\"Send for them. Certainly send for them!\" cried Mitya. \"And you can get\nthe girls together as you did then, Marya especially, Stepanida, too, and\nArina. Two hundred roubles for a chorus!\"\n\n\"Oh, for a sum like that I can get all the village together, though by now\nthey're asleep. Are the peasants here worth such kindness, Dmitri\nFyodorovitch, or the girls either? To spend a sum like that on such\ncoarseness and rudeness! What's the good of giving a peasant a cigar to\nsmoke, the stinking ruffian! And the girls are all lousy. Besides, I'll\nget my daughters up for nothing, let alone a sum like that. They've only\njust gone to bed, I'll give them a kick and set them singing for you. You\ngave the peasants champagne to drink the other day, e--ech!\"\n\nFor all his pretended compassion for Mitya, Trifon Borissovitch had hidden\nhalf a dozen bottles of champagne on that last occasion, and had picked up\na hundred-rouble note under the table, and it had remained in his\nclutches.\n\n\"Trifon Borissovitch, I sent more than one thousand flying last time I was\nhere. Do you remember?\"\n\n\"You did send it flying. I may well remember. You must have left three\nthousand behind you.\"\n\n\"Well, I've come to do the same again, do you see?\"\n\nAnd he pulled out his roll of notes, and held them up before the\ninnkeeper's nose.\n\n\"Now, listen and remember. In an hour's time the wine will arrive,\nsavories, pies, and sweets--bring them all up at once. That box Andrey has\ngot is to be brought up at once, too. Open it, and hand champagne\nimmediately. And the girls, we must have the girls, Marya especially.\"\n\nHe turned to the cart and pulled out the box of pistols.\n\n\"Here, Andrey, let's settle. Here's fifteen roubles for the drive, and\nfifty for vodka ... for your readiness, for your love.... Remember\nKaramazov!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid, sir,\" faltered Andrey. \"Give me five roubles extra, but more\nI won't take. Trifon Borissovitch, bear witness. Forgive my foolish words\n...\"\n\n\"What are you afraid of?\" asked Mitya, scanning him. \"Well, go to the\ndevil, if that's it!\" he cried, flinging him five roubles. \"Now, Trifon\nBorissovitch, take me up quietly and let me first get a look at them, so\nthat they don't see me. Where are they? In the blue room?\"\n\nTrifon Borissovitch looked apprehensively at Mitya, but at once obediently\ndid his bidding. Leading him into the passage, he went himself into the\nfirst large room, adjoining that in which the visitors were sitting, and\ntook the light away. Then he stealthily led Mitya in, and put him in a\ncorner in the dark, whence he could freely watch the company without being\nseen. But Mitya did not look long, and, indeed, he could not see them, he\nsaw her, his heart throbbed violently, and all was dark before his eyes.\n\nShe was sitting sideways to the table in a low chair, and beside her, on\nthe sofa, was the pretty youth, Kalganov. She was holding his hand and\nseemed to be laughing, while he, seeming vexed and not looking at her, was\nsaying something in a loud voice to Maximov, who sat the other side of the\ntable, facing Grushenka. Maximov was laughing violently at something. On\nthe sofa sat _he_, and on a chair by the sofa there was another stranger.\nThe one on the sofa was lolling backwards, smoking a pipe, and Mitya had\nan impression of a stoutish, broad-faced, short little man, who was\napparently angry about something. His friend, the other stranger, struck\nMitya as extraordinarily tall, but he could make out nothing more. He\ncaught his breath. He could not bear it for a minute, he put the pistol-\ncase on a chest, and with a throbbing heart he walked, feeling cold all\nover, straight into the blue room to face the company.\n\n\"Aie!\" shrieked Grushenka, the first to notice him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. The First And Rightful Lover\n\n\nWith his long, rapid strides, Mitya walked straight up to the table.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he said in a loud voice, almost shouting, yet stammering at\nevery word, \"I ... I'm all right! Don't be afraid!\" he exclaimed,\n\"I--there's nothing the matter,\" he turned suddenly to Grushenka, who had\nshrunk back in her chair towards Kalganov, and clasped his hand tightly.\n\"I ... I'm coming, too. I'm here till morning. Gentlemen, may I stay with\nyou till morning? Only till morning, for the last time, in this same\nroom?\"\n\nSo he finished, turning to the fat little man, with the pipe, sitting on\nthe sofa. The latter removed his pipe from his lips with dignity and\nobserved severely:\n\n\"_Panie_, we're here in private. There are other rooms.\"\n\n\"Why, it's you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch! What do you mean?\" answered Kalganov\nsuddenly. \"Sit down with us. How are you?\"\n\n\"Delighted to see you, dear ... and precious fellow, I always thought a\nlot of you.\" Mitya responded, joyfully and eagerly, at once holding out\nhis hand across the table.\n\n\"Aie! How tight you squeeze! You've quite broken my fingers,\" laughed\nKalganov.\n\n\"He always squeezes like that, always,\" Grushenka put in gayly, with a\ntimid smile, seeming suddenly convinced from Mitya's face that he was not\ngoing to make a scene. She was watching him with intense curiosity and\nstill some uneasiness. She was impressed by something about him, and\nindeed the last thing she expected of him was that he would come in and\nspeak like this at such a moment.\n\n\"Good evening,\" Maximov ventured blandly on the left. Mitya rushed up to\nhim, too.\n\n\"Good evening. You're here, too! How glad I am to find you here, too!\nGentlemen, gentlemen, I--\" (He addressed the Polish gentleman with the pipe\nagain, evidently taking him for the most important person present.) \"I\nflew here.... I wanted to spend my last day, my last hour in this room, in\nthis very room ... where I, too, adored ... my queen.... Forgive me,\n_panie_,\" he cried wildly, \"I flew here and vowed-- Oh, don't be afraid,\nit's my last night! Let's drink to our good understanding. They'll bring\nthe wine at once.... I brought this with me.\" (Something made him pull out\nhis bundle of notes.) \"Allow me, _panie_! I want to have music, singing, a\nrevel, as we had before. But the worm, the unnecessary worm, will crawl\naway, and there'll be no more of him. I will commemorate my day of joy on\nmy last night.\"\n\nHe was almost choking. There was so much, so much he wanted to say, but\nstrange exclamations were all that came from his lips. The Pole gazed\nfixedly at him, at the bundle of notes in his hand; looked at Grushenka,\nand was in evident perplexity.\n\n\"If my suverin lady is permitting--\" he was beginning.\n\n\"What does 'suverin' mean? 'Sovereign,' I suppose?\" interrupted Grushenka.\n\"I can't help laughing at you, the way you talk. Sit down, Mitya, what are\nyou talking about? Don't frighten us, please. You won't frighten us, will\nyou? If you won't, I am glad to see you ...\"\n\n\"Me, me frighten you?\" cried Mitya, flinging up his hands. \"Oh, pass me\nby, go your way, I won't hinder you!...\"\n\nAnd suddenly he surprised them all, and no doubt himself as well, by\nflinging himself on a chair, and bursting into tears, turning his head\naway to the opposite wall, while his arms clasped the back of the chair\ntight, as though embracing it.\n\n\"Come, come, what a fellow you are!\" cried Grushenka reproachfully.\n\"That's just how he comes to see me--he begins talking, and I can't make\nout what he means. He cried like that once before, and now he's crying\nagain! It's shameful! Why are you crying? _As though you had anything to\ncry for!_\" she added enigmatically, emphasizing each word with some\nirritability.\n\n\"I ... I'm not crying.... Well, good evening!\" He instantly turned round\nin his chair, and suddenly laughed, not his abrupt wooden laugh, but a\nlong, quivering, inaudible nervous laugh.\n\n\"Well, there you are again.... Come, cheer up, cheer up!\" Grushenka said\nto him persuasively. \"I'm very glad you've come, very glad, Mitya, do you\nhear, I'm very glad! I want him to stay here with us,\" she said\nperemptorily, addressing the whole company, though her words were\nobviously meant for the man sitting on the sofa. \"I wish it, I wish it!\nAnd if he goes away I shall go, too!\" she added with flashing eyes.\n\n\"What my queen commands is law!\" pronounced the Pole, gallantly kissing\nGrushenka's hand. \"I beg you, _panie_, to join our company,\" he added\npolitely, addressing Mitya.\n\nMitya was jumping up with the obvious intention of delivering another\ntirade, but the words did not come.\n\n\"Let's drink, _panie_,\" he blurted out instead of making a speech. Every\none laughed.\n\n\"Good heavens! I thought he was going to begin again!\" Grushenka exclaimed\nnervously. \"Do you hear, Mitya,\" she went on insistently, \"don't prance\nabout, but it's nice you've brought the champagne. I want some myself, and\nI can't bear liqueurs. And best of all, you've come yourself. We were\nfearfully dull here.... You've come for a spree again, I suppose? But put\nyour money in your pocket. Where did you get such a lot?\"\n\nMitya had been, all this time, holding in his hand the crumpled bundle of\nnotes on which the eyes of all, especially of the Poles, were fixed. In\nconfusion he thrust them hurriedly into his pocket. He flushed. At that\nmoment the innkeeper brought in an uncorked bottle of champagne, and\nglasses on a tray. Mitya snatched up the bottle, but he was so bewildered\nthat he did not know what to do with it. Kalganov took it from him and\npoured out the champagne.\n\n\"Another! Another bottle!\" Mitya cried to the innkeeper, and, forgetting\nto clink glasses with the Pole whom he had so solemnly invited to drink to\ntheir good understanding, he drank off his glass without waiting for any\none else. His whole countenance suddenly changed. The solemn and tragic\nexpression with which he had entered vanished completely, and a look of\nsomething childlike came into his face. He seemed to have become suddenly\ngentle and subdued. He looked shyly and happily at every one, with a\ncontinual nervous little laugh, and the blissful expression of a dog who\nhas done wrong, been punished, and forgiven. He seemed to have forgotten\neverything, and was looking round at every one with a childlike smile of\ndelight. He looked at Grushenka, laughing continually, and bringing his\nchair close up to her. By degrees he had gained some idea of the two\nPoles, though he had formed no definite conception of them yet.\n\nThe Pole on the sofa struck him by his dignified demeanor and his Polish\naccent; and, above all, by his pipe. \"Well, what of it? It's a good thing\nhe's smoking a pipe,\" he reflected. The Pole's puffy, middle-aged face,\nwith its tiny nose and two very thin, pointed, dyed and impudent-looking\nmustaches, had not so far roused the faintest doubts in Mitya. He was not\neven particularly struck by the Pole's absurd wig made in Siberia, with\nlove-locks foolishly combed forward over the temples. \"I suppose it's all\nright since he wears a wig,\" he went on, musing blissfully. The other,\nyounger Pole, who was staring insolently and defiantly at the company and\nlistening to the conversation with silent contempt, still only impressed\nMitya by his great height, which was in striking contrast to the Pole on\nthe sofa. \"If he stood up he'd be six foot three.\" The thought flitted\nthrough Mitya's mind. It occurred to him, too, that this Pole must be the\nfriend of the other, as it were, a \"bodyguard,\" and no doubt the big Pole\nwas at the disposal of the little Pole with the pipe. But this all seemed\nto Mitya perfectly right and not to be questioned. In his mood of doglike\nsubmissiveness all feeling of rivalry had died away.\n\nGrushenka's mood and the enigmatic tone of some of her words he completely\nfailed to grasp. All he understood, with thrilling heart, was that she was\nkind to him, that she had forgiven him, and made him sit by her. He was\nbeside himself with delight, watching her sip her glass of champagne. The\nsilence of the company seemed somehow to strike him, however, and he\nlooked round at every one with expectant eyes.\n\n\"Why are we sitting here though, gentlemen? Why don't you begin doing\nsomething?\" his smiling eyes seemed to ask.\n\n\"He keeps talking nonsense, and we were all laughing,\" Kalganov began\nsuddenly, as though divining his thought, and pointing to Maximov.\n\nMitya immediately stared at Kalganov and then at Maximov.\n\n\"He's talking nonsense?\" he laughed, his short, wooden laugh, seeming\nsuddenly delighted at something--\"ha ha!\"\n\n\"Yes. Would you believe it, he will have it that all our cavalry officers\nin the twenties married Polish women. That's awful rot, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Polish women?\" repeated Mitya, perfectly ecstatic.\n\nKalganov was well aware of Mitya's attitude to Grushenka, and he guessed\nabout the Pole, too, but that did not so much interest him, perhaps did\nnot interest him at all; what he was interested in was Maximov. He had\ncome here with Maximov by chance, and he met the Poles here at the inn for\nthe first time in his life. Grushenka he knew before, and had once been\nwith some one to see her; but she had not taken to him. But here she\nlooked at him very affectionately: before Mitya's arrival, she had been\nmaking much of him, but he seemed somehow to be unmoved by it. He was a\nboy, not over twenty, dressed like a dandy, with a very charming fair-\nskinned face, and splendid thick, fair hair. From his fair face looked out\nbeautiful pale blue eyes, with an intelligent and sometimes even deep\nexpression, beyond his age indeed, although the young man sometimes looked\nand talked quite like a child, and was not at all ashamed of it, even when\nhe was aware of it himself. As a rule he was very willful, even\ncapricious, though always friendly. Sometimes there was something fixed\nand obstinate in his expression. He would look at you and listen, seeming\nall the while to be persistently dreaming over something else. Often he\nwas listless and lazy, at other times he would grow excited, sometimes,\napparently, over the most trivial matters.\n\n\"Only imagine, I've been taking him about with me for the last four days,\"\nhe went on, indolently drawling his words, quite naturally though, without\nthe slightest affectation. \"Ever since your brother, do you remember,\nshoved him off the carriage and sent him flying. That made me take an\ninterest in him at the time, and I took him into the country, but he keeps\ntalking such rot I'm ashamed to be with him. I'm taking him back.\"\n\n\"The gentleman has not seen Polish ladies, and says what is impossible,\"\nthe Pole with the pipe observed to Maximov.\n\nHe spoke Russian fairly well, much better, anyway, than he pretended. If\nhe used Russian words, he always distorted them into a Polish form.\n\n\"But I was married to a Polish lady myself,\" tittered Maximov.\n\n\"But did you serve in the cavalry? You were talking about the cavalry.\nWere you a cavalry officer?\" put in Kalganov at once.\n\n\"Was he a cavalry officer indeed? Ha ha!\" cried Mitya, listening eagerly,\nand turning his inquiring eyes to each as he spoke, as though there were\nno knowing what he might hear from each.\n\n\"No, you see,\" Maximov turned to him. \"What I mean is that those pretty\nPolish ladies ... when they danced the mazurka with our Uhlans ... when\none of them dances a mazurka with a Uhlan she jumps on his knee like a\nkitten ... a little white one ... and the _pan_-father and _pan_-mother\nlook on and allow it.... They allow it ... and next day the Uhlan comes\nand offers her his hand.... That's how it is ... offers her his hand, he\nhe!\" Maximov ended, tittering.\n\n\"The _pan_ is a _lajdak_!\" the tall Pole on the chair growled suddenly and\ncrossed one leg over the other. Mitya's eye was caught by his huge greased\nboot, with its thick, dirty sole. The dress of both the Poles looked\nrather greasy.\n\n\"Well, now it's _lajdak_! What's he scolding about?\" said Grushenka,\nsuddenly vexed.\n\n\"_Pani_ Agrippina, what the gentleman saw in Poland were servant girls,\nand not ladies of good birth,\" the Pole with the pipe observed to\nGrushenka.\n\n\"You can reckon on that,\" the tall Pole snapped contemptuously.\n\n\"What next! Let him talk! People talk, why hinder them? It makes it\ncheerful,\" Grushenka said crossly.\n\n\"I'm not hindering them, _pani_,\" said the Pole in the wig, with a long\nlook at Grushenka, and relapsing into dignified silence he sucked his pipe\nagain.\n\n\"No, no. The Polish gentleman spoke the truth.\" Kalganov got excited\nagain, as though it were a question of vast import. \"He's never been in\nPoland, so how can he talk about it? I suppose you weren't married in\nPoland, were you?\"\n\n\"No, in the Province of Smolensk. Only, a Uhlan had brought her to Russia\nbefore that, my future wife, with her mamma and her aunt, and another\nfemale relation with a grown-up son. He brought her straight from Poland\nand gave her up to me. He was a lieutenant in our regiment, a very nice\nyoung man. At first he meant to marry her himself. But he didn't marry\nher, because she turned out to be lame.\"\n\n\"So you married a lame woman?\" cried Kalganov.\n\n\"Yes. They both deceived me a little bit at the time, and concealed it. I\nthought she was hopping; she kept hopping.... I thought it was for fun.\"\n\n\"So pleased she was going to marry you!\" yelled Kalganov, in a ringing,\nchildish voice.\n\n\"Yes, so pleased. But it turned out to be quite a different cause.\nAfterwards, when we were married, after the wedding, that very evening,\nshe confessed, and very touchingly asked forgiveness. 'I once jumped over\na puddle when I was a child,' she said, 'and injured my leg.' He he!\"\n\nKalganov went off into the most childish laughter, almost falling on the\nsofa. Grushenka, too, laughed. Mitya was at the pinnacle of happiness.\n\n\"Do you know, that's the truth, he's not lying now,\" exclaimed Kalganov,\nturning to Mitya; \"and do you know, he's been married twice; it's his\nfirst wife he's talking about. But his second wife, do you know, ran away,\nand is alive now.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\" said Mitya, turning quickly to Maximov with an\nexpression of the utmost astonishment.\n\n\"Yes. She did run away. I've had that unpleasant experience,\" Maximov\nmodestly assented, \"with a _monsieur_. And what was worse, she'd had all\nmy little property transferred to her beforehand. 'You're an educated\nman,' she said to me. 'You can always get your living.' She settled my\nbusiness with that. A venerable bishop once said to me: 'One of your wives\nwas lame, but the other was too light-footed.' He he!\"\n\n\"Listen, listen!\" cried Kalganov, bubbling over, \"if he's telling lies--and\nhe often is--he's only doing it to amuse us all. There's no harm in that,\nis there? You know, I sometimes like him. He's awfully low, but it's\nnatural to him, eh? Don't you think so? Some people are low from self-\ninterest, but he's simply so, from nature. Only fancy, he claims (he was\narguing about it all the way yesterday) that Gogol wrote _Dead Souls_\nabout him. Do you remember, there's a landowner called Maximov in it, whom\nNozdryov thrashed. He was charged, do you remember, 'for inflicting bodily\ninjury with rods on the landowner Maximov in a drunken condition.' Would\nyou believe it, he claims that he was that Maximov and that he was beaten!\nNow can it be so? Tchitchikov made his journey, at the very latest, at the\nbeginning of the twenties, so that the dates don't fit. He couldn't have\nbeen thrashed then, he couldn't, could he?\"\n\nIt was difficult to imagine what Kalganov was excited about, but his\nexcitement was genuine. Mitya followed his lead without protest.\n\n\"Well, but if they did thrash him!\" he cried, laughing.\n\n\"It's not that they thrashed me exactly, but what I mean is--\" put in\nMaximov.\n\n\"What do you mean? Either they thrashed you or they didn't.\"\n\n\"What o'clock is it, _panie_?\" the Pole, with the pipe, asked his tall\nfriend, with a bored expression. The other shrugged his shoulders in\nreply. Neither of them had a watch.\n\n\"Why not talk? Let other people talk. Mustn't other people talk because\nyou're bored?\" Grushenka flew at him with evident intention of finding\nfault. Something seemed for the first time to flash upon Mitya's mind.\nThis time the Pole answered with unmistakable irritability.\n\n\"_Pani_, I didn't oppose it. I didn't say anything.\"\n\n\"All right then. Come, tell us your story,\" Grushenka cried to Maximov.\n\"Why are you all silent?\"\n\n\"There's nothing to tell, it's all so foolish,\" answered Maximov at once,\nwith evident satisfaction, mincing a little. \"Besides, all that's by way\nof allegory in Gogol, for he's made all the names have a meaning. Nozdryov\nwas really called Nosov, and Kuvshinikov had quite a different name, he\nwas called Shkvornev. Fenardi really was called Fenardi, only he wasn't an\nItalian but a Russian, and Mamsel Fenardi was a pretty girl with her\npretty little legs in tights, and she had a little short skirt with\nspangles, and she kept turning round and round, only not for four hours\nbut for four minutes only, and she bewitched every one...\"\n\n\"But what were you beaten for?\" cried Kalganov.\n\n\"For Piron!\" answered Maximov.\n\n\"What Piron?\" cried Mitya.\n\n\"The famous French writer, Piron. We were all drinking then, a big party\nof us, in a tavern at that very fair. They'd invited me, and first of all\nI began quoting epigrams. 'Is that you, Boileau? What a funny get-up!' and\nBoileau answers that he's going to a masquerade, that is to the baths, he\nhe! And they took it to themselves, so I made haste to repeat another,\nvery sarcastic, well known to all educated people:\n\n\n    Yes, Sappho and Phaon are we!\n    But one grief is weighing on me.\n    You don't know your way to the sea!\n\n\nThey were still more offended and began abusing me in the most unseemly\nway for it. And as ill-luck would have it, to set things right, I began\ntelling a very cultivated anecdote about Piron, how he was not accepted\ninto the French Academy, and to revenge himself wrote his own epitaph:\n\n\n    Ci-git Piron qui ne fut rien,\n    Pas meme academicien.\n\n\nThey seized me and thrashed me.\"\n\n\"But what for? What for?\"\n\n\"For my education. People can thrash a man for anything,\" Maximov\nconcluded, briefly and sententiously.\n\n\"Eh, that's enough! That's all stupid, I don't want to listen. I thought\nit would be amusing,\" Grushenka cut them short, suddenly.\n\nMitya started, and at once left off laughing. The tall Pole rose upon his\nfeet, and with the haughty air of a man, bored and out of his element,\nbegan pacing from corner to corner of the room, his hands behind his back.\n\n\"Ah, he can't sit still,\" said Grushenka, looking at him contemptuously.\nMitya began to feel anxious. He noticed besides, that the Pole on the sofa\nwas looking at him with an irritable expression.\n\n\"_Panie!_\" cried Mitya, \"let's drink! and the other _pan_, too! Let us\ndrink.\"\n\nIn a flash he had pulled three glasses towards him, and filled them with\nchampagne.\n\n\"To Poland, _panovie_, I drink to your Poland!\" cried Mitya.\n\n\"I shall be delighted, _panie_,\" said the Pole on the sofa, with dignity\nand affable condescension, and he took his glass.\n\n\"And the other _pan_, what's his name? Drink, most illustrious, take your\nglass!\" Mitya urged.\n\n\"Pan Vrublevsky,\" put in the Pole on the sofa.\n\nPan Vrublevsky came up to the table, swaying as he walked.\n\n\"To Poland, _panovie!_\" cried Mitya, raising his glass. \"Hurrah!\"\n\nAll three drank. Mitya seized the bottle and again poured out three\nglasses.\n\n\"Now to Russia, _panovie_, and let us be brothers!\"\n\n\"Pour out some for us,\" said Grushenka; \"I'll drink to Russia, too!\"\n\n\"So will I,\" said Kalganov.\n\n\"And I would, too ... to Russia, the old grandmother!\" tittered Maximov.\n\n\"All! All!\" cried Mitya. \"Trifon Borissovitch, some more bottles!\"\n\nThe other three bottles Mitya had brought with him were put on the table.\nMitya filled the glasses.\n\n\"To Russia! Hurrah!\" he shouted again. All drank the toast except the\nPoles, and Grushenka tossed off her whole glass at once. The Poles did not\ntouch theirs.\n\n\"How's this, _panovie_?\" cried Mitya, \"won't you drink it?\"\n\nPan Vrublevsky took the glass, raised it and said with a resonant voice:\n\n\"To Russia as she was before 1772.\"\n\n\"Come, that's better!\" cried the other Pole, and they both emptied their\nglasses at once.\n\n\"You're fools, you _panovie_,\" broke suddenly from Mitya.\n\n\"_Panie!_\" shouted both the Poles, menacingly, setting on Mitya like a\ncouple of cocks. Pan Vrublevsky was specially furious.\n\n\"Can one help loving one's own country?\" he shouted.\n\n\"Be silent! Don't quarrel! I won't have any quarreling!\" cried Grushenka\nimperiously, and she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her\neyes were shining. The effects of the glass she had just drunk were\napparent. Mitya was terribly alarmed.\n\n\"_Panovie_, forgive me! It was my fault, I'm sorry. Vrublevsky, _panie_\nVrublevsky, I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, you, anyway! Sit down, you stupid!\" Grushenka scolded\nwith angry annoyance.\n\nEvery one sat down, all were silent, looking at one another.\n\n\"Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all,\" Mitya began again, unable to make\nanything of Grushenka's words. \"Come, why are we sitting here? What shall\nwe do ... to amuse ourselves again?\"\n\n\"Ach, it's certainly anything but amusing!\" Kalganov mumbled lazily.\n\n\"Let's play faro again, as we did just now,\" Maximov tittered suddenly.\n\n\"Faro? Splendid!\" cried Mitya. \"If only the _panovie_--\"\n\n\"It's lite, _panovie_,\" the Pole on the sofa responded, as it were\nunwillingly.\n\n\"That's true,\" assented Pan Vrublevsky.\n\n\"Lite? What do you mean by 'lite'?\" asked Grushenka.\n\n\"Late, _pani_! 'a late hour' I mean,\" the Pole on the sofa explained.\n\n\"It's always late with them. They can never do anything!\" Grushenka almost\nshrieked in her anger. \"They're dull themselves, so they want others to be\ndull. Before you came, Mitya, they were just as silent and kept turning up\ntheir noses at me.\"\n\n\"My goddess!\" cried the Pole on the sofa, \"I see you're not well-disposed\nto me, that's why I'm gloomy. I'm ready, _panie_,\" added he, addressing\nMitya.\n\n\"Begin, _panie_,\" Mitya assented, pulling his notes out of his pocket, and\nlaying two hundred-rouble notes on the table. \"I want to lose a lot to\nyou. Take your cards. Make the bank.\"\n\n\"We'll have cards from the landlord, _panie_,\" said the little Pole,\ngravely and emphatically.\n\n\"That's much the best way,\" chimed in Pan Vrublevsky.\n\n\"From the landlord? Very good, I understand, let's get them from him.\nCards!\" Mitya shouted to the landlord.\n\nThe landlord brought in a new, unopened pack, and informed Mitya that the\ngirls were getting ready, and that the Jews with the cymbals would most\nlikely be here soon; but the cart with the provisions had not yet arrived.\nMitya jumped up from the table and ran into the next room to give orders,\nbut only three girls had arrived, and Marya was not there yet. And he did\nnot know himself what orders to give and why he had run out. He only told\nthem to take out of the box the presents for the girls, the sweets, the\ntoffee and the fondants. \"And vodka for Andrey, vodka for Andrey!\" he\ncried in haste. \"I was rude to Andrey!\"\n\nSuddenly Maximov, who had followed him out, touched him on the shoulder.\n\n\"Give me five roubles,\" he whispered to Mitya. \"I'll stake something at\nfaro, too, he he!\"\n\n\"Capital! Splendid! Take ten, here!\"\n\nAgain he took all the notes out of his pocket and picked out one for ten\nroubles. \"And if you lose that, come again, come again.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" Maximov whispered joyfully, and he ran back again. Mitya,\ntoo, returned, apologizing for having kept them waiting. The Poles had\nalready sat down, and opened the pack. They looked much more amiable,\nalmost cordial. The Pole on the sofa had lighted another pipe and was\npreparing to throw. He wore an air of solemnity.\n\n\"To your places, gentlemen,\" cried Pan Vrublevsky.\n\n\"No, I'm not going to play any more,\" observed Kalganov, \"I've lost fifty\nroubles to them just now.\"\n\n\"The _pan_ had no luck, perhaps he'll be lucky this time,\" the Pole on the\nsofa observed in his direction.\n\n\"How much in the bank? To correspond?\" asked Mitya.\n\n\"That's according, _panie_, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, as much as\nyou will stake.\"\n\n\"A million!\" laughed Mitya.\n\n\"The Pan Captain has heard of Pan Podvysotsky, perhaps?\"\n\n\"What Podvysotsky?\"\n\n\"In Warsaw there was a bank and any one comes and stakes against it.\nPodvysotsky comes, sees a thousand gold pieces, stakes against the bank.\nThe banker says, '_Panie_ Podvysotsky, are you laying down the gold, or\nmust we trust to your honor?' 'To my honor, _panie_,' says Podvysotsky.\n'So much the better.' The banker throws the dice. Podvysotsky wins. 'Take\nit, _panie_,' says the banker, and pulling out the drawer he gives him a\nmillion. 'Take it, _panie_, this is your gain.' There was a million in the\nbank. 'I didn't know that,' says Podvysotsky. '_Panie_ Podvysotsky,' said\nthe banker, 'you pledged your honor and we pledged ours.' Podvysotsky took\nthe million.\"\n\n\"That's not true,\" said Kalganov.\n\n\"_Panie_ Kalganov, in gentlemanly society one doesn't say such things.\"\n\n\"As if a Polish gambler would give away a million!\" cried Mitya, but\nchecked himself at once. \"Forgive me, _panie_, it's my fault again, he\nwould, he would give away a million, for honor, for Polish honor. You see\nhow I talk Polish, ha ha! Here, I stake ten roubles, the knave leads.\"\n\n\"And I put a rouble on the queen, the queen of hearts, the pretty little\n_panienotchka_, he he!\" laughed Maximov, pulling out his queen, and, as\nthough trying to conceal it from every one, he moved right up and crossed\nhimself hurriedly under the table. Mitya won. The rouble won, too.\n\n\"A corner!\" cried Mitya.\n\n\"I'll bet another rouble, a 'single' stake,\" Maximov muttered gleefully,\nhugely delighted at having won a rouble.\n\n\"Lost!\" shouted Mitya. \"A 'double' on the seven!\"\n\nThe seven too was trumped.\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Kalganov suddenly.\n\n\"Double! Double!\" Mitya doubled his stakes, and each time he doubled the\nstake, the card he doubled was trumped by the Poles. The rouble stakes\nkept winning.\n\n\"On the double!\" shouted Mitya furiously.\n\n\"You've lost two hundred, _panie_. Will you stake another hundred?\" the\nPole on the sofa inquired.\n\n\"What? Lost two hundred already? Then another two hundred! All doubles!\"\n\nAnd pulling his money out of his pocket, Mitya was about to fling two\nhundred roubles on the queen, but Kalganov covered it with his hand.\n\n\"That's enough!\" he shouted in his ringing voice.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" Mitya stared at him.\n\n\"That's enough! I don't want you to play any more. Don't!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I don't. Hang it, come away. That's why. I won't let you go on\nplaying.\"\n\nMitya gazed at him in astonishment.\n\n\"Give it up, Mitya. He may be right. You've lost a lot as it is,\" said\nGrushenka, with a curious note in her voice. Both the Poles rose from\ntheir seats with a deeply offended air.\n\n\"Are you joking, _panie_?\" said the short man, looking severely at\nKalganov.\n\n\"How dare you!\" Pan Vrublevsky, too, growled at Kalganov.\n\n\"Don't dare to shout like that,\" cried Grushenka. \"Ah, you turkey-cocks!\"\n\nMitya looked at each of them in turn. But something in Grushenka's face\nsuddenly struck him, and at the same instant something new flashed into\nhis mind--a strange new thought!\n\n\"_Pani_ Agrippina,\" the little Pole was beginning, crimson with anger,\nwhen Mitya suddenly went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder.\n\n\"Most illustrious, two words with you.\"\n\n\"What do you want?\"\n\n\"In the next room, I've two words to say to you, something pleasant, very\npleasant. You'll be glad to hear it.\"\n\nThe little _pan_ was taken aback and looked apprehensively at Mitya. He\nagreed at once, however, on condition that Pan Vrublevsky went with them.\n\n\"The bodyguard? Let him come, and I want him, too. I must have him!\" cried\nMitya. \"March, _panovie_!\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\" asked Grushenka, anxiously.\n\n\"We'll be back in one moment,\" answered Mitya.\n\nThere was a sort of boldness, a sudden confidence shining in his eyes. His\nface had looked very different when he entered the room an hour before.\n\nHe led the Poles, not into the large room where the chorus of girls was\nassembling and the table was being laid, but into the bedroom on the\nright, where the trunks and packages were kept, and there were two large\nbeds, with pyramids of cotton pillows on each. There was a lighted candle\non a small deal table in the corner. The small man and Mitya sat down to\nthis table, facing each other, while the huge Vrublevsky stood beside\nthem, his hands behind his back. The Poles looked severe but were\nevidently inquisitive.\n\n\"What can I do for you, _panie_?\" lisped the little Pole.\n\n\"Well, look here, _panie_, I won't keep you long. There's money for you,\"\nhe pulled out his notes. \"Would you like three thousand? Take it and go\nyour way.\"\n\nThe Pole gazed open-eyed at Mitya, with a searching look.\n\n\"Three thousand, _panie_?\" He exchanged glances with Vrublevsky.\n\n\"Three, _panovie_, three! Listen, _panie_, I see you're a sensible man.\nTake three thousand and go to the devil, and Vrublevsky with you--d'you\nhear? But, at once, this very minute, and for ever. You understand that,\n_panie_, for ever. Here's the door, you go out of it. What have you got\nthere, a great-coat, a fur coat? I'll bring it out to you. They'll get the\nhorses out directly, and then--good-by, _panie_!\"\n\nMitya awaited an answer with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of\nextraordinary resolution passed over the Pole's face.\n\n\"And the money, _panie_?\"\n\n\"The money, _panie_? Five hundred roubles I'll give you this moment for\nthe journey, and as a first installment, and two thousand five hundred to-\nmorrow, in the town--I swear on my honor, I'll get it, I'll get it at any\ncost!\" cried Mitya.\n\nThe Poles exchanged glances again. The short man's face looked more\nforbidding.\n\n\"Seven hundred, seven hundred, not five hundred, at once, this minute,\ncash down!\" Mitya added, feeling something wrong. \"What's the matter,\n_panie_? Don't you trust me? I can't give you the whole three thousand\nstraight off. If I give it, you may come back to her to-morrow....\nBesides, I haven't the three thousand with me. I've got it at home in the\ntown,\" faltered Mitya, his spirit sinking at every word he uttered. \"Upon\nmy word, the money's there, hidden.\"\n\nIn an instant an extraordinary sense of personal dignity showed itself in\nthe little man's face.\n\n\"What next?\" he asked ironically. \"For shame!\" and he spat on the floor.\nPan Vrublevsky spat too.\n\n\"You do that, _panie_,\" said Mitya, recognizing with despair that all was\nover, \"because you hope to make more out of Grushenka? You're a couple of\ncapons, that's what you are!\"\n\n\"This is a mortal insult!\" The little Pole turned as red as a crab, and he\nwent out of the room, briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word.\nVrublevsky swung out after him, and Mitya followed, confused and\ncrestfallen. He was afraid of Grushenka, afraid that the _pan_ would at\nonce raise an outcry. And so indeed he did. The Pole walked into the room\nand threw himself in a theatrical attitude before Grushenka.\n\n\"_Pani_ Agrippina, I have received a mortal insult!\" he exclaimed. But\nGrushenka suddenly lost all patience, as though they had wounded her in\nthe tenderest spot.\n\n\"Speak Russian! Speak Russian!\" she cried, \"not another word of Polish!\nYou used to talk Russian. You can't have forgotten it in five years.\"\n\nShe was red with passion.\n\n\"_Pani_ Agrippina--\"\n\n\"My name's Agrafena, Grushenka, speak Russian or I won't listen!\"\n\nThe Pole gasped with offended dignity, and quickly and pompously delivered\nhimself in broken Russian:\n\n\"_Pani_ Agrafena, I came here to forget the past and forgive it, to forget\nall that has happened till to-day--\"\n\n\"Forgive? Came here to forgive me?\" Grushenka cut him short, jumping up\nfrom her seat.\n\n\"Just so, _pani_, I'm not pusillanimous, I'm magnanimous. But I was\nastounded when I saw your lovers. Pan Mitya offered me three thousand, in\nthe other room to depart. I spat in the _pan's_ face.\"\n\n\"What? He offered you money for me?\" cried Grushenka, hysterically. \"Is it\ntrue, Mitya? How dare you? Am I for sale?\"\n\n\"_Panie, panie!_\" yelled Mitya, \"she's pure and shining, and I have never\nbeen her lover! That's a lie....\"\n\n\"How dare you defend me to him?\" shrieked Grushenka. \"It wasn't virtue\nkept me pure, and it wasn't that I was afraid of Kuzma, but that I might\nhold up my head when I met him, and tell him he's a scoundrel. And he did\nactually refuse the money?\"\n\n\"He took it! He took it!\" cried Mitya; \"only he wanted to get the whole\nthree thousand at once, and I could only give him seven hundred straight\noff.\"\n\n\"I see: he heard I had money, and came here to marry me!\"\n\n\"_Pani_ Agrippina!\" cried the little Pole. \"I'm--a knight, I'm--a nobleman,\nand not a _lajdak_. I came here to make you my wife and I find you a\ndifferent woman, perverse and shameless.\"\n\n\"Oh, go back where you came from! I'll tell them to turn you out and\nyou'll be turned out,\" cried Grushenka, furious. \"I've been a fool, a\nfool, to have been miserable these five years! And it wasn't for his sake,\nit was my anger made me miserable. And this isn't he at all! Was he like\nthis? It might be his father! Where did you get your wig from? He was a\nfalcon, but this is a gander. He used to laugh and sing to me.... And I've\nbeen crying for five years, damned fool, abject, shameless I was!\"\n\nShe sank back in her low chair and hid her face in her hands. At that\ninstant the chorus of Mokroe began singing in the room on the left--a\nrollicking dance song.\n\n\"A regular Sodom!\" Vrublevsky roared suddenly. \"Landlord, send the\nshameless hussies away!\"\n\nThe landlord, who had been for some time past inquisitively peeping in at\nthe door, hearing shouts and guessing that his guests were quarreling, at\nonce entered the room.\n\n\"What are you shouting for? D'you want to split your throat?\" he said,\naddressing Vrublevsky, with surprising rudeness.\n\n\"Animal!\" bellowed Pan Vrublevsky.\n\n\"Animal? And what sort of cards were you playing with just now? I gave you\na pack and you hid it. You played with marked cards! I could send you to\nSiberia for playing with false cards, d'you know that, for it's just the\nsame as false banknotes....\"\n\nAnd going up to the sofa he thrust his fingers between the sofa back and\nthe cushion, and pulled out an unopened pack of cards.\n\n\"Here's my pack unopened!\"\n\nHe held it up and showed it to all in the room. \"From where I stood I saw\nhim slip my pack away, and put his in place of it--you're a cheat and not a\ngentleman!\"\n\n\"And I twice saw the _pan_ change a card!\" cried Kalganov.\n\n\"How shameful! How shameful!\" exclaimed Grushenka, clasping her hands, and\nblushing for genuine shame. \"Good Lord, he's come to that!\"\n\n\"I thought so, too!\" said Mitya. But before he had uttered the words,\nVrublevsky, with a confused and infuriated face, shook his fist at\nGrushenka, shouting:\n\n\"You low harlot!\"\n\nMitya flew at him at once, clutched him in both hands, lifted him in the\nair, and in one instant had carried him into the room on the right, from\nwhich they had just come.\n\n\"I've laid him on the floor, there,\" he announced, returning at once,\ngasping with excitement. \"He's struggling, the scoundrel! But he won't\ncome back, no fear of that!...\"\n\nHe closed one half of the folding doors, and holding the other ajar called\nout to the little Pole:\n\n\"Most illustrious, will you be pleased to retire as well?\"\n\n\"My dear Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" said Trifon Borissovitch, \"make them give\nyou back the money you lost. It's as good as stolen from you.\"\n\n\"I don't want my fifty roubles back,\" Kalganov declared suddenly.\n\n\"I don't want my two hundred, either,\" cried Mitya, \"I wouldn't take it\nfor anything! Let him keep it as a consolation.\"\n\n\"Bravo, Mitya! You're a trump, Mitya!\" cried Grushenka, and there was a\nnote of fierce anger in the exclamation.\n\nThe little _pan_, crimson with fury but still mindful of his dignity, was\nmaking for the door, but he stopped short and said suddenly, addressing\nGrushenka:\n\n\"_Pani_, if you want to come with me, come. If not, good-by.\"\n\nAnd swelling with indignation and importance he went to the door. This was\na man of character: he had so good an opinion of himself that after all\nthat had passed, he still expected that she would marry him. Mitya slammed\nthe door after him.\n\n\"Lock it,\" said Kalganov. But the key clicked on the other side, they had\nlocked it from within.\n\n\"That's capital!\" exclaimed Grushenka relentlessly. \"Serve them right!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. Delirium\n\n\nWhat followed was almost an orgy, a feast to which all were welcome.\nGrushenka was the first to call for wine.\n\n\"I want to drink. I want to be quite drunk, as we were before. Do you\nremember, Mitya, do you remember how we made friends here last time!\"\n\nMitya himself was almost delirious, feeling that his happiness was at\nhand. But Grushenka was continually sending him away from her.\n\n\"Go and enjoy yourself. Tell them to dance, to make merry, 'let the stove\nand cottage dance'; as we had it last time,\" she kept exclaiming. She was\ntremendously excited. And Mitya hastened to obey her. The chorus were in\nthe next room. The room in which they had been sitting till that moment\nwas too small, and was divided in two by cotton curtains, behind which was\na huge bed with a puffy feather mattress and a pyramid of cotton pillows.\nIn the four rooms for visitors there were beds. Grushenka settled herself\njust at the door. Mitya set an easy chair for her. She had sat in the same\nplace to watch the dancing and singing \"the time before,\" when they had\nmade merry there. All the girls who had come had been there then; the\nJewish band with fiddles and zithers had come, too, and at last the long\nexpected cart had arrived with the wines and provisions.\n\nMitya bustled about. All sorts of people began coming into the room to\nlook on, peasants and their women, who had been roused from sleep and\nattracted by the hopes of another marvelous entertainment such as they had\nenjoyed a month before. Mitya remembered their faces, greeting and\nembracing every one he knew. He uncorked bottles and poured out wine for\nevery one who presented himself. Only the girls were very eager for the\nchampagne. The men preferred rum, brandy, and, above all, hot punch. Mitya\nhad chocolate made for all the girls, and ordered that three samovars\nshould be kept boiling all night to provide tea and punch for everyone to\nhelp himself.\n\nAn absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitya was in his natural\nelement, and the more foolish it became, the more his spirits rose. If the\npeasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have pulled out\nhis notes and given them away right and left. This was probably why the\nlandlord, Trifon Borissovitch, kept hovering about Mitya to protect him.\nHe seemed to have given up all idea of going to bed that night; but he\ndrank little, only one glass of punch, and kept a sharp look-out on\nMitya's interests after his own fashion. He intervened in the nick of\ntime, civilly and obsequiously persuading Mitya not to give away \"cigars\nand Rhine wine,\" and, above all, money to the peasants as he had done\nbefore. He was very indignant, too, at the peasant girls drinking liqueur,\nand eating sweets.\n\n\"They're a lousy lot, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" he said. \"I'd give them a\nkick, every one of them, and they'd take it as an honor--that's all they're\nworth!\"\n\nMitya remembered Andrey again, and ordered punch to be sent out to him. \"I\nwas rude to him just now,\" he repeated with a sinking, softened voice.\nKalganov did not want to drink, and at first did not care for the girls'\nsinging; but after he had drunk a couple of glasses of champagne he became\nextraordinarily lively, strolling about the room, laughing and praising\nthe music and the songs, admiring every one and everything. Maximov,\nblissfully drunk, never left his side. Grushenka, too, was beginning to\nget drunk. Pointing to Kalganov, she said to Mitya:\n\n\"What a dear, charming boy he is!\"\n\nAnd Mitya, delighted, ran to kiss Kalganov and Maximov. Oh, great were his\nhopes! She had said nothing yet, and seemed, indeed, purposely to refrain\nfrom speaking. But she looked at him from time to time with caressing and\npassionate eyes. At last she suddenly gripped his hand and drew him\nvigorously to her. She was sitting at the moment in the low chair by the\ndoor.\n\n\"How was it you came just now, eh? Have you walked in!... I was\nfrightened. So you wanted to give me up to him, did you? Did you really\nwant to?\"\n\n\"I didn't want to spoil your happiness!\" Mitya faltered blissfully. But\nshe did not need his answer.\n\n\"Well, go and enjoy yourself ...\" she sent him away once more. \"Don't cry,\nI'll call you back again.\"\n\nHe would run away, and she listened to the singing and looked at the\ndancing, though her eyes followed him wherever he went. But in another\nquarter of an hour she would call him once more and again he would run\nback to her.\n\n\"Come, sit beside me, tell me, how did you hear about me, and my coming\nhere yesterday? From whom did you first hear it?\"\n\nAnd Mitya began telling her all about it, disconnectedly, incoherently,\nfeverishly. He spoke strangely, often frowning, and stopping abruptly.\n\n\"What are you frowning at?\" she asked.\n\n\"Nothing.... I left a man ill there. I'd give ten years of my life for him\nto get well, to know he was all right!\"\n\n\"Well, never mind him, if he's ill. So you meant to shoot yourself to-\nmorrow! What a silly boy! What for? I like such reckless fellows as you,\"\nshe lisped, with a rather halting tongue. \"So you would go any length for\nme, eh? Did you really mean to shoot yourself to-morrow, you stupid? No,\nwait a little. To-morrow I may have something to say to you.... I won't\nsay it to-day, but to-morrow. You'd like it to be to-day? No, I don't want\nto to-day. Come, go along now, go and amuse yourself.\"\n\nOnce, however, she called him, as it were, puzzled and uneasy.\n\n\"Why are you sad? I see you're sad.... Yes, I see it,\" she added, looking\nintently into his eyes. \"Though you keep kissing the peasants and\nshouting, I see something. No, be merry. I'm merry; you be merry, too....\nI love somebody here. Guess who it is. Ah, look, my boy has fallen asleep,\npoor dear, he's drunk.\"\n\nShe meant Kalganov. He was, in fact, drunk, and had dropped asleep for a\nmoment, sitting on the sofa. But he was not merely drowsy from drink; he\nfelt suddenly dejected, or, as he said, \"bored.\" He was intensely\ndepressed by the girls' songs, which, as the drinking went on, gradually\nbecame coarse and more reckless. And the dances were as bad. Two girls\ndressed up as bears, and a lively girl, called Stepanida, with a stick in\nher hand, acted the part of keeper, and began to \"show them.\"\n\n\"Look alive, Marya, or you'll get the stick!\"\n\nThe bears rolled on the ground at last in the most unseemly fashion, amid\nroars of laughter from the closely-packed crowd of men and women.\n\n\"Well, let them! Let them!\" said Grushenka sententiously, with an ecstatic\nexpression on her face. \"When they do get a day to enjoy themselves, why\nshouldn't folks be happy?\"\n\nKalganov looked as though he had been besmirched with dirt.\n\n\"It's swinish, all this peasant foolery,\" he murmured, moving away; \"it's\nthe game they play when it's light all night in summer.\"\n\nHe particularly disliked one \"new\" song to a jaunty dance-tune. It\ndescribed how a gentleman came and tried his luck with the girls, to see\nwhether they would love him:\n\n\n    The master came to try the girls:\n    Would they love him, would they not?\n\n\nBut the girls could not love the master:\n\n\n    He would beat me cruelly\n    And such love won't do for me.\n\n\nThen a gypsy comes along and he, too, tries:\n\n\n    The gypsy came to try the girls:\n    Would they love him, would they not?\n\n\nBut they couldn't love the gypsy either:\n\n\n    He would be a thief, I fear,\n    And would cause me many a tear.\n\n\nAnd many more men come to try their luck, among them a soldier:\n\n\n    The soldier came to try the girls:\n    Would they love him, would they not?\n\n\nBut the soldier is rejected with contempt, in two indecent lines, sung\nwith absolute frankness and producing a furore in the audience. The song\nends with a merchant:\n\n\n    The merchant came to try the girls:\n    Would they love him, would they not?\n\n\nAnd it appears that he wins their love because:\n\n\n    The merchant will make gold for me\n    And his queen I'll gladly be.\n\n\nKalvanov was positively indignant.\n\n\"That's just a song of yesterday,\" he said aloud. \"Who writes such things\nfor them? They might just as well have had a railwayman or a Jew come to\ntry his luck with the girls; they'd have carried all before them.\"\n\nAnd, almost as though it were a personal affront, he declared, on the\nspot, that he was bored, sat down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep.\nHis pretty little face looked rather pale, as it fell back on the sofa\ncushion.\n\n\"Look how pretty he is,\" said Grushenka, taking Mitya up to him. \"I was\ncombing his hair just now; his hair's like flax, and so thick....\"\n\nAnd, bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Kalganov\ninstantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most\nanxious air inquired where was Maximov?\n\n\"So that's who it is you want.\" Grushenka laughed. \"Stay with me a minute.\nMitya, run and find his Maximov.\"\n\nMaximov, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the girls, only\nrunning away from time to time to pour himself out a glass of liqueur. He\nhad drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red, and his nose was\ncrimson; his eyes were moist and mawkishly sweet. He ran up and announced\nthat he was going to dance the \"sabotiere.\"\n\n\"They taught me all those well-bred, aristocratic dances when I was\nlittle....\"\n\n\"Go, go with him, Mitya, and I'll watch from here how he dances,\" said\nGrushenka.\n\n\"No, no, I'm coming to look on, too,\" exclaimed Kalganov, brushing aside\nin the most naive way Grushenka's offer to sit with him. They all went to\nlook on. Maximov danced his dance. But it roused no great admiration in\nany one but Mitya. It consisted of nothing but skipping and hopping,\nkicking up the feet, and at every skip Maximov slapped the upturned sole\nof his foot. Kalganov did not like it at all, but Mitya kissed the dancer.\n\n\"Thanks. You're tired perhaps? What are you looking for here? Would you\nlike some sweets? A cigar, perhaps?\"\n\n\"A cigarette.\"\n\n\"Don't you want a drink?\"\n\n\"I'll just have a liqueur.... Have you any chocolates?\"\n\n\"Yes, there's a heap of them on the table there. Choose one, my dear\nsoul!\"\n\n\"I like one with vanilla ... for old people. He he!\"\n\n\"No, brother, we've none of that special sort.\"\n\n\"I say,\" the old man bent down to whisper in Mitya's ear. \"That girl\nthere, little Marya, he he! How would it be if you were to help me make\nfriends with her?\"\n\n\"So that's what you're after! No, brother, that won't do!\"\n\n\"I'd do no harm to any one,\" Maximov muttered disconsolately.\n\n\"Oh, all right, all right. They only come here to dance and sing, you\nknow, brother. But damn it all, wait a bit!... Eat and drink and be merry,\nmeanwhile. Don't you want money?\"\n\n\"Later on, perhaps,\" smiled Maximov.\n\n\"All right, all right....\"\n\nMitya's head was burning. He went outside to the wooden balcony which ran\nround the whole building on the inner side, overlooking the courtyard. The\nfresh air revived him. He stood alone in a dark corner, and suddenly\nclutched his head in both hands. His scattered thoughts came together; his\nsensations blended into a whole and threw a sudden light into his mind. A\nfearful and terrible light! \"If I'm to shoot myself, why not now?\" passed\nthrough his mind. \"Why not go for the pistols, bring them here, and here,\nin this dark dirty corner, make an end?\" Almost a minute he stood,\nundecided. A few hours earlier, when he had been dashing here, he was\npursued by disgrace, by the theft he had committed, and that blood, that\nblood!... But yet it was easier for him then. Then everything was over: he\nhad lost her, given her up. She was gone, for him--oh, then his death\nsentence had been easier for him; at least it had seemed necessary,\ninevitable, for what had he to stay on earth for?\n\nBut now? Was it the same as then? Now one phantom, one terror at least was\nat an end: that first, rightful lover, that fateful figure had vanished,\nleaving no trace. The terrible phantom had turned into something so small,\nso comic; it had been carried into the bedroom and locked in. It would\nnever return. She was ashamed, and from her eyes he could see now whom she\nloved. Now he had everything to make life happy ... but he could not go on\nliving, he could not; oh, damnation! \"O God! restore to life the man I\nknocked down at the fence! Let this fearful cup pass from me! Lord, thou\nhast wrought miracles for such sinners as me! But what, what if the old\nman's alive? Oh, then the shame of the other disgrace I would wipe away. I\nwould restore the stolen money. I'd give it back; I'd get it somehow....\nNo trace of that shame will remain except in my heart for ever! But no,\nno; oh, impossible cowardly dreams! Oh, damnation!\"\n\nYet there was a ray of light and hope in his darkness. He jumped up and\nran back to the room--to her, to her, his queen for ever! Was not one\nmoment of her love worth all the rest of life, even in the agonies of\ndisgrace? This wild question clutched at his heart. \"To her, to her alone,\nto see her, to hear her, to think of nothing, to forget everything, if\nonly for that night, for an hour, for a moment!\" Just as he turned from\nthe balcony into the passage, he came upon the landlord, Trifon\nBorissovitch. He thought he looked gloomy and worried, and fancied he had\ncome to find him.\n\n\"What is it, Trifon Borissovitch? are you looking for me?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\" The landlord seemed disconcerted. \"Why should I be looking for\nyou? Where have you been?\"\n\n\"Why do you look so glum? You're not angry, are you? Wait a bit, you shall\nsoon get to bed.... What's the time?\"\n\n\"It'll be three o'clock. Past three, it must be.\"\n\n\"We'll leave off soon. We'll leave off.\"\n\n\"Don't mention it; it doesn't matter. Keep it up as long as you like....\"\n\n\"What's the matter with him?\" Mitya wondered for an instant, and he ran\nback to the room where the girls were dancing. But she was not there. She\nwas not in the blue room either; there was no one but Kalganov asleep on\nthe sofa. Mitya peeped behind the curtain--she was there. She was sitting\nin the corner, on a trunk. Bent forward, with her head and arms on the bed\nclose by, she was crying bitterly, doing her utmost to stifle her sobs\nthat she might not be heard. Seeing Mitya, she beckoned him to her, and\nwhen he ran to her, she grasped his hand tightly.\n\n\"Mitya, Mitya, I loved him, you know. How I have loved him these five\nyears, all that time! Did I love him or only my own anger? No, him, him!\nIt's a lie that it was my anger I loved and not him. Mitya, I was only\nseventeen then; he was so kind to me, so merry; he used to sing to me....\nOr so it seemed to a silly girl like me.... And now, O Lord, it's not the\nsame man. Even his face is not the same; he's different altogether. I\nshouldn't have known him. I drove here with Timofey, and all the way I was\nthinking how I should meet him, what I should say to him, how we should\nlook at one another. My soul was faint, and all of a sudden it was just as\nthough he had emptied a pail of dirty water over me. He talked to me like\na schoolmaster, all so grave and learned; he met me so solemnly that I was\nstruck dumb. I couldn't get a word in. At first I thought he was ashamed\nto talk before his great big Pole. I sat staring at him and wondering why\nI couldn't say a word to him now. It must have been his wife that ruined\nhim; you know he threw me up to get married. She must have changed him\nlike that. Mitya, how shameful it is! Oh, Mitya, I'm ashamed, I'm ashamed\nfor all my life. Curse it, curse it, curse those five years!\"\n\nAnd again she burst into tears, but clung tight to Mitya's hand and did\nnot let it go.\n\n\"Mitya, darling, stay, don't go away. I want to say one word to you,\" she\nwhispered, and suddenly raised her face to him. \"Listen, tell me who it is\nI love? I love one man here. Who is that man? That's what you must tell\nme.\"\n\nA smile lighted up her face that was swollen with weeping, and her eyes\nshone in the half darkness.\n\n\"A falcon flew in, and my heart sank. 'Fool! that's the man you love!'\nThat was what my heart whispered to me at once. You came in and all grew\nbright. What's he afraid of? I wondered. For you were frightened; you\ncouldn't speak. It's not them he's afraid of--could you be frightened of\nany one? It's me he's afraid of, I thought, only me. So Fenya told you,\nyou little stupid, how I called to Alyosha out of the window that I'd\nloved Mityenka for one hour, and that I was going now to love ... another.\nMitya, Mitya, how could I be such a fool as to think I could love any one\nafter you? Do you forgive me, Mitya? Do you forgive me or not? Do you love\nme? Do you love me?\" She jumped up and held him with both hands on his\nshoulders. Mitya, dumb with rapture, gazed into her eyes, at her face, at\nher smile, and suddenly clasped her tightly in his arms and kissed her\npassionately.\n\n\"You will forgive me for having tormented you? It was through spite I\ntormented you all. It was for spite I drove the old man out of his\nmind.... Do you remember how you drank at my house one day and broke the\nwine-glass? I remembered that and I broke a glass to-day and drank 'to my\nvile heart.' Mitya, my falcon, why don't you kiss me? He kissed me once,\nand now he draws back and looks and listens. Why listen to me? Kiss me,\nkiss me hard, that's right. If you love, well, then, love! I'll be your\nslave now, your slave for the rest of my life. It's sweet to be a slave.\nKiss me! Beat me, ill-treat me, do what you will with me.... And I do\ndeserve to suffer. Stay, wait, afterwards, I won't have that....\" she\nsuddenly thrust him away. \"Go along, Mitya, I'll come and have some wine,\nI want to be drunk, I'm going to get drunk and dance; I must, I must!\" She\ntore herself away from him and disappeared behind the curtain. Mitya\nfollowed like a drunken man.\n\n\"Yes, come what may--whatever may happen now, for one minute I'd give the\nwhole world,\" he thought. Grushenka did, in fact, toss off a whole glass\nof champagne at one gulp, and became at once very tipsy. She sat down in\nthe same chair as before, with a blissful smile on her face. Her cheeks\nwere glowing, her lips were burning, her flashing eyes were moist; there\nwas passionate appeal in her eyes. Even Kalganov felt a stir at the heart\nand went up to her.\n\n\"Did you feel how I kissed you when you were asleep just now?\" she said\nthickly. \"I'm drunk now, that's what it is.... And aren't you drunk? And\nwhy isn't Mitya drinking? Why don't you drink, Mitya? I'm drunk, and you\ndon't drink....\"\n\n\"I am drunk! I'm drunk as it is ... drunk with you ... and now I'll be\ndrunk with wine, too.\"\n\nHe drank off another glass, and--he thought it strange himself--that glass\nmade him completely drunk. He was suddenly drunk, although till that\nmoment he had been quite sober, he remembered that. From that moment\neverything whirled about him, as though he were delirious. He walked,\nlaughed, talked to everybody, without knowing what he was doing. Only one\npersistent burning sensation made itself felt continually, \"like a red-hot\ncoal in his heart,\" he said afterwards. He went up to her, sat beside her,\ngazed at her, listened to her.... She became very talkative, kept calling\nevery one to her, and beckoned to different girls out of the chorus. When\nthe girl came up, she either kissed her, or made the sign of the cross\nover her. In another minute she might have cried. She was greatly amused\nby the \"little old man,\" as she called Maximov. He ran up every minute to\nkiss her hands, \"each little finger,\" and finally he danced another dance\nto an old song, which he sang himself. He danced with special vigor to the\nrefrain:\n\n\n    The little pig says--umph! umph! umph!\n    The little calf says--moo, moo, moo,\n    The little duck says--quack, quack, quack,\n    The little goose says--ga, ga, ga.\n    The hen goes strutting through the porch;\n    Troo-roo-roo-roo-roo, she'll say,\n    Troo-roo-roo-roo-roo, she'll say!\n\n\n\"Give him something, Mitya,\" said Grushenka. \"Give him a present, he's\npoor, you know. Ah, the poor, the insulted!... Do you know, Mitya, I shall\ngo into a nunnery. No, I really shall one day, Alyosha said something to\nme to-day that I shall remember all my life.... Yes.... But to-day let us\ndance. To-morrow to the nunnery, but to-day we'll dance. I want to play\nto-day, good people, and what of it? God will forgive us. If I were God,\nI'd forgive every one: 'My dear sinners, from this day forth I forgive\nyou.' I'm going to beg forgiveness: 'Forgive me, good people, a silly\nwench.' I'm a beast, that's what I am. But I want to pray. I gave a little\nonion. Wicked as I've been, I want to pray. Mitya, let them dance, don't\nstop them. Every one in the world is good. Every one--even the worst of\nthem. The world's a nice place. Though we're bad the world's all right.\nWe're good and bad, good and bad.... Come, tell me, I've something to ask\nyou: come here every one, and I'll ask you: Why am I so good? You know I\nam good. I'm very good.... Come, why am I so good?\"\n\nSo Grushenka babbled on, getting more and more drunk. At last she\nannounced that she was going to dance, too. She got up from her chair,\nstaggering. \"Mitya, don't give me any more wine--if I ask you, don't give\nit to me. Wine doesn't give peace. Everything's going round, the stove,\nand everything. I want to dance. Let every one see how I dance ... let\nthem see how beautifully I dance....\"\n\nShe really meant it. She pulled a white cambric handkerchief out of her\npocket, and took it by one corner in her right hand, to wave it in the\ndance. Mitya ran to and fro, the girls were quiet, and got ready to break\ninto a dancing song at the first signal. Maximov, hearing that Grushenka\nwanted to dance, squealed with delight, and ran skipping about in front of\nher, humming:\n\n\n    With legs so slim and sides so trim\n    And its little tail curled tight.\n\n\nBut Grushenka waved her handkerchief at him and drove him away.\n\n\"Sh-h! Mitya, why don't they come? Let every one come ... to look on. Call\nthem in, too, that were locked in.... Why did you lock them in? Tell them\nI'm going to dance. Let them look on, too....\"\n\nMitya walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door, and began knocking\nto the Poles with his fist.\n\n\"Hi, you ... Podvysotskys! Come, she's going to dance. She calls you.\"\n\n\"_Lajdak!_\" one of the Poles shouted in reply.\n\n\"You're a _lajdak_ yourself! You're a little scoundrel, that's what you\nare.\"\n\n\"Leave off laughing at Poland,\" said Kalganov sententiously. He too was\ndrunk.\n\n\"Be quiet, boy! If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn't mean that I called\nall Poland so. One _lajdak_ doesn't make a Poland. Be quiet, my pretty\nboy, eat a sweetmeat.\"\n\n\"Ach, what fellows! As though they were not men. Why won't they make\nfriends?\" said Grushenka, and went forward to dance. The chorus broke into\n\"Ah, my porch, my new porch!\" Grushenka flung back her head, half opened\nher lips, smiled, waved her handkerchief, and suddenly, with a violent\nlurch, stood still in the middle of the room, looking bewildered.\n\n\"I'm weak....\" she said in an exhausted voice. \"Forgive me.... I'm weak, I\ncan't.... I'm sorry.\"\n\nShe bowed to the chorus, and then began bowing in all directions.\n\n\"I'm sorry.... Forgive me....\"\n\n\"The lady's been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking,\" voices were\nheard saying.\n\n\"The lady's drunk too much,\" Maximov explained to the girls, giggling.\n\n\"Mitya, lead me away ... take me,\" said Grushenka helplessly. Mitya\npounced on her, snatched her up in his arms, and carried the precious\nburden through the curtains.\n\n\"Well, now I'll go,\" thought Kalganov, and walking out of the blue room,\nhe closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy in the larger\nroom went on and grew louder and louder. Mitya laid Grushenka on the bed\nand kissed her on the lips.\n\n\"Don't touch me....\" she faltered, in an imploring voice. \"Don't touch me,\ntill I'm yours.... I've told you I'm yours, but don't touch me ... spare\nme.... With them here, with them close, you mustn't. He's here. It's nasty\nhere....\"\n\n\"I'll obey you! I won't think of it ... I worship you!\" muttered Mitya.\n\"Yes, it's nasty here, it's abominable.\"\n\nAnd still holding her in his arms, he sank on his knees by the bedside.\n\n\"I know, though you're a brute, you're generous,\" Grushenka articulated\nwith difficulty. \"It must be honorable ... it shall be honorable for the\nfuture ... and let us be honest, let us be good, not brutes, but good ...\ntake me away, take me far away, do you hear? I don't want it to be here,\nbut far, far away....\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes, it must be!\" said Mitya, pressing her in his arms. \"I'll\ntake you and we'll fly away.... Oh, I'd give my whole life for one year\nonly to know about that blood!\"\n\n\"What blood?\" asked Grushenka, bewildered.\n\n\"Nothing,\" muttered Mitya, through his teeth. \"Grusha, you wanted to be\nhonest, but I'm a thief. But I've stolen money from Katya.... Disgrace, a\ndisgrace!\"\n\n\"From Katya, from that young lady? No, you didn't steal it. Give it her\nback, take it from me.... Why make a fuss? Now everything of mine is\nyours. What does money matter? We shall waste it anyway.... Folks like us\nare bound to waste money. But we'd better go and work the land. I want to\ndig the earth with my own hands. We must work, do you hear? Alyosha said\nso. I won't be your mistress, I'll be faithful to you, I'll be your slave,\nI'll work for you. We'll go to the young lady and bow down to her\ntogether, so that she may forgive us, and then we'll go away. And if she\nwon't forgive us, we'll go, anyway. Take her her money and love me....\nDon't love her.... Don't love her any more. If you love her, I shall\nstrangle her.... I'll put out both her eyes with a needle....\"\n\n\"I love you. I love only you. I'll love you in Siberia....\"\n\n\"Why Siberia? Never mind, Siberia, if you like. I don't care ... we'll\nwork ... there's snow in Siberia.... I love driving in the snow ... and\nmust have bells.... Do you hear, there's a bell ringing? Where is that\nbell ringing? There are people coming.... Now it's stopped.\"\n\nShe closed her eyes, exhausted, and suddenly fell asleep for an instant.\nThere had certainly been the sound of a bell in the distance, but the\nringing had ceased. Mitya let his head sink on her breast. He did not\nnotice that the bell had ceased ringing, nor did he notice that the songs\nhad ceased, and that instead of singing and drunken clamor there was\nabsolute stillness in the house. Grushenka opened her eyes.\n\n\"What's the matter? Was I asleep? Yes ... a bell ... I've been asleep and\ndreamt I was driving over the snow with bells, and I dozed. I was with\nsome one I loved, with you. And far, far away. I was holding you and\nkissing you, nestling close to you. I was cold, and the snow glistened....\nYou know how the snow glistens at night when the moon shines. It was as\nthough I was not on earth. I woke up, and my dear one is close to me. How\nsweet that is!...\"\n\n\"Close to you,\" murmured Mitya, kissing her dress, her bosom, her hands.\nAnd suddenly he had a strange fancy: it seemed to him that she was looking\nstraight before her, not at him, not into his face, but over his head,\nwith an intent, almost uncanny fixity. An expression of wonder, almost of\nalarm, came suddenly into her face.\n\n\"Mitya, who is that looking at us?\" she whispered.\n\nMitya turned, and saw that some one had, in fact, parted the curtains and\nseemed to be watching them. And not one person alone, it seemed.\n\nHe jumped up and walked quickly to the intruder.\n\n\"Here, come to us, come here,\" said a voice, speaking not loudly, but\nfirmly and peremptorily.\n\nMitya passed to the other side of the curtain and stood stock still. The\nroom was filled with people, but not those who had been there before. An\ninstantaneous shiver ran down his back, and he shuddered. He recognized\nall those people instantly. That tall, stout old man in the overcoat and\nforage-cap with a cockade--was the police captain, Mihail Makarovitch. And\nthat \"consumptive-looking\" trim dandy, \"who always has such polished\nboots\"--that was the deputy prosecutor. \"He has a chronometer worth four\nhundred roubles; he showed it to me.\" And that small young man in\nspectacles.... Mitya forgot his surname though he knew him, had seen him:\nhe was the \"investigating lawyer,\" from the \"school of jurisprudence,\" who\nhad only lately come to the town. And this man--the inspector of police,\nMavriky Mavrikyevitch, a man he knew well. And those fellows with the\nbrass plates on, why are they here? And those other two ... peasants....\nAnd there at the door Kalganov with Trifon Borissovitch....\n\n\"Gentlemen! What's this for, gentlemen?\" began Mitya, but suddenly, as\nthough beside himself, not knowing what he was doing, he cried aloud, at\nthe top of his voice:\n\n\"I un--der--stand!\"\n\nThe young man in spectacles moved forward suddenly, and stepping up to\nMitya, began with dignity, though hurriedly:\n\n\"We have to make ... in brief, I beg you to come this way, this way to the\nsofa.... It is absolutely imperative that you should give an explanation.\"\n\n\"The old man!\" cried Mitya frantically. \"The old man and his blood!... I\nunderstand.\"\n\nAnd he sank, almost fell, on a chair close by, as though he had been mown\ndown by a scythe.\n\n\"You understand? He understands it! Monster and parricide! Your father's\nblood cries out against you!\" the old captain of police roared suddenly,\nstepping up to Mitya.\n\nHe was beside himself, crimson in the face and quivering all over.\n\n\"This is impossible!\" cried the small young man. \"Mihail Makarovitch,\nMihail Makarovitch, this won't do!... I beg you'll allow me to speak. I\nshould never have expected such behavior from you....\"\n\n\"This is delirium, gentlemen, raving delirium,\" cried the captain of\npolice; \"look at him: drunk, at this time of night, in the company of a\ndisreputable woman, with the blood of his father on his hands.... It's\ndelirium!...\"\n\n\"I beg you most earnestly, dear Mihail Makarovitch, to restrain your\nfeelings,\" the prosecutor said in a rapid whisper to the old police\ncaptain, \"or I shall be forced to resort to--\"\n\nBut the little lawyer did not allow him to finish. He turned to Mitya, and\ndelivered himself in a loud, firm, dignified voice:\n\n\"Ex-Lieutenant Karamazov, it is my duty to inform you that you are charged\nwith the murder of your father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, perpetrated\nthis night....\"\n\nHe said something more, and the prosecutor, too, put in something, but\nthough Mitya heard them he did not understand them. He stared at them all\nwith wild eyes.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook IX. The Preliminary Investigation Chapter I. The Beginning Of Perhotin's Official Career\n\n\nPyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, whom we left knocking at the strong locked gates\nof the widow Morozov's house, ended, of course, by making himself heard.\nFenya, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours before,\nand too much \"upset\" to go to bed, was almost frightened into hysterics on\nhearing the furious knocking at the gate. Though she had herself seen him\ndrive away, she fancied that it must be Dmitri Fyodorovitch knocking\nagain, no one else could knock so savagely. She ran to the house-porter,\nwho had already waked up and gone out to the gate, and began imploring him\nnot to open it. But having questioned Pyotr Ilyitch, and learned that he\nwanted to see Fenya on very \"important business,\" the man made up his mind\nat last to open. Pyotr Ilyitch was admitted into Fenya's kitchen, but the\ngirl begged him to allow the house-porter to be present, \"because of her\nmisgivings.\" He began questioning her and at once learnt the most vital\nfact, that is, that when Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run out to look for\nGrushenka, he had snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that when he\nreturned, the pestle was not with him and his hands were smeared with\nblood.\n\n\"And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping!\" Fenya\nkept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product of her\ndisordered imagination. But although not \"dripping,\" Pyotr Ilyitch had\nhimself seen those hands stained with blood, and had helped to wash them.\nMoreover, the question he had to decide was not how soon the blood had\ndried, but where Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run with the pestle, or rather,\nwhether it really was to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, and how he could\nsatisfactorily ascertain. Pyotr Ilyitch persisted in returning to this\npoint, and though he found out nothing conclusive, yet he carried away a\nconviction that Dmitri Fyodorovitch could have gone nowhere but to his\nfather's house, and that therefore something must have happened there.\n\n\"And when he came back,\" Fenya added with excitement, \"I told him the\nwhole story, and then I began asking him, 'Why have you got blood on your\nhands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?' and he answered that that was human blood,\nand that he had just killed some one. He confessed it all to me, and\nsuddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began thinking, where's he\nrun off to now like a madman? He'll go to Mokroe, I thought, and kill my\nmistress there. I ran out to beg him not to kill her. I was running to his\nlodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov's shop, and saw him just setting off,\nand there was no blood on his hands then.\" (Fenya had noticed this and\nremembered it.) Fenya's old grandmother confirmed her evidence as far as\nshe was capable. After asking some further questions, Pyotr Ilyitch left\nthe house, even more upset and uneasy than he had been when he entered it.\n\nThe most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have been to go\nstraight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, to find out whether anything had happened\nthere, and if so, what; and only to go to the police captain, as Pyotr\nIlyitch firmly intended doing, when he had satisfied himself of the fact.\nBut the night was dark, Fyodor Pavlovitch's gates were strong, and he\nwould have to knock again. His acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch was of\nthe slightest, and what if, after he had been knocking, they opened to\nhim, and nothing had happened? Then Fyodor Pavlovitch in his jeering way\nwould go telling the story all over the town, how a stranger, called\nPerhotin, had broken in upon him at midnight to ask if any one had killed\nhim. It would make a scandal. And scandal was what Pyotr Ilyitch dreaded\nmore than anything in the world.\n\nYet the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he stamped\nhis foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not to Fyodor\nPavlovitch's but to Madame Hohlakov's. He decided that if she denied\nhaving just given Dmitri Fyodorovitch three thousand roubles, he would go\nstraight to the police captain, but if she admitted having given him the\nmoney, he would go home and let the matter rest till next morning.\n\nIt is, of course, perfectly evident that there was even more likelihood of\ncausing scandal by going at eleven o'clock at night to a fashionable lady,\na complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from her bed to ask her an\namazing question, than by going to Fyodor Pavlovitch. But that is just how\nit is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one, with the\ndecisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Pyotr Ilyitch was by\nno means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all his life how a\nhaunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him, growing more and\nmore painful and driving him on, against his will. Yet he kept cursing\nhimself, of course, all the way for going to this lady, but \"I will get to\nthe bottom of it, I will!\" he repeated for the tenth time, grinding his\nteeth, and he carried out his intention.\n\nIt was exactly eleven o'clock when he entered Madame Hohlakov's house. He\nwas admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but, in response to his inquiry\nwhether the lady was still up, the porter could give no answer, except\nthat she was usually in bed by that time.\n\n\"Ask at the top of the stairs. If the lady wants to receive you, she'll\nreceive you. If she won't, she won't.\"\n\nPyotr Ilyitch went up, but did not find things so easy here. The footman\nwas unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a maid. Pyotr\nIlyitch politely but insistently begged her to inform her lady that an\nofficial, living in the town, called Perhotin, had called on particular\nbusiness, and that if it were not of the greatest importance he would not\nhave ventured to come. \"Tell her in those words, in those words exactly,\"\nhe asked the girl.\n\nShe went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Hohlakov herself\nwas already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had felt upset ever\nsince Mitya's visit, and had a presentiment that she would not get through\nthe night without the sick headache which always, with her, followed such\nexcitement. She was surprised on hearing the announcement from the maid.\nShe irritably declined to see him, however, though the unexpected visit at\nsuch an hour, of an \"official living in the town,\" who was a total\nstranger, roused her feminine curiosity intensely. But this time Pyotr\nIlyitch was as obstinate as a mule. He begged the maid most earnestly to\ntake another message in these very words:\n\n\"That he had come on business of the greatest importance, and that Madame\nHohlakov might have cause to regret it later, if she refused to see him\nnow.\"\n\n\"I plunged headlong,\" he described it afterwards.\n\nThe maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message again.\nMadame Hohlakov was impressed. She thought a little, asked what he looked\nlike, and learned that he was \"very well dressed, young and so polite.\" We\nmay note, parenthetically, that Pyotr Ilyitch was a rather good-looking\nyoung man, and well aware of the fact. Madame Hohlakov made up her mind to\nsee him. She was in her dressing-gown and slippers, but she flung a black\nshawl over her shoulders. \"The official\" was asked to walk into the\ndrawing-room, the very room in which Mitya had been received shortly\nbefore. The lady came to meet her visitor, with a sternly inquiring\ncountenance, and, without asking him to sit down, began at once with the\nquestion:\n\n\"What do you want?\"\n\n\"I have ventured to disturb you, madam, on a matter concerning our common\nacquaintance, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov,\" Perhotin began.\n\nBut he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady's face showed signs of\nacute irritation. She almost shrieked, and interrupted him in a fury:\n\n\"How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man?\" she cried\nhysterically. \"How dare you, sir, how could you venture to disturb a lady\nwho is a stranger to you, in her own house at such an hour!... And to\nforce yourself upon her to talk of a man who came here, to this very\ndrawing-room, only three hours ago, to murder me, and went stamping out of\nthe room, as no one would go out of a decent house. Let me tell you, sir,\nthat I shall lodge a complaint against you, that I will not let it pass.\nKindly leave me at once.... I am a mother.... I ... I--\"\n\n\"Murder! then he tried to murder you, too?\"\n\n\"Why, has he killed somebody else?\" Madame Hohlakov asked impulsively.\n\n\"If you would kindly listen, madam, for half a moment, I'll explain it all\nin a couple of words,\" answered Perhotin, firmly. \"At five o'clock this\nafternoon Dmitri Fyodorovitch borrowed ten roubles from me, and I know for\na fact he had no money. Yet at nine o'clock, he came to see me with a\nbundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand, about two or three thousand\nroubles. His hands and face were all covered with blood, and he looked\nlike a madman. When I asked him where he had got so much money, he\nanswered that he had just received it from you, that you had given him a\nsum of three thousand to go to the gold-mines....\"\n\nMadame Hohlakov's face assumed an expression of intense and painful\nexcitement.\n\n\"Good God! He must have killed his old father!\" she cried, clasping her\nhands. \"I have never given him money, never! Oh, run, run!... Don't say\nanother word! Save the old man ... run to his father ... run!\"\n\n\"Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember for a\nfact that you did not give him any money?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't, I didn't! I refused to give it him, for he could not\nappreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I\nslipped away.... And let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from you\nnow, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that! But why are we\nstanding? Ah, sit down.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, I....\"\n\n\"Or better run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from an awful\ndeath!\"\n\n\"But if he has killed him already?\"\n\n\"Ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you think we\nmust do now?\"\n\nMeantime she had made Pyotr Ilyitch sit down and sat down herself, facing\nhim. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Pyotr Ilyitch told her the history of\nthe affair, that part of it at least which he had himself witnessed. He\ndescribed, too, his visit to Fenya, and told her about the pestle. All\nthese details produced an overwhelming effect on the distracted lady, who\nkept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with her hands....\n\n\"Would you believe it, I foresaw all this! I have that special faculty,\nwhatever I imagine comes to pass. And how often I've looked at that awful\nman and always thought, that man will end by murdering me. And now it's\nhappened ... that is, if he hasn't murdered me, but only his own father,\nit's only because the finger of God preserved me, and what's more, he was\nashamed to murder me because, in this very place, I put the holy ikon from\nthe relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on his neck.... And to think\nhow near I was to death at that minute, I went close up to him and he\nstretched out his neck to me!... Do you know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you\nsaid your name was Pyotr Ilyitch), I don't believe in miracles, but that\nikon and this unmistakable miracle with me now--that shakes me, and I'm\nready to believe in anything you like. Have you heard about Father\nZossima?... But I don't know what I'm saying ... and only fancy, with the\nikon on his neck he spat at me.... He only spat, it's true, he didn't\nmurder me and ... he dashed away! But what shall we do, what must we do\nnow? What do you think?\"\n\nPyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight to the\npolice captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he\nthought fit.\n\n\"Oh, he's an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I know him. Of\ncourse, he's the person to go to. How practical you are, Pyotr Ilyitch!\nHow well you've thought of everything! I should never have thought of it\nin your place!\"\n\n\"Especially as I know the police captain very well, too,\" observed Pyotr\nIlyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious to escape\nas quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would not let him say\ngood-by and go away.\n\n\"And be sure, be sure,\" she prattled on, \"to come back and tell me what\nyou see there, and what you find out ... what comes to light ... how\nthey'll try him ... and what he's condemned to.... Tell me, we have no\ncapital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it's at three\no'clock at night, at four, at half-past four.... Tell them to wake me, to\nwake me, to shake me, if I don't get up.... But, good heavens, I shan't\nsleep! But wait, hadn't I better come with you?\"\n\n\"N--no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating that\nyou did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch money, it might, perhaps, be of use\n... in case it's needed....\"\n\n\"To be sure!\" Madame Hohlakov skipped, delighted, to her bureau. \"And you\nknow I'm simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness, your good sense in\nsuch affairs. Are you in the service here? I'm delighted to think that\nyou're in the service here!\"\n\nAnd still speaking, she scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper the\nfollowing lines:\n\n\n    I've never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri\n    Fyodorovitch Karamazov (for, in spite of all, he is unhappy),\n    three thousand roubles to-day. I've never given him money, never:\n    That I swear by all that's holy!\n\n    K. HOHLAKOV.\n\n\n\"Here's the note!\" she turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyitch. \"Go, save him.\nIt's a noble deed on your part!\"\n\nAnd she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran out to\naccompany him to the passage.\n\n\"How grateful I am to you! You can't think how grateful I am to you for\nhaving come to me, first. How is it I haven't met you before? I shall feel\nflattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful it is\nthat you are living here!... Such precision! Such practical ability!...\nThey must appreciate you, they must understand you. If there's anything I\ncan do, believe me ... oh, I love young people! I'm in love with young\npeople! The younger generation are the one prop of our suffering country.\nHer one hope.... Oh, go, go!...\"\n\nBut Pyotr Ilyitch had already run away or she would not have let him go so\nsoon. Yet Madame Hohlakov had made a rather agreeable impression on him,\nwhich had somewhat softened his anxiety at being drawn into such an\nunpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know. \"She's by no means so\nelderly,\" he thought, feeling pleased, \"on the contrary I should have\ntaken her for her daughter.\"\n\nAs for Madame Hohlakov, she was simply enchanted by the young man. \"Such\nsense! such exactness! in so young a man! in our day! and all that with\nsuch manners and appearance! People say the young people of to-day are no\ngood for anything, but here's an example!\" etc. So she simply forgot this\n\"dreadful affair,\" and it was only as she was getting into bed, that,\nsuddenly recalling \"how near death she had been,\" she exclaimed: \"Ah, it\nis awful, awful!\"\n\nBut she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep.\n\nI would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant details,\nif this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by no means\nelderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the foundation of the\nwhole career of that practical and precise young man. His story is\nremembered to this day with amazement in our town, and I shall perhaps\nhave something to say about it, when I have finished my long history of\nthe Brothers Karamazov.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. The Alarm\n\n\nOur police captain, Mihail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired lieutenant-\ncolonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only come to us three\nyears previously, but had won general esteem, chiefly because he \"knew how\nto keep society together.\" He was never without visitors, and could not\nhave got on without them. Some one or other was always dining with him; he\nnever sat down to table without guests. He gave regular dinners, too, on\nall sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising ones. Though the fare\nwas not _recherche_, it was abundant. The fish-pies were excellent, and\nthe wine made up in quantity for what it lacked in quality.\n\nThe first room his guests entered was a well-fitted billiard-room, with\npictures of English race-horses, in black frames on the walls, an\nessential decoration, as we all know, for a bachelor's billiard-room.\nThere was card-playing every evening at his house, if only at one table.\nBut at frequent intervals, all the society of our town, with the mammas\nand young ladies, assembled at his house to dance. Though Mihail\nMakarovitch was a widower, he did not live alone. His widowed daughter\nlived with him, with her two unmarried daughters, grown-up girls, who had\nfinished their education. They were of agreeable appearance and lively\ncharacter, and though every one knew they would have no dowry, they\nattracted all the young men of fashion to their grandfather's house.\n\nMihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work, though he\nperformed his duties no worse than many others. To speak plainly, he was a\nman of rather narrow education. His understanding of the limits of his\nadministrative power could not always be relied upon. It was not so much\nthat he failed to grasp certain reforms enacted during the present reign,\nas that he made conspicuous blunders in his interpretation of them. This\nwas not from any special lack of intelligence, but from carelessness, for\nhe was always in too great a hurry to go into the subject.\n\n\"I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a civilian,\" he used to say\nof himself. He had not even formed a definite idea of the fundamental\nprinciples of the reforms connected with the emancipation of the serfs,\nand only picked it up, so to speak, from year to year, involuntarily\nincreasing his knowledge by practice. And yet he was himself a landowner.\nPyotr Ilyitch knew for certain that he would meet some of Mihail\nMakarovitch's visitors there that evening, but he didn't know which. As it\nhappened, at that moment the prosecutor, and Varvinsky, our district\ndoctor, a young man, who had only just come to us from Petersburg after\ntaking a brilliant degree at the Academy of Medicine, were playing whist\nat the police captain's. Ippolit Kirillovitch, the prosecutor (he was\nreally the deputy prosecutor, but we always called him the prosecutor),\nwas rather a peculiar man, of about five and thirty, inclined to be\nconsumptive, and married to a fat and childless woman. He was vain and\nirritable, though he had a good intellect, and even a kind heart. It\nseemed that all that was wrong with him was that he had a better opinion\nof himself than his ability warranted. And that made him seem constantly\nuneasy. He had, moreover, certain higher, even artistic, leanings, towards\npsychology, for instance, a special study of the human heart, a special\nknowledge of the criminal and his crime. He cherished a grievance on this\nground, considering that he had been passed over in the service, and being\nfirmly persuaded that in higher spheres he had not been properly\nappreciated, and had enemies. In gloomy moments he even threatened to give\nup his post, and practice as a barrister in criminal cases. The unexpected\nKaramazov case agitated him profoundly: \"It was a case that might well be\ntalked about all over Russia.\" But I am anticipating.\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer, who had\nonly come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in the next room\nwith the young ladies. People talked about it afterwards and wondered that\nall the gentlemen should, as though intentionally, on the evening of \"the\ncrime\" have been gathered together at the house of the executive\nauthority. Yet it was perfectly simple and happened quite naturally.\n\nIppolit Kirillovitch's wife had had toothache for the last two days, and\nhe was obliged to go out to escape from her groans. The doctor, from the\nvery nature of his being, could not spend an evening except at cards.\nNikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov had been intending for three days past to\ndrop in that evening at Mihail Makarovitch's, so to speak casually, so as\nslyly to startle the eldest granddaughter, Olga Mihailovna, by showing\nthat he knew her secret, that he knew it was her birthday, and that she\nwas trying to conceal it on purpose, so as not to be obliged to give a\ndance. He anticipated a great deal of merriment, many playful jests about\nher age, and her being afraid to reveal it, about his knowing her secret\nand telling everybody, and so on. The charming young man was a great adept\nat such teasing; the ladies had christened him \"the naughty man,\" and he\nseemed to be delighted at the name. He was extremely well-bred, however,\nof good family, education and feelings, and, though leading a life of\npleasure, his sallies were always innocent and in good taste. He was\nshort, and delicate-looking. On his white, slender, little fingers he\nalways wore a number of big, glittering rings. When he was engaged in his\nofficial duties, he always became extraordinarily grave, as though\nrealizing his position and the sanctity of the obligations laid upon him.\nHe had a special gift for mystifying murderers and other criminals of the\npeasant class during interrogation, and if he did not win their respect,\nhe certainly succeeded in arousing their wonder.\n\nPyotr Ilyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the police\ncaptain's. He saw instantly that every one knew. They had positively\nthrown down their cards, all were standing up and talking. Even Nikolay\nParfenovitch had left the young ladies and run in, looking strenuous and\nready for action. Pyotr Ilyitch was met with the astounding news that old\nFyodor Pavlovitch really had been murdered that evening in his own house,\nmurdered and robbed. The news had only just reached them in the following\nmanner.\n\nMarfa Ignatyevna, the wife of old Grigory, who had been knocked senseless\nnear the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might well have slept\ntill morning after the draught she had taken. But, all of a sudden she\nwaked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic scream from Smerdyakov,\nwho was lying in the next room unconscious. That scream always preceded\nhis fits, and always terrified and upset Marfa Ignatyevna. She could never\nget accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran half-awake to Smerdyakov's\nroom. But it was dark there, and she could only hear the invalid beginning\nto gasp and struggle. Then Marfa Ignatyevna herself screamed out and was\ngoing to call her husband, but suddenly realized that when she had got up,\nhe was not beside her in bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began\ngroping with her hands, but the bed was really empty. Then he must have\ngone out--where? She ran to the steps and timidly called him. She got no\nanswer, of course, but she caught the sound of groans far away in the\ngarden in the darkness. She listened. The groans were repeated, and it was\nevident they came from the garden.\n\n\"Good Lord! Just as it was with Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya!\" she thought\ndistractedly. She went timidly down the steps and saw that the gate into\nthe garden was open.\n\n\"He must be out there, poor dear,\" she thought. She went up to the gate\nand all at once she distinctly heard Grigory calling her by name, \"Marfa!\nMarfa!\" in a weak, moaning, dreadful voice.\n\n\"Lord, preserve us from harm!\" Marfa Ignatyevna murmured, and ran towards\nthe voice, and that was how she found Grigory. But she found him not by\nthe fence where he had been knocked down, but about twenty paces off. It\nappeared later, that he had crawled away on coming to himself, and\nprobably had been a long time getting so far, losing consciousness several\ntimes. She noticed at once that he was covered with blood, and screamed at\nthe top of her voice. Grigory was muttering incoherently:\n\n\"He has murdered ... his father murdered.... Why scream, silly ... run ...\nfetch some one....\"\n\nBut Marfa continued screaming, and seeing that her master's window was\nopen and that there was a candle alight in the window, she ran there and\nbegan calling Fyodor Pavlovitch. But peeping in at the window, she saw a\nfearful sight. Her master was lying on his back, motionless, on the floor.\nHis light-colored dressing-gown and white shirt were soaked with blood.\nThe candle on the table brightly lighted up the blood and the motionless\ndead face of Fyodor Pavlovitch. Terror-stricken, Marfa rushed away from\nthe window, ran out of the garden, drew the bolt of the big gate and ran\nheadlong by the back way to the neighbor, Marya Kondratyevna. Both mother\nand daughter were asleep, but they waked up at Marfa's desperate and\npersistent screaming and knocking at the shutter. Marfa, shrieking and\nscreaming incoherently, managed to tell them the main fact, and to beg for\nassistance. It happened that Foma had come back from his wanderings and\nwas staying the night with them. They got him up immediately and all three\nran to the scene of the crime. On the way, Marya Kondratyevna remembered\nthat at about eight o'clock she heard a dreadful scream from their garden,\nand this was no doubt Grigory's scream, \"Parricide!\" uttered when he\ncaught hold of Mitya's leg.\n\n\"Some one person screamed out and then was silent,\" Marya Kondratyevna\nexplained as she ran. Running to the place where Grigory lay, the two\nwomen with the help of Foma carried him to the lodge. They lighted a\ncandle and saw that Smerdyakov was no better, that he was writhing in\nconvulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint, and that foam was flowing from\nhis lips. They moistened Grigory's forehead with water mixed with vinegar,\nand the water revived him at once. He asked immediately:\n\n\"Is the master murdered?\"\n\nThen Foma and both the women ran to the house and saw this time that not\nonly the window, but also the door into the garden was wide open, though\nFyodor Pavlovitch had for the last week locked himself in every night and\ndid not allow even Grigory to come in on any pretext. Seeing that door\nopen, they were afraid to go in to Fyodor Pavlovitch \"for fear anything\nshould happen afterwards.\" And when they returned to Grigory, the old man\ntold them to go straight to the police captain. Marya Kondratyevna ran\nthere and gave the alarm to the whole party at the police captain's. She\narrived only five minutes before Pyotr Ilyitch, so that his story came,\nnot as his own surmise and theory, but as the direct confirmation, by a\nwitness, of the theory held by all, as to the identity of the criminal (a\ntheory he had in the bottom of his heart refused to believe till that\nmoment).\n\nIt was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector of the\ntown was commissioned to take four witnesses, to enter Fyodor Pavlovitch's\nhouse and there to open an inquiry on the spot, according to the regular\nforms, which I will not go into here. The district doctor, a zealous man,\nnew to his work, almost insisted on accompanying the police captain, the\nprosecutor, and the investigating lawyer.\n\nI will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovitch was found to be quite dead,\nwith his skull battered in. But with what? Most likely with the same\nweapon with which Grigory had been attacked. And immediately that weapon\nwas found, Grigory, to whom all possible medical assistance was at once\ngiven, described in a weak and breaking voice how he had been knocked\ndown. They began looking with a lantern by the fence and found the brass\npestle dropped in a most conspicuous place on the garden path. There were\nno signs of disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovitch was lying. But\nby the bed, behind the screen, they picked up from the floor a big and\nthick envelope with the inscription: \"A present of three thousand roubles\nfor my angel Grushenka, if she is willing to come.\" And below had been\nadded by Fyodor Pavlovitch, \"For my little chicken.\" There were three\nseals of red sealing-wax on the envelope, but it had been torn open and\nwas empty: the money had been removed. They found also on the floor a\npiece of narrow pink ribbon, with which the envelope had been tied up.\n\nOne piece of Pyotr Ilyitch's evidence made a great impression on the\nprosecutor and the investigating magistrate, namely, his idea that Dmitri\nFyodorovitch would shoot himself before daybreak, that he had resolved to\ndo so, had spoken of it to Ilyitch, had taken the pistols, loaded them\nbefore him, written a letter, put it in his pocket, etc. When Pyotr\nIlyitch, though still unwilling to believe in it, threatened to tell some\none so as to prevent the suicide, Mitya had answered grinning: \"You'll be\ntoo late.\" So they must make haste to Mokroe to find the criminal, before\nhe really did shoot himself.\n\n\"That's clear, that's clear!\" repeated the prosecutor in great excitement.\n\"That's just the way with mad fellows like that: 'I shall kill myself to-\nmorrow, so I'll make merry till I die!' \"\n\nThe story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited the\nprosecutor more than ever.\n\n\"Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant called Olsufyev,\ngentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once to have his hair curled,\nand then, without even hiding the money, carrying it almost in his hand in\nthe same way, he went off to the girls.\"\n\nAll were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search, and the\nformalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovitch. It all took time and\nso, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to Mokroe the officer of\nthe rural police, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch Schmertsov, who had arrived in the\ntown the morning before to get his pay. He was instructed to avoid raising\nthe alarm when he reached Mokroe, but to keep constant watch over the\n\"criminal\" till the arrival of the proper authorities, to procure also\nwitnesses for the arrest, police constables, and so on. Mavriky\nMavrikyevitch did as he was told, preserving his incognito, and giving no\none but his old acquaintance, Trifon Borissovitch, the slightest hint of\nhis secret business. He had spoken to him just before Mitya met the\nlandlord in the balcony, looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once\na change in Trifon Borissovitch's face and voice. So neither Mitya nor any\none else knew that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had been\ncarried off by Trifon Borissovitch and put in a suitable place. Only after\nfour o'clock, almost at sunrise, all the officials, the police captain,\nthe prosecutor, the investigating lawyer, drove up in two carriages, each\ndrawn by three horses. The doctor remained at Fyodor Pavlovitch's to make\na post-mortem next day on the body. But he was particularly interested in\nthe condition of the servant, Smerdyakov.\n\n\"Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring continually for\ntwenty-four hours, are rarely to be met with, and are of interest to\nscience,\" he declared enthusiastically to his companions, and as they left\nthey laughingly congratulated him on his find. The prosecutor and the\ninvestigating lawyer distinctly remembered the doctor's saying that\nSmerdyakov could not outlive the night.\n\nAfter these long, but I think necessary explanations, we will return to\nthat moment of our tale at which we broke off.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Sufferings Of A Soul, The First Ordeal\n\n\nAnd so Mitya sat looking wildly at the people round him, not understanding\nwhat was said to him. Suddenly he got up, flung up his hands, and shouted\naloud:\n\n\"I'm not guilty! I'm not guilty of that blood! I'm not guilty of my\nfather's blood.... I meant to kill him. But I'm not guilty. Not I.\"\n\nBut he had hardly said this, before Grushenka rushed from behind the\ncurtain and flung herself at the police captain's feet.\n\n\"It was my fault! Mine! My wickedness!\" she cried, in a heartrending\nvoice, bathed in tears, stretching out her clasped hands towards them. \"He\ndid it through me. I tortured him and drove him to it. I tortured that\npoor old man that's dead, too, in my wickedness, and brought him to this!\nIt's my fault, mine first, mine most, my fault!\"\n\n\"Yes, it's your fault! You're the chief criminal! You fury! You harlot!\nYou're the most to blame!\" shouted the police captain, threatening her\nwith his hand. But he was quickly and resolutely suppressed. The\nprosecutor positively seized hold of him.\n\n\"This is absolutely irregular, Mihail Makarovitch!\" he cried. \"You are\npositively hindering the inquiry.... You're ruining the case....\" he\nalmost gasped.\n\n\"Follow the regular course! Follow the regular course!\" cried Nikolay\nParfenovitch, fearfully excited too, \"otherwise it's absolutely\nimpossible!...\"\n\n\"Judge us together!\" Grushenka cried frantically, still kneeling. \"Punish\nus together. I will go with him now, if it's to death!\"\n\n\"Grusha, my life, my blood, my holy one!\" Mitya fell on his knees beside\nher and held her tight in his arms. \"Don't believe her,\" he cried, \"she's\nnot guilty of anything, of any blood, of anything!\"\n\nHe remembered afterwards that he was forcibly dragged away from her by\nseveral men, and that she was led out, and that when he recovered himself\nhe was sitting at the table. Beside him and behind him stood the men with\nmetal plates. Facing him on the other side of the table sat Nikolay\nParfenovitch, the investigating lawyer. He kept persuading him to drink a\nlittle water out of a glass that stood on the table.\n\n\"That will refresh you, that will calm you. Be calm, don't be frightened,\"\nhe added, extremely politely. Mitya (he remembered it afterwards) became\nsuddenly intensely interested in his big rings, one with an amethyst, and\nanother with a transparent bright yellow stone, of great brilliance. And\nlong afterwards he remembered with wonder how those rings had riveted his\nattention through all those terrible hours of interrogation, so that he\nwas utterly unable to tear himself away from them and dismiss them, as\nthings that had nothing to do with his position. On Mitya's left side, in\nthe place where Maximov had been sitting at the beginning of the evening,\nthe prosecutor was now seated, and on Mitya's right hand, where Grushenka\nhad been, was a rosy-cheeked young man in a sort of shabby hunting-jacket,\nwith ink and paper before him. This was the secretary of the investigating\nlawyer, who had brought him with him. The police captain was now standing\nby the window at the other end of the room, beside Kalganov, who was\nsitting there.\n\n\"Drink some water,\" said the investigating lawyer softly, for the tenth\ntime.\n\n\"I have drunk it, gentlemen, I have ... but ... come, gentlemen, crush me,\npunish me, decide my fate!\" cried Mitya, staring with terribly fixed wide-\nopen eyes at the investigating lawyer.\n\n\"So you positively declare that you are not guilty of the death of your\nfather, Fyodor Pavlovitch?\" asked the investigating lawyer, softly but\ninsistently.\n\n\"I am not guilty. I am guilty of the blood of another old man but not of\nmy father's. And I weep for it! I killed, I killed the old man and knocked\nhim down.... But it's hard to have to answer for that murder with another,\na terrible murder of which I am not guilty.... It's a terrible accusation,\ngentlemen, a knock-down blow. But who has killed my father, who has killed\nhim? Who can have killed him if I didn't? It's marvelous, extraordinary,\nimpossible.\"\n\n\"Yes, who can have killed him?\" the investigating lawyer was beginning,\nbut Ippolit Kirillovitch, the prosecutor, glancing at him, addressed\nMitya.\n\n\"You need not worry yourself about the old servant, Grigory Vassilyevitch.\nHe is alive, he has recovered, and in spite of the terrible blows\ninflicted, according to his own and your evidence, by you, there seems no\ndoubt that he will live, so the doctor says, at least.\"\n\n\"Alive? He's alive?\" cried Mitya, flinging up his hands. His face beamed.\n\"Lord, I thank Thee for the miracle Thou has wrought for me, a sinner and\nevildoer. That's an answer to my prayer. I've been praying all night.\" And\nhe crossed himself three times. He was almost breathless.\n\n\"So from this Grigory we have received such important evidence concerning\nyou, that--\" The prosecutor would have continued, but Mitya suddenly jumped\nup from his chair.\n\n\"One minute, gentlemen, for God's sake, one minute; I will run to her--\"\n\n\"Excuse me, at this moment it's quite impossible,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch\nalmost shrieked. He, too, leapt to his feet. Mitya was seized by the men\nwith the metal plates, but he sat down of his own accord....\n\n\"Gentlemen, what a pity! I wanted to see her for one minute only; I wanted\nto tell her that it has been washed away, it has gone, that blood that was\nweighing on my heart all night, and that I am not a murderer now!\nGentlemen, she is my betrothed!\" he said ecstatically and reverently,\nlooking round at them all. \"Oh, thank you, gentlemen! Oh, in one minute\nyou have given me new life, new heart!... That old man used to carry me in\nhis arms, gentlemen. He used to wash me in the tub when I was a baby three\nyears old, abandoned by every one, he was like a father to me!...\"\n\n\"And so you--\" the investigating lawyer began.\n\n\"Allow me, gentlemen, allow me one minute more,\" interposed Mitya, putting\nhis elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. \"Let me have\na moment to think, let me breathe, gentlemen. All this is horribly\nupsetting, horribly. A man is not a drum, gentlemen!\"\n\n\"Drink a little more water,\" murmured Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\nMitya took his hands from his face and laughed. His eyes were confident.\nHe seemed completely transformed in a moment. His whole bearing was\nchanged; he was once more the equal of these men, with all of whom he was\nacquainted, as though they had all met the day before, when nothing had\nhappened, at some social gathering. We may note in passing that, on his\nfirst arrival, Mitya had been made very welcome at the police captain's,\nbut later, during the last month especially, Mitya had hardly called at\nall, and when the police captain met him, in the street, for instance,\nMitya noticed that he frowned and only bowed out of politeness. His\nacquaintance with the prosecutor was less intimate, though he sometimes\npaid his wife, a nervous and fanciful lady, visits of politeness, without\nquite knowing why, and she always received him graciously and had, for\nsome reason, taken an interest in him up to the last. He had not had time\nto get to know the investigating lawyer, though he had met him and talked\nto him twice, each time about the fair sex.\n\n\"You're a most skillful lawyer, I see, Nikolay Parfenovitch,\" cried Mitya,\nlaughing gayly, \"but I can help you now. Oh, gentlemen, I feel like a new\nman, and don't be offended at my addressing you so simply and directly.\nI'm rather drunk, too, I'll tell you that frankly. I believe I've had the\nhonor and pleasure of meeting you, Nikolay Parfenovitch, at my kinsman\nMiuesov's. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I don't pretend to be on equal terms with\nyou. I understand, of course, in what character I am sitting before you.\nOh, of course, there's a horrible suspicion ... hanging over me ... if\nGrigory has given evidence.... A horrible suspicion! It's awful, awful, I\nunderstand that! But to business, gentlemen, I am ready, and we will make\nan end of it in one moment; for, listen, listen, gentlemen! Since I know\nI'm innocent, we can put an end to it in a minute. Can't we? Can't we?\"\n\nMitya spoke much and quickly, nervously and effusively, as though he\npositively took his listeners to be his best friends.\n\n\"So, for the present, we will write that you absolutely deny the charge\nbrought against you,\" said Nikolay Parfenovitch, impressively, and bending\ndown to the secretary he dictated to him in an undertone what to write.\n\n\"Write it down? You want to write that down? Well, write it; I consent, I\ngive my full consent, gentlemen, only ... do you see?... Stay, stay, write\nthis. Of disorderly conduct I am guilty, of violence on a poor old man I\nam guilty. And there is something else at the bottom of my heart, of which\nI am guilty, too--but that you need not write down\" (he turned suddenly to\nthe secretary); \"that's my personal life, gentlemen, that doesn't concern\nyou, the bottom of my heart, that's to say.... But of the murder of my old\nfather I'm not guilty. That's a wild idea. It's quite a wild idea!... I\nwill prove you that and you'll be convinced directly.... You will laugh,\ngentlemen. You'll laugh yourselves at your suspicion!...\"\n\n\"Be calm, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" said the investigating lawyer evidently\ntrying to allay Mitya's excitement by his own composure. \"Before we go on\nwith our inquiry, I should like, if you will consent to answer, to hear\nyou confirm the statement that you disliked your father, Fyodor\nPavlovitch, that you were involved in continual disputes with him. Here at\nleast, a quarter of an hour ago, you exclaimed that you wanted to kill\nhim: 'I didn't kill him,' you said, 'but I wanted to kill him.' \"\n\n\"Did I exclaim that? Ach, that may be so, gentlemen! Yes, unhappily, I did\nwant to kill him ... many times I wanted to ... unhappily, unhappily!\"\n\n\"You wanted to. Would you consent to explain what motives precisely led\nyou to such a sentiment of hatred for your parent?\"\n\n\"What is there to explain, gentlemen?\" Mitya shrugged his shoulders\nsullenly, looking down. \"I have never concealed my feelings. All the town\nknows about it--every one knows in the tavern. Only lately I declared them\nin Father Zossima's cell.... And the very same day, in the evening I beat\nmy father. I nearly killed him, and I swore I'd come again and kill him,\nbefore witnesses.... Oh, a thousand witnesses! I've been shouting it aloud\nfor the last month, any one can tell you that!... The fact stares you in\nthe face, it speaks for itself, it cries aloud, but feelings, gentlemen,\nfeelings are another matter. You see, gentlemen\"--Mitya frowned--\"it seems\nto me that about feelings you've no right to question me. I know that you\nare bound by your office, I quite understand that, but that's my affair,\nmy private, intimate affair, yet ... since I haven't concealed my feelings\nin the past ... in the tavern, for instance, I've talked to every one, so\n... so I won't make a secret of it now. You see, I understand, gentlemen,\nthat there are terrible facts against me in this business. I told every\none that I'd kill him, and now, all of a sudden, he's been killed. So it\nmust have been me! Ha ha! I can make allowances for you, gentlemen, I can\nquite make allowances. I'm struck all of a heap myself, for who can have\nmurdered him, if not I? That's what it comes to, isn't it? If not I, who\ncan it be, who? Gentlemen, I want to know, I insist on knowing!\" he\nexclaimed suddenly. \"Where was he murdered? How was he murdered? How, and\nwith what? Tell me,\" he asked quickly, looking at the two lawyers.\n\n\"We found him in his study, lying on his back on the floor, with his head\nbattered in,\" said the prosecutor.\n\n\"That's horrible!\" Mitya shuddered and, putting his elbows on the table,\nhid his face in his right hand.\n\n\"We will continue,\" interposed Nikolay Parfenovitch. \"So what was it that\nimpelled you to this sentiment of hatred? You have asserted in public, I\nbelieve, that it was based upon jealousy?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, jealousy. And not only jealousy.\"\n\n\"Disputes about money?\"\n\n\"Yes, about money, too.\"\n\n\"There was a dispute about three thousand roubles, I think, which you\nclaimed as part of your inheritance?\"\n\n\"Three thousand! More, more,\" cried Mitya hotly; \"more than six thousand,\nmore than ten, perhaps. I told every one so, shouted it at them. But I\nmade up my mind to let it go at three thousand. I was desperately in need\nof that three thousand ... so the bundle of notes for three thousand that\nI knew he kept under his pillow, ready for Grushenka, I considered as\nsimply stolen from me. Yes, gentlemen, I looked upon it as mine, as my own\nproperty....\"\n\nThe prosecutor looked significantly at the investigating lawyer, and had\ntime to wink at him on the sly.\n\n\"We will return to that subject later,\" said the lawyer promptly. \"You\nwill allow us to note that point and write it down; that you looked upon\nthat money as your own property?\"\n\n\"Write it down, by all means. I know that's another fact that tells\nagainst me, but I'm not afraid of facts and I tell them against myself. Do\nyou hear? Do you know, gentlemen, you take me for a different sort of man\nfrom what I am,\" he added, suddenly gloomy and dejected. \"You have to deal\nwith a man of honor, a man of the highest honor; above all--don't lose\nsight of it--a man who's done a lot of nasty things, but has always been,\nand still is, honorable at bottom, in his inner being. I don't know how to\nexpress it. That's just what's made me wretched all my life, that I\nyearned to be honorable, that I was, so to say, a martyr to a sense of\nhonor, seeking for it with a lantern, with the lantern of Diogenes, and\nyet all my life I've been doing filthy things like all of us, gentlemen\n... that is like me alone. That was a mistake, like me alone, me alone!...\nGentlemen, my head aches ...\" His brows contracted with pain. \"You see,\ngentlemen, I couldn't bear the look of him, there was something in him\nignoble, impudent, trampling on everything sacred, something sneering and\nirreverent, loathsome, loathsome. But now that he's dead, I feel\ndifferently.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"I don't feel differently, but I wish I hadn't hated him so.\"\n\n\"You feel penitent?\"\n\n\"No, not penitent, don't write that. I'm not much good myself, I'm not\nvery beautiful, so I had no right to consider him repulsive. That's what I\nmean. Write that down, if you like.\"\n\nSaying this Mitya became very mournful. He had grown more and more gloomy\nas the inquiry continued.\n\nAt that moment another unexpected scene followed. Though Grushenka had\nbeen removed, she had not been taken far away, only into the room next but\none from the blue room, in which the examination was proceeding. It was a\nlittle room with one window, next beyond the large room in which they had\ndanced and feasted so lavishly. She was sitting there with no one by her\nbut Maximov, who was terribly depressed, terribly scared, and clung to her\nside, as though for security. At their door stood one of the peasants with\na metal plate on his breast. Grushenka was crying, and suddenly her grief\nwas too much for her, she jumped up, flung up her arms and, with a loud\nwail of sorrow, rushed out of the room to him, to her Mitya, and so\nunexpectedly that they had not time to stop her. Mitya, hearing her cry,\ntrembled, jumped up, and with a yell rushed impetuously to meet her, not\nknowing what he was doing. But they were not allowed to come together,\nthough they saw one another. He was seized by the arms. He struggled, and\ntried to tear himself away. It took three or four men to hold him. She was\nseized too, and he saw her stretching out her arms to him, crying aloud as\nthey carried her away. When the scene was over, he came to himself again,\nsitting in the same place as before, opposite the investigating lawyer,\nand crying out to them:\n\n\"What do you want with her? Why do you torment her? She's done nothing,\nnothing!...\"\n\nThe lawyers tried to soothe him. About ten minutes passed like this. At\nlast Mihail Makarovitch, who had been absent, came hurriedly into the\nroom, and said in a loud and excited voice to the prosecutor:\n\n\"She's been removed, she's downstairs. Will you allow me to say one word\nto this unhappy man, gentlemen? In your presence, gentlemen, in your\npresence.\"\n\n\"By all means, Mihail Makarovitch,\" answered the investigating lawyer. \"In\nthe present case we have nothing against it.\"\n\n\"Listen, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear fellow,\" began the police captain,\nand there was a look of warm, almost fatherly, feeling for the luckless\nprisoner on his excited face. \"I took your Agrafena Alexandrovna\ndownstairs myself, and confided her to the care of the landlord's\ndaughters, and that old fellow Maximov is with her all the time. And I\nsoothed her, do you hear? I soothed and calmed her. I impressed on her\nthat you have to clear yourself, so she mustn't hinder you, must not\ndepress you, or you may lose your head and say the wrong thing in your\nevidence. In fact, I talked to her and she understood. She's a sensible\ngirl, my boy, a good-hearted girl, she would have kissed my old hands,\nbegging help for you. She sent me herself, to tell you not to worry about\nher. And I must go, my dear fellow, I must go and tell her that you are\ncalm and comforted about her. And so you must be calm, do you understand?\nI was unfair to her; she is a Christian soul, gentlemen, yes, I tell you,\nshe's a gentle soul, and not to blame for anything. So what am I to tell\nher, Dmitri Fyodorovitch? Will you sit quiet or not?\"\n\nThe good-natured police captain said a great deal that was irregular, but\nGrushenka's suffering, a fellow creature's suffering, touched his good-\nnatured heart, and tears stood in his eyes. Mitya jumped up and rushed\ntowards him.\n\n\"Forgive me, gentlemen, oh, allow me, allow me!\" he cried. \"You've the\nheart of an angel, an angel, Mihail Makarovitch, I thank you for her. I\nwill, I will be calm, cheerful, in fact. Tell her, in the kindness of your\nheart, that I am cheerful, quite cheerful, that I shall be laughing in a\nminute, knowing that she has a guardian angel like you. I shall have done\nwith all this directly, and as soon as I'm free, I'll be with her, she'll\nsee, let her wait. Gentlemen,\" he said, turning to the two lawyers, \"now\nI'll open my whole soul to you; I'll pour out everything. We'll finish\nthis off directly, finish it off gayly. We shall laugh at it in the end,\nshan't we? But, gentlemen, that woman is the queen of my heart. Oh, let me\ntell you that. That one thing I'll tell you now.... I see I'm with\nhonorable men. She is my light, she is my holy one, and if only you knew!\nDid you hear her cry, 'I'll go to death with you'? And what have I, a\npenniless beggar, done for her? Why such love for me? How can a clumsy,\nugly brute like me, with my ugly face, deserve such love, that she is\nready to go to exile with me? And how she fell down at your feet for my\nsake, just now!... and yet she's proud and has done nothing! How can I\nhelp adoring her, how can I help crying out and rushing to her as I did\njust now? Gentlemen, forgive me! But now, now I am comforted.\"\n\nAnd he sank back in his chair and, covering his face with his hands, burst\ninto tears. But they were happy tears. He recovered himself instantly. The\nold police captain seemed much pleased, and the lawyers also. They felt\nthat the examination was passing into a new phase. When the police captain\nwent out, Mitya was positively gay.\n\n\"Now, gentlemen, I am at your disposal, entirely at your disposal. And if\nit were not for all these trivial details, we should understand one\nanother in a minute. I'm at those details again. I'm at your disposal,\ngentlemen, but I declare that we must have mutual confidence, you in me\nand I in you, or there'll be no end to it. I speak in your interests. To\nbusiness, gentlemen, to business, and don't rummage in my soul; don't\ntease me with trifles, but only ask me about facts and what matters, and I\nwill satisfy you at once. And damn the details!\"\n\nSo spoke Mitya. The interrogation began again.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. The Second Ordeal\n\n\n\"You don't know how you encourage us, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, by your\nreadiness to answer,\" said Nikolay Parfenovitch, with an animated air, and\nobvious satisfaction beaming in his very prominent, short-sighted, light\ngray eyes, from which he had removed his spectacles a moment before. \"And\nyou have made a very just remark about the mutual confidence, without\nwhich it is sometimes positively impossible to get on in cases of such\nimportance, if the suspected party really hopes and desires to defend\nhimself and is in a position to do so. We, on our side, will do everything\nin our power, and you can see for yourself how we are conducting the case.\nYou approve, Ippolit Kirillovitch?\" He turned to the prosecutor.\n\n\"Oh, undoubtedly,\" replied the prosecutor. His tone was somewhat cold,\ncompared with Nikolay Parfenovitch's impulsiveness.\n\nI will note once for all that Nikolay Parfenovitch, who had but lately\narrived among us, had from the first felt marked respect for Ippolit\nKirillovitch, our prosecutor, and had become almost his bosom friend. He\nwas almost the only person who put implicit faith in Ippolit\nKirillovitch's extraordinary talents as a psychologist and orator and in\nthe justice of his grievance. He had heard of him in Petersburg. On the\nother hand, young Nikolay Parfenovitch was the only person in the whole\nworld whom our \"unappreciated\" prosecutor genuinely liked. On their way to\nMokroe they had time to come to an understanding about the present case.\nAnd now as they sat at the table, the sharp-witted junior caught and\ninterpreted every indication on his senior colleague's face--half a word, a\nglance, or a wink.\n\n\"Gentlemen, only let me tell my own story and don't interrupt me with\ntrivial questions and I'll tell you everything in a moment,\" said Mitya\nexcitedly.\n\n\"Excellent! Thank you. But before we proceed to listen to your\ncommunication, will you allow me to inquire as to another little fact of\ngreat interest to us? I mean the ten roubles you borrowed yesterday at\nabout five o'clock on the security of your pistols, from your friend,\nPyotr Ilyitch Perhotin.\"\n\n\"I pledged them, gentlemen. I pledged them for ten roubles. What more?\nThat's all about it. As soon as I got back to town I pledged them.\"\n\n\"You got back to town? Then you had been out of town?\"\n\n\"Yes, I went a journey of forty versts into the country. Didn't you know?\"\n\nThe prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch exchanged glances.\n\n\"Well, how would it be if you began your story with a systematic\ndescription of all you did yesterday, from the morning onwards? Allow us,\nfor instance, to inquire why you were absent from the town, and just when\nyou left and when you came back--all those facts.\"\n\n\"You should have asked me like that from the beginning,\" cried Mitya,\nlaughing aloud, \"and, if you like, we won't begin from yesterday, but from\nthe morning of the day before; then you'll understand how, why, and where\nI went. I went the day before yesterday, gentlemen, to a merchant of the\ntown, called Samsonov, to borrow three thousand roubles from him on safe\nsecurity. It was a pressing matter, gentlemen, it was a sudden necessity.\"\n\n\"Allow me to interrupt you,\" the prosecutor put in politely. \"Why were you\nin such pressing need for just that sum, three thousand?\"\n\n\"Oh, gentlemen, you needn't go into details, how, when and why, and why\njust so much money, and not so much, and all that rigmarole. Why, it'll\nrun to three volumes, and then you'll want an epilogue!\"\n\nMitya said all this with the good-natured but impatient familiarity of a\nman who is anxious to tell the whole truth and is full of the best\nintentions.\n\n\"Gentlemen!\"--he corrected himself hurriedly--\"don't be vexed with me for my\nrestiveness, I beg you again. Believe me once more, I feel the greatest\nrespect for you and understand the true position of affairs. Don't think\nI'm drunk. I'm quite sober now. And, besides, being drunk would be no\nhindrance. It's with me, you know, like the saying: 'When he is sober, he\nis a fool; when he is drunk, he is a wise man.' Ha ha! But I see,\ngentlemen, it's not the proper thing to make jokes to you, till we've had\nour explanation, I mean. And I've my own dignity to keep up, too. I quite\nunderstand the difference for the moment. I am, after all, in the position\nof a criminal, and so, far from being on equal terms with you. And it's\nyour business to watch me. I can't expect you to pat me on the head for\nwhat I did to Grigory, for one can't break old men's heads with impunity.\nI suppose you'll put me away for him for six months, or a year perhaps, in\na house of correction. I don't know what the punishment is--but it will be\nwithout loss of the rights of my rank, without loss of my rank, won't it?\nSo you see, gentlemen, I understand the distinction between us.... But you\nmust see that you could puzzle God Himself with such questions. 'How did\nyou step? Where did you step? When did you step? And on what did you\nstep?' I shall get mixed up, if you go on like this, and you will put it\nall down against me. And what will that lead to? To nothing! And even if\nit's nonsense I'm talking now, let me finish, and you, gentlemen, being\nmen of honor and refinement, will forgive me! I'll finish by asking you,\ngentlemen, to drop that conventional method of questioning. I mean,\nbeginning from some miserable trifle, how I got up, what I had for\nbreakfast, how I spat, and where I spat, and so distracting the attention\nof the criminal, suddenly stun him with an overwhelming question, 'Whom\ndid you murder? Whom did you rob?' Ha ha! That's your regulation method,\nthat's where all your cunning comes in. You can put peasants off their\nguard like that, but not me. I know the tricks. I've been in the service,\ntoo. Ha ha ha! You're not angry, gentlemen? You forgive my impertinence?\"\nhe cried, looking at them with a good-nature that was almost surprising.\n\"It's only Mitya Karamazov, you know, so you can overlook it. It would be\ninexcusable in a sensible man; but you can forgive it in Mitya. Ha ha!\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch listened, and laughed too. Though the prosecutor did\nnot laugh, he kept his eyes fixed keenly on Mitya, as though anxious not\nto miss the least syllable, the slightest movement, the smallest twitch of\nany feature of his face.\n\n\"That's how we have treated you from the beginning,\" said Nikolay\nParfenovitch, still laughing. \"We haven't tried to put you out by asking\nhow you got up in the morning and what you had for breakfast. We began,\nindeed, with questions of the greatest importance.\"\n\n\"I understand. I saw it and appreciated it, and I appreciate still more\nyour present kindness to me, an unprecedented kindness, worthy of your\nnoble hearts. We three here are gentlemen, and let everything be on the\nfooting of mutual confidence between educated, well-bred people, who have\nthe common bond of noble birth and honor. In any case, allow me to look\nupon you as my best friends at this moment of my life, at this moment when\nmy honor is assailed. That's no offense to you, gentlemen, is it?\"\n\n\"On the contrary. You've expressed all that so well, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\"\nNikolay Parfenovitch answered with dignified approbation.\n\n\"And enough of those trivial questions, gentlemen, all those tricky\nquestions!\" cried Mitya enthusiastically. \"Or there's simply no knowing\nwhere we shall get to! Is there?\"\n\n\"I will follow your sensible advice entirely,\" the prosecutor interposed,\naddressing Mitya. \"I don't withdraw my question, however. It is now\nvitally important for us to know exactly why you needed that sum, I mean\nprecisely three thousand.\"\n\n\"Why I needed it?... Oh, for one thing and another.... Well, it was to pay\na debt.\"\n\n\"A debt to whom?\"\n\n\"That I absolutely refuse to answer, gentlemen. Not because I couldn't, or\nbecause I shouldn't dare, or because it would be damaging, for it's all a\npaltry matter and absolutely trifling, but--I won't, because it's a matter\nof principle: that's my private life, and I won't allow any intrusion into\nmy private life. That's my principle. Your question has no bearing on the\ncase, and whatever has nothing to do with the case is my private affair. I\nwanted to pay a debt. I wanted to pay a debt of honor but to whom I won't\nsay.\"\n\n\"Allow me to make a note of that,\" said the prosecutor.\n\n\"By all means. Write down that I won't say, that I won't. Write that I\nshould think it dishonorable to say. Ech! you can write it; you've nothing\nelse to do with your time.\"\n\n\"Allow me to caution you, sir, and to remind you once more, if you are\nunaware of it,\" the prosecutor began, with a peculiar and stern\nimpressiveness, \"that you have a perfect right not to answer the questions\nput to you now, and we on our side have no right to extort an answer from\nyou, if you decline to give it for one reason or another. That is entirely\na matter for your personal decision. But it is our duty, on the other\nhand, in such cases as the present, to explain and set before you the\ndegree of injury you will be doing yourself by refusing to give this or\nthat piece of evidence. After which I will beg you to continue.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen, I'm not angry ... I ...\" Mitya muttered in a rather\ndisconcerted tone. \"Well, gentlemen, you see, that Samsonov to whom I went\nthen ...\"\n\nWe will, of course, not reproduce his account of what is known to the\nreader already. Mitya was impatiently anxious not to omit the slightest\ndetail. At the same time he was in a hurry to get it over. But as he gave\nhis evidence it was written down, and therefore they had continually to\npull him up. Mitya disliked this, but submitted; got angry, though still\ngood-humoredly. He did, it is true, exclaim, from time to time,\n\"Gentlemen, that's enough to make an angel out of patience!\" Or,\n\"Gentlemen, it's no good your irritating me.\"\n\nBut even though he exclaimed he still preserved for a time his genially\nexpansive mood. So he told them how Samsonov had made a fool of him two\ndays before. (He had completely realized by now that he had been fooled.)\nThe sale of his watch for six roubles to obtain money for the journey was\nsomething new to the lawyers. They were at once greatly interested, and\neven, to Mitya's intense indignation, thought it necessary to write the\nfact down as a secondary confirmation of the circumstance that he had\nhardly a farthing in his pocket at the time. Little by little Mitya began\nto grow surly. Then, after describing his journey to see Lyagavy, the\nnight spent in the stifling hut, and so on, he came to his return to the\ntown. Here he began, without being particularly urged, to give a minute\naccount of the agonies of jealousy he endured on Grushenka's account.\n\nHe was heard with silent attention. They inquired particularly into the\ncircumstance of his having a place of ambush in Marya Kondratyevna's house\nat the back of Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden to keep watch on Grushenka, and\nof Smerdyakov's bringing him information. They laid particular stress on\nthis, and noted it down. Of his jealousy he spoke warmly and at length,\nand though inwardly ashamed at exposing his most intimate feelings to\n\"public ignominy,\" so to speak, he evidently overcame his shame in order\nto tell the truth. The frigid severity, with which the investigating\nlawyer, and still more the prosecutor, stared intently at him as he told\nhis story, disconcerted him at last considerably.\n\n\"That boy, Nikolay Parfenovitch, to whom I was talking nonsense about\nwomen only a few days ago, and that sickly prosecutor are not worth my\ntelling this to,\" he reflected mournfully. \"It's ignominious. 'Be patient,\nhumble, hold thy peace.' \" He wound up his reflections with that line. But\nhe pulled himself together to go on again. When he came to telling of his\nvisit to Madame Hohlakov, he regained his spirits and even wished to tell\na little anecdote of that lady which had nothing to do with the case. But\nthe investigating lawyer stopped him, and civilly suggested that he should\npass on to \"more essential matters.\" At last, when he described his\ndespair and told them how, when he left Madame Hohlakov's, he thought that\nhe'd \"get three thousand if he had to murder some one to do it,\" they\nstopped him again and noted down that he had \"meant to murder some one.\"\nMitya let them write it without protest. At last he reached the point in\nhis story when he learned that Grushenka had deceived him and had returned\nfrom Samsonov's as soon as he left her there, though she had said that she\nwould stay there till midnight.\n\n\"If I didn't kill Fenya then, gentlemen, it was only because I hadn't\ntime,\" broke from him suddenly at that point in his story. That, too, was\ncarefully written down. Mitya waited gloomily, and was beginning to tell\nhow he ran into his father's garden when the investigating lawyer suddenly\nstopped him, and opening the big portfolio that lay on the sofa beside him\nhe brought out the brass pestle.\n\n\"Do you recognize this object?\" he asked, showing it to Mitya.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he laughed gloomily. \"Of course I recognize it. Let me have a\nlook at it.... Damn it, never mind!\"\n\n\"You have forgotten to mention it,\" observed the investigating lawyer.\n\n\"Hang it all, I shouldn't have concealed it from you. Do you suppose I\ncould have managed without it? It simply escaped my memory.\"\n\n\"Be so good as to tell us precisely how you came to arm yourself with it.\"\n\n\"Certainly I will be so good, gentlemen.\"\n\nAnd Mitya described how he took the pestle and ran.\n\n\"But what object had you in view in arming yourself with such a weapon?\"\n\n\"What object? No object. I just picked it up and ran off.\"\n\n\"What for, if you had no object?\"\n\nMitya's wrath flared up. He looked intently at \"the boy\" and smiled\ngloomily and malignantly. He was feeling more and more ashamed at having\ntold \"such people\" the story of his jealousy so sincerely and\nspontaneously.\n\n\"Bother the pestle!\" broke from him suddenly.\n\n\"But still--\"\n\n\"Oh, to keep off dogs.... Oh, because it was dark.... In case anything\nturned up.\"\n\n\"But have you ever on previous occasions taken a weapon with you when you\nwent out, since you're afraid of the dark?\"\n\n\"Ugh! damn it all, gentlemen! There's positively no talking to you!\" cried\nMitya, exasperated beyond endurance, and turning to the secretary, crimson\nwith anger, he said quickly, with a note of fury in his voice:\n\n\"Write down at once ... at once ... 'that I snatched up the pestle to go\nand kill my father ... Fyodor Pavlovitch ... by hitting him on the head\nwith it!' Well, now are you satisfied, gentlemen? Are your minds\nrelieved?\" he said, glaring defiantly at the lawyers.\n\n\"We quite understand that you made that statement just now through\nexasperation with us and the questions we put to you, which you consider\ntrivial, though they are, in fact, essential,\" the prosecutor remarked\ndryly in reply.\n\n\"Well, upon my word, gentlemen! Yes, I took the pestle.... What does one\npick things up for at such moments? I don't know what for. I snatched it\nup and ran--that's all. For to me, gentlemen, _passons_, or I declare I\nwon't tell you any more.\"\n\nHe sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hand. He sat\nsideways to them and gazed at the wall, struggling against a feeling of\nnausea. He had, in fact, an awful inclination to get up and declare that\nhe wouldn't say another word, \"not if you hang me for it.\"\n\n\"You see, gentlemen,\" he said at last, with difficulty controlling\nhimself, \"you see. I listen to you and am haunted by a dream.... It's a\ndream I have sometimes, you know.... I often dream it--it's always the same\n... that some one is hunting me, some one I'm awfully afraid of ... that\nhe's hunting me in the dark, in the night ... tracking me, and I hide\nsomewhere from him, behind a door or cupboard, hide in a degrading way,\nand the worst of it is, he always knows where I am, but he pretends not to\nknow where I am on purpose, to prolong my agony, to enjoy my terror....\nThat's just what you're doing now. It's just like that!\"\n\n\"Is that the sort of thing you dream about?\" inquired the prosecutor.\n\n\"Yes, it is. Don't you want to write it down?\" said Mitya, with a\ndistorted smile.\n\n\"No; no need to write it down. But still you do have curious dreams.\"\n\n\"It's not a question of dreams now, gentlemen--this is realism, this is\nreal life! I'm a wolf and you're the hunters. Well, hunt him down!\"\n\n\"You are wrong to make such comparisons ...\" began Nikolay Parfenovitch,\nwith extraordinary softness.\n\n\"No, I'm not wrong, not at all!\" Mitya flared up again, though his\noutburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more good-\nhumored at every word. \"You may not trust a criminal or a man on trial\ntortured by your questions, but an honorable man, the honorable impulses\nof the heart (I say that boldly!)--no! That you must believe you have no\nright indeed ... but--\n\n\n    Be silent, heart,\n    Be patient, humble, hold thy peace.\n\n\nWell, shall I go on?\" he broke off gloomily.\n\n\"If you'll be so kind,\" answered Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. The Third Ordeal\n\n\nThough Mitya spoke sullenly, it was evident that he was trying more than\never not to forget or miss a single detail of his story. He told them how\nhe had leapt over the fence into his father's garden; how he had gone up\nto the window; told them all that had passed under the window. Clearly,\nprecisely, distinctly, he described the feelings that troubled him during\nthose moments in the garden when he longed so terribly to know whether\nGrushenka was with his father or not. But, strange to say, both the\nlawyers listened now with a sort of awful reserve, looked coldly at him,\nasked few questions. Mitya could gather nothing from their faces.\n\n\"They're angry and offended,\" he thought. \"Well, bother them!\"\n\nWhen he described how he made up his mind at last to make the \"signal\" to\nhis father that Grushenka had come, so that he should open the window, the\nlawyers paid no attention to the word \"signal,\" as though they entirely\nfailed to grasp the meaning of the word in this connection: so much so,\nthat Mitya noticed it. Coming at last to the moment when, seeing his\nfather peering out of the window, his hatred flared up and he pulled the\npestle out of his pocket, he suddenly, as though of design, stopped short.\nHe sat gazing at the wall and was aware that their eyes were fixed upon\nhim.\n\n\"Well?\" said the investigating lawyer. \"You pulled out the weapon and ...\nand what happened then?\"\n\n\"Then? Why, then I murdered him ... hit him on the head and cracked his\nskull.... I suppose that's your story. That's it!\"\n\nHis eyes suddenly flashed. All his smothered wrath suddenly flamed up with\nextraordinary violence in his soul.\n\n\"Our story?\" repeated Nikolay Parfenovitch. \"Well--and yours?\"\n\nMitya dropped his eyes and was a long time silent.\n\n\"My story, gentlemen? Well, it was like this,\" he began softly. \"Whether\nit was some one's tears, or my mother prayed to God, or a good angel\nkissed me at that instant, I don't know. But the devil was conquered. I\nrushed from the window and ran to the fence. My father was alarmed and,\nfor the first time, he saw me then, cried out, and sprang back from the\nwindow. I remember that very well. I ran across the garden to the fence\n... and there Grigory caught me, when I was sitting on the fence.\"\n\nAt that point he raised his eyes at last and looked at his listeners. They\nseemed to be staring at him with perfectly unruffled attention. A sort of\nparoxysm of indignation seized on Mitya's soul.\n\n\"Why, you're laughing at me at this moment, gentlemen!\" he broke off\nsuddenly.\n\n\"What makes you think that?\" observed Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"You don't believe one word--that's why! I understand, of course, that I\nhave come to the vital point. The old man's lying there now with his skull\nbroken, while I--after dramatically describing how I wanted to kill him,\nand how I snatched up the pestle--I suddenly run away from the window. A\nromance! Poetry! As though one could believe a fellow on his word. Ha ha!\nYou are scoffers, gentlemen!\"\n\nAnd he swung round on his chair so that it creaked.\n\n\"And did you notice,\" asked the prosecutor suddenly, as though not\nobserving Mitya's excitement, \"did you notice when you ran away from the\nwindow, whether the door into the garden was open?\"\n\n\"No, it was not open.\"\n\n\"It was not?\"\n\n\"It was shut. And who could open it? Bah! the door. Wait a bit!\" he seemed\nsuddenly to bethink himself, and almost with a start:\n\n\"Why, did you find the door open?\"\n\n\"Yes, it was open.\"\n\n\"Why, who could have opened it if you did not open it yourselves?\" cried\nMitya, greatly astonished.\n\n\"The door stood open, and your father's murderer undoubtedly went in at\nthat door, and, having accomplished the crime, went out again by the same\ndoor,\" the prosecutor pronounced deliberately, as though chiseling out\neach word separately. \"That is perfectly clear. The murder was committed\nin the room and _not through the __ window_; that is absolutely certain\nfrom the examination that has been made, from the position of the body and\neverything. There can be no doubt of that circumstance.\"\n\nMitya was absolutely dumbfounded.\n\n\"But that's utterly impossible!\" he cried, completely at a loss. \"I ... I\ndidn't go in.... I tell you positively, definitely, the door was shut the\nwhole time I was in the garden, and when I ran out of the garden. I only\nstood at the window and saw him through the window. That's all, that's\nall.... I remember to the last minute. And if I didn't remember, it would\nbe just the same. I know it, for no one knew the signals except\nSmerdyakov, and me, and the dead man. And he wouldn't have opened the door\nto any one in the world without the signals.\"\n\n\"Signals? What signals?\" asked the prosecutor, with greedy, almost\nhysterical, curiosity. He instantly lost all trace of his reserve and\ndignity. He asked the question with a sort of cringing timidity. He\nscented an important fact of which he had known nothing, and was already\nfilled with dread that Mitya might be unwilling to disclose it.\n\n\"So you didn't know!\" Mitya winked at him with a malicious and mocking\nsmile. \"What if I won't tell you? From whom could you find out? No one\nknew about the signals except my father, Smerdyakov, and me: that was all.\nHeaven knew, too, but it won't tell you. But it's an interesting fact.\nThere's no knowing what you might build on it. Ha ha! Take comfort,\ngentlemen, I'll reveal it. You've some foolish idea in your hearts. You\ndon't know the man you have to deal with! You have to do with a prisoner\nwho gives evidence against himself, to his own damage! Yes, for I'm a man\nof honor and you--are not.\"\n\nThe prosecutor swallowed this without a murmur. He was trembling with\nimpatience to hear the new fact. Minutely and diffusely Mitya told them\neverything about the signals invented by Fyodor Pavlovitch for Smerdyakov.\nHe told them exactly what every tap on the window meant, tapped the\nsignals on the table, and when Nikolay Parfenovitch said that he supposed\nhe, Mitya, had tapped the signal \"Grushenka has come,\" when he tapped to\nhis father, he answered precisely that he had tapped that signal, that\n\"Grushenka had come.\"\n\n\"So now you can build up your tower,\" Mitya broke off, and again turned\naway from them contemptuously.\n\n\"So no one knew of the signals but your dead father, you, and the valet\nSmerdyakov? And no one else?\" Nikolay Parfenovitch inquired once more.\n\n\"Yes. The valet Smerdyakov, and Heaven. Write down about Heaven. That may\nbe of use. Besides, you will need God yourselves.\"\n\nAnd they had already, of course, begun writing it down. But while they\nwrote, the prosecutor said suddenly, as though pitching on a new idea:\n\n\"But if Smerdyakov also knew of these signals and you absolutely deny all\nresponsibility for the death of your father, was it not he, perhaps, who\nknocked the signal agreed upon, induced your father to open to him, and\nthen ... committed the crime?\"\n\nMitya turned upon him a look of profound irony and intense hatred. His\nsilent stare lasted so long that it made the prosecutor blink.\n\n\"You've caught the fox again,\" commented Mitya at last; \"you've got the\nbeast by the tail. Ha ha! I see through you, Mr. Prosecutor. You thought,\nof course, that I should jump at that, catch at your prompting, and shout\nwith all my might, 'Aie! it's Smerdyakov; he's the murderer.' Confess\nthat's what you thought. Confess, and I'll go on.\"\n\nBut the prosecutor did not confess. He held his tongue and waited.\n\n\"You're mistaken. I'm not going to shout 'It's Smerdyakov,' \" said Mitya.\n\n\"And you don't even suspect him?\"\n\n\"Why, do you suspect him?\"\n\n\"He is suspected, too.\"\n\nMitya fixed his eyes on the floor.\n\n\"Joking apart,\" he brought out gloomily. \"Listen. From the very beginning,\nalmost from the moment when I ran out to you from behind the curtain, I've\nhad the thought of Smerdyakov in my mind. I've been sitting here, shouting\nthat I'm innocent and thinking all the time 'Smerdyakov!' I can't get\nSmerdyakov out of my head. In fact, I, too, thought of Smerdyakov just\nnow; but only for a second. Almost at once I thought, 'No, it's not\nSmerdyakov.' It's not his doing, gentlemen.\"\n\n\"In that case is there anybody else you suspect?\" Nikolay Parfenovitch\ninquired cautiously.\n\n\"I don't know any one it could be, whether it's the hand of Heaven or\nSatan, but ... not Smerdyakov,\" Mitya jerked out with decision.\n\n\"But what makes you affirm so confidently and emphatically that it's not\nhe?\"\n\n\"From my conviction--my impression. Because Smerdyakov is a man of the most\nabject character and a coward. He's not a coward, he's the epitome of all\nthe cowardice in the world walking on two legs. He has the heart of a\nchicken. When he talked to me, he was always trembling for fear I should\nkill him, though I never raised my hand against him. He fell at my feet\nand blubbered; he has kissed these very boots, literally, beseeching me\n'not to frighten him.' Do you hear? 'Not to frighten him.' What a thing to\nsay! Why, I offered him money. He's a puling chicken--sickly, epileptic,\nweak-minded--a child of eight could thrash him. He has no character worth\ntalking about. It's not Smerdyakov, gentlemen. He doesn't care for money;\nhe wouldn't take my presents. Besides, what motive had he for murdering\nthe old man? Why, he's very likely his son, you know--his natural son. Do\nyou know that?\"\n\n\"We have heard that legend. But you are your father's son, too, you know;\nyet you yourself told every one you meant to murder him.\"\n\n\"That's a thrust! And a nasty, mean one, too! I'm not afraid! Oh,\ngentlemen, isn't it too base of you to say that to my face? It's base,\nbecause I told you that myself. I not only wanted to murder him, but I\nmight have done it. And, what's more, I went out of my way to tell you of\nmy own accord that I nearly murdered him. But, you see, I didn't murder\nhim; you see, my guardian angel saved me--that's what you've not taken into\naccount. And that's why it's so base of you. For I didn't kill him, I\ndidn't kill him! Do you hear, I did not kill him.\"\n\nHe was almost choking. He had not been so moved before during the whole\ninterrogation.\n\n\"And what has he told you, gentlemen--Smerdyakov, I mean?\" he added\nsuddenly, after a pause. \"May I ask that question?\"\n\n\"You may ask any question,\" the prosecutor replied with frigid severity,\n\"any question relating to the facts of the case, and we are, I repeat,\nbound to answer every inquiry you make. We found the servant Smerdyakov,\nconcerning whom you inquire, lying unconscious in his bed, in an epileptic\nfit of extreme severity, that had recurred, possibly, ten times. The\ndoctor who was with us told us, after seeing him, that he may possibly not\noutlive the night.\"\n\n\"Well, if that's so, the devil must have killed him,\" broke suddenly from\nMitya, as though until that moment he had been asking himself: \"Was it\nSmerdyakov or not?\"\n\n\"We will come back to this later,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch decided. \"Now,\nwouldn't you like to continue your statement?\"\n\nMitya asked for a rest. His request was courteously granted. After\nresting, he went on with his story. But he was evidently depressed. He was\nexhausted, mortified and morally shaken. To make things worse the\nprosecutor exasperated him, as though intentionally, by vexatious\ninterruptions about \"trifling points.\" Scarcely had Mitya described how,\nsitting on the wall, he had struck Grigory on the head with the pestle,\nwhile the old man had hold of his left leg, and how he had then jumped\ndown to look at him, when the prosecutor stopped him to ask him to\ndescribe exactly how he was sitting on the wall. Mitya was surprised.\n\n\"Oh, I was sitting like this, astride, one leg on one side of the wall and\none on the other.\"\n\n\"And the pestle?\"\n\n\"The pestle was in my hand.\"\n\n\"Not in your pocket? Do you remember that precisely? Was it a violent blow\nyou gave him?\"\n\n\"It must have been a violent one. But why do you ask?\"\n\n\"Would you mind sitting on the chair just as you sat on the wall then and\nshowing us just how you moved your arm, and in what direction?\"\n\n\"You're making fun of me, aren't you?\" asked Mitya, looking haughtily at\nthe speaker; but the latter did not flinch.\n\nMitya turned abruptly, sat astride on his chair, and swung his arm.\n\n\"This was how I struck him! That's how I knocked him down! What more do\nyou want?\"\n\n\"Thank you. May I trouble you now to explain why you jumped down, with\nwhat object, and what you had in view?\"\n\n\"Oh, hang it!... I jumped down to look at the man I'd hurt ... I don't\nknow what for!\"\n\n\"Though you were so excited and were running away?\"\n\n\"Yes, though I was excited and running away.\"\n\n\"You wanted to help him?\"\n\n\"Help!... Yes, perhaps I did want to help him.... I don't remember.\"\n\n\"You don't remember? Then you didn't quite know what you were doing?\"\n\n\"Not at all. I remember everything--every detail. I jumped down to look at\nhim, and wiped his face with my handkerchief.\"\n\n\"We have seen your handkerchief. Did you hope to restore him to\nconsciousness?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether I hoped it. I simply wanted to make sure whether he\nwas alive or not.\"\n\n\"Ah! You wanted to be sure? Well, what then?\"\n\n\"I'm not a doctor. I couldn't decide. I ran away thinking I'd killed him.\nAnd now he's recovered.\"\n\n\"Excellent,\" commented the prosecutor. \"Thank you. That's all I wanted.\nKindly proceed.\"\n\nAlas! it never entered Mitya's head to tell them, though he remembered it,\nthat he had jumped back from pity, and standing over the prostrate figure\nhad even uttered some words of regret: \"You've come to grief, old\nman--there's no help for it. Well, there you must lie.\"\n\nThe prosecutor could only draw one conclusion: that the man had jumped\nback \"at such a moment and in such excitement simply with the object of\nascertaining whether the _only_ witness of his crime were dead; that he\nmust therefore have been a man of great strength, coolness, decision and\nforesight even at such a moment,\" ... and so on. The prosecutor was\nsatisfied: \"I've provoked the nervous fellow by 'trifles' and he has said\nmore than he meant to.\"\n\nWith painful effort Mitya went on. But this time he was pulled up\nimmediately by Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"How came you to run to the servant, Fedosya Markovna, with your hands so\ncovered with blood, and, as it appears, your face, too?\"\n\n\"Why, I didn't notice the blood at all at the time,\" answered Mitya.\n\n\"That's quite likely. It does happen sometimes.\" The prosecutor exchanged\nglances with Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"I simply didn't notice. You're quite right there, prosecutor,\" Mitya\nassented suddenly.\n\nNext came the account of Mitya's sudden determination to \"step aside\" and\nmake way for their happiness. But he could not make up his mind to open\nhis heart to them as before, and tell them about \"the queen of his soul.\"\nHe disliked speaking of her before these chilly persons \"who were\nfastening on him like bugs.\" And so in response to their reiterated\nquestions he answered briefly and abruptly:\n\n\"Well, I made up my mind to kill myself. What had I left to live for? That\nquestion stared me in the face. Her first rightful lover had come back,\nthe man who wronged her but who'd hurried back to offer his love, after\nfive years, and atone for the wrong with marriage.... So I knew it was all\nover for me.... And behind me disgrace, and that blood--Grigory's.... What\nhad I to live for? So I went to redeem the pistols I had pledged, to load\nthem and put a bullet in my brain to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And a grand feast the night before?\"\n\n\"Yes, a grand feast the night before. Damn it all, gentlemen! Do make\nhaste and finish it. I meant to shoot myself not far from here, beyond the\nvillage, and I'd planned to do it at five o'clock in the morning. And I\nhad a note in my pocket already. I wrote it at Perhotin's when I loaded my\npistols. Here's the letter. Read it! It's not for you I tell it,\" he added\ncontemptuously. He took it from his waistcoat pocket and flung it on the\ntable. The lawyers read it with curiosity, and, as is usual, added it to\nthe papers connected with the case.\n\n\"And you didn't even think of washing your hands at Perhotin's? You were\nnot afraid then of arousing suspicion?\"\n\n\"What suspicion? Suspicion or not, I should have galloped here just the\nsame, and shot myself at five o'clock, and you wouldn't have been in time\nto do anything. If it hadn't been for what's happened to my father, you\nwould have known nothing about it, and wouldn't have come here. Oh, it's\nthe devil's doing. It was the devil murdered father, it was through the\ndevil that you found it out so soon. How did you manage to get here so\nquick? It's marvelous, a dream!\"\n\n\"Mr. Perhotin informed us that when you came to him, you held in your\nhands ... your blood-stained hands ... your money ... a lot of money ... a\nbundle of hundred-rouble notes, and that his servant-boy saw it too.\"\n\n\"That's true, gentlemen. I remember it was so.\"\n\n\"Now, there's one little point presents itself. Can you inform us,\"\nNikolay Parfenovitch began, with extreme gentleness, \"where did you get so\nmuch money all of a sudden, when it appears from the facts, from the\nreckoning of time, that you had not been home?\"\n\nThe prosecutor's brows contracted at the question being asked so plainly,\nbut he did not interrupt Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"No, I didn't go home,\" answered Mitya, apparently perfectly composed, but\nlooking at the floor.\n\n\"Allow me then to repeat my question,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch went on as\nthough creeping up to the subject. \"Where were you able to procure such a\nsum all at once, when by your own confession, at five o'clock the same day\nyou--\"\n\n\"I was in want of ten roubles and pledged my pistols with Perhotin, and\nthen went to Madame Hohlakov to borrow three thousand which she wouldn't\ngive me, and so on, and all the rest of it,\" Mitya interrupted sharply.\n\"Yes, gentlemen, I was in want of it, and suddenly thousands turned up,\neh? Do you know, gentlemen, you're both afraid now 'what if he won't tell\nus where he got it?' That's just how it is. I'm not going to tell you,\ngentlemen. You've guessed right. You'll never know,\" said Mitya, chipping\nout each word with extraordinary determination. The lawyers were silent\nfor a moment.\n\n\"You must understand, Mr. Karamazov, that it is of vital importance for us\nto know,\" said Nikolay Parfenovitch, softly and suavely.\n\n\"I understand; but still I won't tell you.\"\n\nThe prosecutor, too, intervened, and again reminded the prisoner that he\nwas at liberty to refuse to answer questions, if he thought it to his\ninterest, and so on. But in view of the damage he might do himself by his\nsilence, especially in a case of such importance as--\n\n\"And so on, gentlemen, and so on. Enough! I've heard that rigmarole\nbefore,\" Mitya interrupted again. \"I can see for myself how important it\nis, and that this is the vital point, and still I won't say.\"\n\n\"What is it to us? It's not our business, but yours. You are doing\nyourself harm,\" observed Nikolay Parfenovitch nervously.\n\n\"You see, gentlemen, joking apart\"--Mitya lifted his eyes and looked firmly\nat them both--\"I had an inkling from the first that we should come to\nloggerheads at this point. But at first when I began to give my evidence,\nit was all still far away and misty; it was all floating, and I was so\nsimple that I began with the supposition of mutual confidence existing\nbetween us. Now I can see for myself that such confidence is out of the\nquestion, for in any case we were bound to come to this cursed stumbling-\nblock. And now we've come to it! It's impossible and there's an end of it!\nBut I don't blame you. You can't believe it all simply on my word. I\nunderstand that, of course.\"\n\nHe relapsed into gloomy silence.\n\n\"Couldn't you, without abandoning your resolution to be silent about the\nchief point, could you not, at the same time, give us some slight hint as\nto the nature of the motives which are strong enough to induce you to\nrefuse to answer, at a crisis so full of danger to you?\"\n\nMitya smiled mournfully, almost dreamily.\n\n\"I'm much more good-natured than you think, gentlemen. I'll tell you the\nreason why and give you that hint, though you don't deserve it. I won't\nspeak of that, gentlemen, because it would be a stain on my honor. The\nanswer to the question where I got the money would expose me to far\ngreater disgrace than the murder and robbing of my father, if I had\nmurdered and robbed him. That's why I can't tell you. I can't for fear of\ndisgrace. What, gentlemen, are you going to write that down?\"\n\n\"Yes, we'll write it down,\" lisped Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"You ought not to write that down about 'disgrace.' I only told you that\nin the goodness of my heart. I needn't have told you. I made you a present\nof it, so to speak, and you pounce upon it at once. Oh, well, write--write\nwhat you like,\" he concluded, with scornful disgust. \"I'm not afraid of\nyou and I can still hold up my head before you.\"\n\n\"And can't you tell us the nature of that disgrace?\" Nikolay Parfenovitch\nhazarded.\n\nThe prosecutor frowned darkly.\n\n\"No, no, _c'est fini_, don't trouble yourselves. It's not worth while\nsoiling one's hands. I have soiled myself enough through you as it is.\nYou're not worth it--no one is ... Enough, gentlemen. I'm not going on.\"\n\nThis was said too peremptorily. Nikolay Parfenovitch did not insist\nfurther, but from Ippolit Kirillovitch's eyes he saw that he had not given\nup hope.\n\n\"Can you not, at least, tell us what sum you had in your hands when you\nwent into Mr. Perhotin's--how many roubles exactly?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you that.\"\n\n\"You spoke to Mr. Perhotin, I believe, of having received three thousand\nfrom Madame Hohlakov.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I did. Enough, gentlemen. I won't say how much I had.\"\n\n\"Will you be so good then as to tell us how you came here and what you\nhave done since you arrived?\"\n\n\"Oh! you might ask the people here about that. But I'll tell you if you\nlike.\"\n\nHe proceeded to do so, but we won't repeat his story. He told it dryly and\ncurtly. Of the raptures of his love he said nothing, but told them that he\nabandoned his determination to shoot himself, owing to \"new factors in the\ncase.\" He told the story without going into motives or details. And this\ntime the lawyers did not worry him much. It was obvious that there was no\nessential point of interest to them here.\n\n\"We shall verify all that. We will come back to it during the examination\nof the witnesses, which will, of course, take place in your presence,\"\nsaid Nikolay Parfenovitch in conclusion. \"And now allow me to request you\nto lay on the table everything in your possession, especially all the\nmoney you still have about you.\"\n\n\"My money, gentlemen? Certainly. I understand that that is necessary. I'm\nsurprised, indeed, that you haven't inquired about it before. It's true I\ncouldn't get away anywhere. I'm sitting here where I can be seen. But\nhere's my money--count it--take it. That's all, I think.\"\n\nHe turned it all out of his pockets; even the small change--two pieces of\ntwenty copecks--he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket. They counted the\nmoney, which amounted to eight hundred and thirty-six roubles, and forty\ncopecks.\n\n\"And is that all?\" asked the investigating lawyer.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You stated just now in your evidence that you spent three hundred roubles\nat Plotnikovs'. You gave Perhotin ten, your driver twenty, here you lost\ntwo hundred, then....\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch reckoned it all up. Mitya helped him readily. They\nrecollected every farthing and included it in the reckoning. Nikolay\nParfenovitch hurriedly added up the total.\n\n\"With this eight hundred you must have had about fifteen hundred at\nfirst?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" snapped Mitya.\n\n\"How is it they all assert there was much more?\"\n\n\"Let them assert it.\"\n\n\"But you asserted it yourself.\"\n\n\"Yes, I did, too.\"\n\n\"We will compare all this with the evidence of other persons not yet\nexamined. Don't be anxious about your money. It will be properly taken\ncare of and be at your disposal at the conclusion of ... what is beginning\n... if it appears, or, so to speak, is proved that you have undisputed\nright to it. Well, and now....\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch suddenly got up, and informed Mitya firmly that it\nwas his duty and obligation to conduct a minute and thorough search \"of\nyour clothes and everything else....\"\n\n\"By all means, gentlemen. I'll turn out all my pockets, if you like.\"\n\nAnd he did, in fact, begin turning out his pockets.\n\n\"It will be necessary to take off your clothes, too.\"\n\n\"What! Undress? Ugh! Damn it! Won't you search me as I am! Can't you?\"\n\n\"It's utterly impossible, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You must take off your\nclothes.\"\n\n\"As you like,\" Mitya submitted gloomily; \"only, please, not here, but\nbehind the curtains. Who will search them?\"\n\n\"Behind the curtains, of course.\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch bent his head in assent. His small face wore an\nexpression of peculiar solemnity.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. The Prosecutor Catches Mitya\n\n\nSomething utterly unexpected and amazing to Mitya followed. He could\nnever, even a minute before, have conceived that any one could behave like\nthat to him, Mitya Karamazov. What was worst of all, there was something\nhumiliating in it, and on their side something \"supercilious and\nscornful.\" It was nothing to take off his coat, but he was asked to\nundress further, or rather not asked but \"commanded,\" he quite understood\nthat. From pride and contempt he submitted without a word. Several\npeasants accompanied the lawyers and remained on the same side of the\ncurtain. \"To be ready if force is required,\" thought Mitya, \"and perhaps\nfor some other reason, too.\"\n\n\"Well, must I take off my shirt, too?\" he asked sharply, but Nikolay\nParfenovitch did not answer. He was busily engaged with the prosecutor in\nexamining the coat, the trousers, the waistcoat and the cap; and it was\nevident that they were both much interested in the scrutiny. \"They make no\nbones about it,\" thought Mitya, \"they don't keep up the most elementary\npoliteness.\"\n\n\"I ask you for the second time--need I take off my shirt or not?\" he said,\nstill more sharply and irritably.\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself. We will tell you what to do,\" Nikolay\nParfenovitch said, and his voice was positively peremptory, or so it\nseemed to Mitya.\n\nMeantime a consultation was going on in undertones between the lawyers.\nThere turned out to be on the coat, especially on the left side at the\nback, a huge patch of blood, dry, and still stiff. There were bloodstains\non the trousers, too. Nikolay Parfenovitch, moreover, in the presence of\nthe peasant witnesses, passed his fingers along the collar, the cuffs, and\nall the seams of the coat and trousers, obviously looking for\nsomething--money, of course. He didn't even hide from Mitya his suspicion\nthat he was capable of sewing money up in his clothes.\n\n\"He treats me not as an officer but as a thief,\" Mitya muttered to\nhimself. They communicated their ideas to one another with amazing\nfrankness. The secretary, for instance, who was also behind the curtain,\nfussing about and listening, called Nikolay Parfenovitch's attention to\nthe cap, which they were also fingering.\n\n\"You remember Gridyenko, the copying-clerk,\" observed the secretary. \"Last\nsummer he received the wages of the whole office, and pretended to have\nlost the money when he was drunk. And where was it found? Why, in just\nsuch pipings in his cap. The hundred-rouble notes were screwed up in\nlittle rolls and sewed in the piping.\"\n\nBoth the lawyers remembered Gridyenko's case perfectly, and so laid aside\nMitya's cap, and decided that all his clothes must be more thoroughly\nexamined later.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" cried Nikolay Parfenovitch, suddenly, noticing that the right\ncuff of Mitya's shirt was turned in, and covered with blood, \"excuse me,\nwhat's that, blood?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Mitya jerked out.\n\n\"That is, what blood? ... and why is the cuff turned in?\"\n\nMitya told him how he had got the sleeve stained with blood looking after\nGrigory, and had turned it inside when he was washing his hands at\nPerhotin's.\n\n\"You must take off your shirt, too. That's very important as material\nevidence.\"\n\nMitya flushed red and flew into a rage.\n\n\"What, am I to stay naked?\" he shouted.\n\n\"Don't disturb yourself. We will arrange something. And meanwhile take off\nyour socks.\"\n\n\"You're not joking? Is that really necessary?\" Mitya's eyes flashed.\n\n\"We are in no mood for joking,\" answered Nikolay Parfenovitch sternly.\n\n\"Well, if I must--\" muttered Mitya, and sitting down on the bed, he took\noff his socks. He felt unbearably awkward. All were clothed, while he was\nnaked, and strange to say, when he was undressed he felt somehow guilty in\ntheir presence, and was almost ready to believe himself that he was\ninferior to them, and that now they had a perfect right to despise him.\n\n\"When all are undressed, one is somehow not ashamed, but when one's the\nonly one undressed and everybody is looking, it's degrading,\" he kept\nrepeating to himself, again and again. \"It's like a dream, I've sometimes\ndreamed of being in such degrading positions.\" It was a misery to him to\ntake off his socks. They were very dirty, and so were his underclothes,\nand now every one could see it. And what was worse, he disliked his feet.\nAll his life he had thought both his big toes hideous. He particularly\nloathed the coarse, flat, crooked nail on the right one, and now they\nwould all see it. Feeling intolerably ashamed made him, at once and\nintentionally, rougher. He pulled off his shirt, himself.\n\n\"Would you like to look anywhere else if you're not ashamed to?\"\n\n\"No, there's no need to, at present.\"\n\n\"Well, am I to stay naked like this?\" he added savagely.\n\n\"Yes, that can't be helped for the time.... Kindly sit down here for a\nwhile. You can wrap yourself in a quilt from the bed, and I ... I'll see\nto all this.\"\n\nAll the things were shown to the witnesses. The report of the search was\ndrawn up, and at last Nikolay Parfenovitch went out, and the clothes were\ncarried out after him. Ippolit Kirillovitch went out, too. Mitya was left\nalone with the peasants, who stood in silence, never taking their eyes off\nhim. Mitya wrapped himself up in the quilt. He felt cold. His bare feet\nstuck out, and he couldn't pull the quilt over so as to cover them.\nNikolay Parfenovitch seemed to be gone a long time, \"an insufferable\ntime.\" \"He thinks of me as a puppy,\" thought Mitya, gnashing his teeth.\n\"That rotten prosecutor has gone, too, contemptuous no doubt, it disgusts\nhim to see me naked!\"\n\nMitya imagined, however, that his clothes would be examined and returned\nto him. But what was his indignation when Nikolay Parfenovitch came back\nwith quite different clothes, brought in behind him by a peasant.\n\n\"Here are clothes for you,\" he observed airily, seeming well satisfied\nwith the success of his mission. \"Mr. Kalganov has kindly provided these\nfor this unusual emergency, as well as a clean shirt. Luckily he had them\nall in his trunk. You can keep your own socks and underclothes.\"\n\nMitya flew into a passion.\n\n\"I won't have other people's clothes!\" he shouted menacingly, \"give me my\nown!\"\n\n\"It's impossible!\"\n\n\"Give me my own. Damn Kalganov and his clothes, too!\"\n\nIt was a long time before they could persuade him. But they succeeded\nsomehow in quieting him down. They impressed upon him that his clothes,\nbeing stained with blood, must be \"included with the other material\nevidence,\" and that they \"had not even the right to let him have them now\n... taking into consideration the possible outcome of the case.\" Mitya at\nlast understood this. He subsided into gloomy silence and hurriedly\ndressed himself. He merely observed, as he put them on, that the clothes\nwere much better than his old ones, and that he disliked \"gaining by the\nchange.\" The coat was, besides, \"ridiculously tight. Am I to be dressed up\nlike a fool ... for your amusement?\"\n\nThey urged upon him again that he was exaggerating, that Kalganov was only\na little taller, so that only the trousers might be a little too long. But\nthe coat turned out to be really tight in the shoulders.\n\n\"Damn it all! I can hardly button it,\" Mitya grumbled. \"Be so good as to\ntell Mr. Kalganov from me that I didn't ask for his clothes, and it's not\nmy doing that they've dressed me up like a clown.\"\n\n\"He understands that, and is sorry ... I mean, not sorry to lend you his\nclothes, but sorry about all this business,\" mumbled Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"Confound his sorrow! Well, where now? Am I to go on sitting here?\"\n\nHe was asked to go back to the \"other room.\" Mitya went in, scowling with\nanger, and trying to avoid looking at any one. Dressed in another man's\nclothes he felt himself disgraced, even in the eyes of the peasants, and\nof Trifon Borissovitch, whose face appeared, for some reason, in the\ndoorway, and vanished immediately. \"He's come to look at me dressed up,\"\nthought Mitya. He sat down on the same chair as before. He had an absurd\nnightmarish feeling, as though he were out of his mind.\n\n\"Well, what now? Are you going to flog me? That's all that's left for\nyou,\" he said, clenching his teeth and addressing the prosecutor. He would\nnot turn to Nikolay Parfenovitch, as though he disdained to speak to him.\n\n\"He looked too closely at my socks, and turned them inside out on purpose\nto show every one how dirty they were--the scoundrel!\"\n\n\"Well, now we must proceed to the examination of witnesses,\" observed\nNikolay Parfenovitch, as though in reply to Mitya's question.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the prosecutor thoughtfully, as though reflecting on\nsomething.\n\n\"We've done what we could in your interest, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" Nikolay\nParfenovitch went on, \"but having received from you such an uncompromising\nrefusal to explain to us the source from which you obtained the money\nfound upon you, we are, at the present moment--\"\n\n\"What is the stone in your ring?\" Mitya interrupted suddenly, as though\nawakening from a reverie. He pointed to one of the three large rings\nadorning Nikolay Parfenovitch's right hand.\n\n\"Ring?\" repeated Nikolay Parfenovitch with surprise.\n\n\"Yes, that one ... on your middle finger, with the little veins in it,\nwhat stone is that?\" Mitya persisted, like a peevish child.\n\n\"That's a smoky topaz,\" said Nikolay Parfenovitch, smiling. \"Would you\nlike to look at it? I'll take it off ...\"\n\n\"No, don't take it off,\" cried Mitya furiously, suddenly waking up, and\nangry with himself. \"Don't take it off ... there's no need.... Damn it!...\nGentlemen, you've sullied my heart! Can you suppose that I would conceal\nit from you, if I had really killed my father, that I would shuffle, lie,\nand hide myself? No, that's not like Dmitri Karamazov, that he couldn't\ndo, and if I were guilty, I swear I shouldn't have waited for your coming,\nor for the sunrise as I meant at first, but should have killed myself\nbefore this, without waiting for the dawn! I know that about myself now. I\ncouldn't have learnt so much in twenty years as I've found out in this\naccursed night!... And should I have been like this on this night, and at\nthis moment, sitting with you, could I have talked like this, could I have\nmoved like this, could I have looked at you and at the world like this, if\nI had really been the murderer of my father, when the very thought of\nhaving accidentally killed Grigory gave me no peace all night--not from\nfear--oh, not simply from fear of your punishment! The disgrace of it! And\nyou expect me to be open with such scoffers as you, who see nothing and\nbelieve in nothing, blind moles and scoffers, and to tell you another\nnasty thing I've done, another disgrace, even if that would save me from\nyour accusation! No, better Siberia! The man who opened the door to my\nfather and went in at that door, he killed him, he robbed him. Who was he?\nI'm racking my brains and can't think who. But I can tell you it was not\nDmitri Karamazov, and that's all I can tell you, and that's enough,\nenough, leave me alone.... Exile me, punish me, but don't bother me any\nmore. I'll say no more. Call your witnesses!\"\n\nMitya uttered his sudden monologue as though he were determined to be\nabsolutely silent for the future. The prosecutor watched him the whole\ntime and only when he had ceased speaking, observed, as though it were the\nmost ordinary thing, with the most frigid and composed air:\n\n\"Oh, about the open door of which you spoke just now, we may as well\ninform you, by the way, now, of a very interesting piece of evidence of\nthe greatest importance both to you and to us, that has been given us by\nGrigory, the old man you wounded. On his recovery, he clearly and\nemphatically stated, in reply to our questions, that when, on coming out\nto the steps, and hearing a noise in the garden, he made up his mind to go\ninto it through the little gate which stood open, before he noticed you\nrunning, as you have told us already, in the dark from the open window\nwhere you saw your father, he, Grigory, glanced to the left, and, while\nnoticing the open window, observed at the same time, much nearer to him,\nthe door, standing wide open--that door which you have stated to have been\nshut the whole time you were in the garden. I will not conceal from you\nthat Grigory himself confidently affirms and bears witness that you must\nhave run from that door, though, of course, he did not see you do so with\nhis own eyes, since he only noticed you first some distance away in the\ngarden, running towards the fence.\"\n\nMitya had leapt up from his chair half-way through this speech.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" he yelled, in a sudden frenzy, \"it's a barefaced lie. He\ncouldn't have seen the door open because it was shut. He's lying!\"\n\n\"I consider it my duty to repeat that he is firm in his statement. He does\nnot waver. He adheres to it. We've cross-examined him several times.\"\n\n\"Precisely. I have cross-examined him several times,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch\nconfirmed warmly.\n\n\"It's false, false! It's either an attempt to slander me, or the\nhallucination of a madman,\" Mitya still shouted. \"He's simply raving, from\nloss of blood, from the wound. He must have fancied it when he came to....\nHe's raving.\"\n\n\"Yes, but he noticed the open door, not when he came to after his\ninjuries, but before that, as soon as he went into the garden from the\nlodge.\"\n\n\"But it's false, it's false! It can't be so! He's slandering me from\nspite.... He couldn't have seen it ... I didn't come from the door,\"\ngasped Mitya.\n\nThe prosecutor turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and said to him\nimpressively:\n\n\"Confront him with it.\"\n\n\"Do you recognize this object?\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch laid upon the table a large and thick official\nenvelope, on which three seals still remained intact. The envelope was\nempty, and slit open at one end. Mitya stared at it with open eyes.\n\n\"It ... it must be that envelope of my father's, the envelope that\ncontained the three thousand roubles ... and if there's inscribed on it,\nallow me, 'For my little chicken' ... yes--three thousand!\" he shouted, \"do\nyou see, three thousand, do you see?\"\n\n\"Of course, we see. But we didn't find the money in it. It was empty, and\nlying on the floor by the bed, behind the screen.\"\n\nFor some seconds Mitya stood as though thunderstruck.\n\n\"Gentlemen, it's Smerdyakov!\" he shouted suddenly, at the top of his\nvoice. \"It's he who's murdered him! He's robbed him! No one else knew\nwhere the old man hid the envelope. It's Smerdyakov, that's clear, now!\"\n\n\"But you, too, knew of the envelope and that it was under the pillow.\"\n\n\"I never knew it. I've never seen it. This is the first time I've looked\nat it. I'd only heard of it from Smerdyakov.... He was the only one who\nknew where the old man kept it hidden, I didn't know ...\" Mitya was\ncompletely breathless.\n\n\"But you told us yourself that the envelope was under your deceased\nfather's pillow. You especially stated that it was under the pillow, so\nyou must have known it.\"\n\n\"We've got it written down,\" confirmed Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"Nonsense! It's absurd! I'd no idea it was under the pillow. And perhaps\nit wasn't under the pillow at all.... It was just a chance guess that it\nwas under the pillow. What does Smerdyakov say? Have you asked him where\nit was? What does Smerdyakov say? that's the chief point.... And I went\nout of my way to tell lies against myself.... I told you without thinking\nthat it was under the pillow, and now you-- Oh, you know how one says the\nwrong thing, without meaning it. No one knew but Smerdyakov, only\nSmerdyakov, and no one else.... He didn't even tell me where it was! But\nit's his doing, his doing; there's no doubt about it, he murdered him,\nthat's as clear as daylight now,\" Mitya exclaimed more and more\nfrantically, repeating himself incoherently, and growing more and more\nexasperated and excited. \"You must understand that, and arrest him at\nonce.... He must have killed him while I was running away and while\nGrigory was unconscious, that's clear now.... He gave the signal and\nfather opened to him ... for no one but he knew the signal, and without\nthe signal father would never have opened the door....\"\n\n\"But you're again forgetting the circumstance,\" the prosecutor observed,\nstill speaking with the same restraint, though with a note of triumph,\n\"that there was no need to give the signal if the door already stood open\nwhen you were there, while you were in the garden....\"\n\n\"The door, the door,\" muttered Mitya, and he stared speechless at the\nprosecutor. He sank back helpless in his chair. All were silent.\n\n\"Yes, the door!... It's a nightmare! God is against me!\" he exclaimed,\nstaring before him in complete stupefaction.\n\n\"Come, you see,\" the prosecutor went on with dignity, \"and you can judge\nfor yourself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. On the one hand we have the evidence of\nthe open door from which you ran out, a fact which overwhelms you and us.\nOn the other side your incomprehensible, persistent, and, so to speak,\nobdurate silence with regard to the source from which you obtained the\nmoney which was so suddenly seen in your hands, when only three hours\nearlier, on your own showing, you pledged your pistols for the sake of ten\nroubles! In view of all these facts, judge for yourself. What are we to\nbelieve, and what can we depend upon? And don't accuse us of being\n'frigid, cynical, scoffing people,' who are incapable of believing in the\ngenerous impulses of your heart.... Try to enter into our position ...\"\n\nMitya was indescribably agitated. He turned pale.\n\n\"Very well!\" he exclaimed suddenly. \"I will tell you my secret. I'll tell\nyou where I got the money!... I'll reveal my shame, that I may not have to\nblame myself or you hereafter.\"\n\n\"And believe me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" put in Nikolay Parfenovitch, in a\nvoice of almost pathetic delight, \"that every sincere and complete\nconfession on your part at this moment may, later on, have an immense\ninfluence in your favor, and may, indeed, moreover--\"\n\nBut the prosecutor gave him a slight shove under the table, and he checked\nhimself in time. Mitya, it is true, had not heard him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. Mitya's Great Secret. Received With Hisses\n\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he began, still in the same agitation, \"I want to make a full\nconfession: that money was _my own_.\" The lawyers' faces lengthened. That\nwas not at all what they expected.\n\n\"How do you mean?\" faltered Nikolay Parfenovitch, \"when at five o'clock on\nthe same day, from your own confession--\"\n\n\"Damn five o'clock on the same day and my own confession! That's nothing\nto do with it now! That money was my own, my own, that is, stolen by me\n... not mine, I mean, but stolen by me, and it was fifteen hundred\nroubles, and I had it on me all the time, all the time ...\"\n\n\"But where did you get it?\"\n\n\"I took it off my neck, gentlemen, off this very neck ... it was here,\nround my neck, sewn up in a rag, and I'd had it round my neck a long time,\nit's a month since I put it round my neck ... to my shame and disgrace!\"\n\n\"And from whom did you ... appropriate it?\"\n\n\"You mean, 'steal it'? Speak out plainly now. Yes, I consider that I\npractically stole it, but, if you prefer, I 'appropriated it.' I consider\nI stole it. And last night I stole it finally.\"\n\n\"Last night? But you said that it's a month since you ... obtained it?...\"\n\n\"Yes. But not from my father. Not from my father, don't be uneasy. I\ndidn't steal it from my father, but from her. Let me tell you without\ninterrupting. It's hard to do, you know. You see, a month ago, I was sent\nfor by Katerina Ivanovna, formerly my betrothed. Do you know her?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course.\"\n\n\"I know you know her. She's a noble creature, noblest of the noble. But\nshe has hated me ever so long, oh, ever so long ... and hated me with good\nreason, good reason!\"\n\n\"Katerina Ivanovna!\" Nikolay Parfenovitch exclaimed with wonder. The\nprosecutor, too, stared.\n\n\"Oh, don't take her name in vain! I'm a scoundrel to bring her into it.\nYes, I've seen that she hated me ... a long while.... From the very first,\neven that evening at my lodging ... but enough, enough. You're unworthy\neven to know of that. No need of that at all.... I need only tell you that\nshe sent for me a month ago, gave me three thousand roubles to send off to\nher sister and another relation in Moscow (as though she couldn't have\nsent it off herself!) and I ... it was just at that fatal moment in my\nlife when I ... well, in fact, when I'd just come to love another, her,\nshe's sitting down below now, Grushenka. I carried her off here to Mokroe\nthen, and wasted here in two days half that damned three thousand, but the\nother half I kept on me. Well, I've kept that other half, that fifteen\nhundred, like a locket round my neck, but yesterday I undid it, and spent\nit. What's left of it, eight hundred roubles, is in your hands now,\nNikolay Parfenovitch. That's the change out of the fifteen hundred I had\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Excuse me. How's that? Why, when you were here a month ago you spent\nthree thousand, not fifteen hundred, everybody knows that.\"\n\n\"Who knows it? Who counted the money? Did I let any one count it?\"\n\n\"Why, you told every one yourself that you'd spent exactly three\nthousand.\"\n\n\"It's true, I did. I told the whole town so, and the whole town said so.\nAnd here, at Mokroe, too, every one reckoned it was three thousand. Yet I\ndidn't spend three thousand, but fifteen hundred. And the other fifteen\nhundred I sewed into a little bag. That's how it was, gentlemen. That's\nwhere I got that money yesterday....\"\n\n\"This is almost miraculous,\" murmured Nikolay Parfenovitch.\n\n\"Allow me to inquire,\" observed the prosecutor at last, \"have you informed\nany one whatever of this circumstance before, I mean that you had fifteen\nhundred left about you a month ago?\"\n\n\"I told no one.\"\n\n\"That's strange. Do you mean absolutely no one?\"\n\n\"Absolutely no one. No one and nobody.\"\n\n\"What was your reason for this reticence? What was your motive for making\nsuch a secret of it? To be more precise: You have told us at last your\nsecret, in your words, so 'disgraceful,' though in reality--that is, of\ncourse, comparatively speaking--this action, that is, the appropriation of\nthree thousand roubles belonging to some one else, and, of course, only\nfor a time is, in my view at least, only an act of the greatest\nrecklessness and not so disgraceful, when one takes into consideration\nyour character.... Even admitting that it was an action in the highest\ndegree discreditable, still, discreditable is not 'disgraceful.'... Many\npeople have already guessed, during this last month, about the three\nthousand of Katerina Ivanovna's, that you have spent, and I heard the\nlegend myself, apart from your confession.... Mihail Makarovitch, for\ninstance, had heard it, too, so that indeed, it was scarcely a legend, but\nthe gossip of the whole town. There are indications, too, if I am not\nmistaken, that you confessed this yourself to some one, I mean that the\nmoney was Katerina Ivanovna's, and so, it's extremely surprising to me\nthat hitherto, that is, up to the present moment, you have made such an\nextraordinary secret of the fifteen hundred you say you put by, apparently\nconnecting a feeling of positive horror with that secret.... It's not easy\nto believe that it could cost you such distress to confess such a\nsecret.... You cried out, just now, that Siberia would be better than\nconfessing it ...\"\n\nThe prosecutor ceased speaking. He was provoked. He did not conceal his\nvexation, which was almost anger, and gave vent to all his accumulated\nspleen, disconnectedly and incoherently, without choosing words.\n\n\"It's not the fifteen hundred that's the disgrace, but that I put it apart\nfrom the rest of the three thousand,\" said Mitya firmly.\n\n\"Why?\" smiled the prosecutor irritably. \"What is there disgraceful, to\nyour thinking, in your having set aside half of the three thousand you had\ndiscreditably, if you prefer, 'disgracefully,' appropriated? Your taking\nthe three thousand is more important than what you did with it. And by the\nway, why did you do that--why did you set apart that half, for what\npurpose, for what object did you do it? Can you explain that to us?\"\n\n\"Oh, gentlemen, the purpose is the whole point!\" cried Mitya. \"I put it\naside because I was vile, that is, because I was calculating, and to be\ncalculating in such a case is vile ... and that vileness has been going on\na whole month.\"\n\n\"It's incomprehensible.\"\n\n\"I wonder at you. But I'll make it clearer. Perhaps it really is\nincomprehensible. You see, attend to what I say. I appropriate three\nthousand entrusted to my honor, I spend it on a spree, say I spend it all,\nand next morning I go to her and say, 'Katya, I've done wrong, I've\nsquandered your three thousand,' well, is that right? No, it's not\nright--it's dishonest and cowardly, I'm a beast, with no more self-control\nthan a beast, that's so, isn't it? But still I'm not a thief? Not a\ndownright thief, you'll admit! I squandered it, but I didn't steal it. Now\na second, rather more favorable alternative: follow me carefully, or I may\nget confused again--my head's going round--and so, for the second\nalternative: I spend here only fifteen hundred out of the three thousand,\nthat is, only half. Next day I go and take that half to her: 'Katya, take\nthis fifteen hundred from me, I'm a low beast, and an untrustworthy\nscoundrel, for I've wasted half the money, and I shall waste this, too, so\nkeep me from temptation!' Well, what of that alternative? I should be a\nbeast and a scoundrel, and whatever you like; but not a thief, not\naltogether a thief, or I should not have brought back what was left, but\nhave kept that, too. She would see at once that since I brought back half,\nI should pay back what I'd spent, that I should never give up trying to,\nthat I should work to get it and pay it back. So in that case I should be\na scoundrel, but not a thief, you may say what you like, not a thief!\"\n\n\"I admit that there is a certain distinction,\" said the prosecutor, with a\ncold smile. \"But it's strange that you see such a vital difference.\"\n\n\"Yes, I see a vital difference! Every man may be a scoundrel, and perhaps\nevery man is a scoundrel, but not every one can be a thief, it takes an\narch-scoundrel to be that. Oh, of course, I don't know how to make these\nfine distinctions ... but a thief is lower than a scoundrel, that's my\nconviction. Listen, I carry the money about me a whole month, I may make\nup my mind to give it back to-morrow, and I'm a scoundrel no longer, but I\ncannot make up my mind, you see, though I'm making up my mind every day,\nand every day spurring myself on to do it, and yet for a whole month I\ncan't bring myself to it, you see. Is that right to your thinking, is that\nright?\"\n\n\"Certainly, that's not right, that I can quite understand, and that I\ndon't dispute,\" answered the prosecutor with reserve. \"And let us give up\nall discussion of these subtleties and distinctions, and, if you will be\nso kind, get back to the point. And the point is, that you have still not\ntold us, altogether we've asked you, why, in the first place, you halved\nthe money, squandering one half and hiding the other? For what purpose\nexactly did you hide it, what did you mean to do with that fifteen\nhundred? I insist upon that question, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course!\" cried Mitya, striking himself on the forehead; \"forgive\nme, I'm worrying you, and am not explaining the chief point, or you'd\nunderstand in a minute, for it's just the motive of it that's the\ndisgrace! You see, it was all to do with the old man, my dead father. He\nwas always pestering Agrafena Alexandrovna, and I was jealous; I thought\nthen that she was hesitating between me and him. So I kept thinking every\nday, suppose she were to make up her mind all of a sudden, suppose she\nwere to leave off tormenting me, and were suddenly to say to me, 'I love\nyou, not him; take me to the other end of the world.' And I'd only forty\ncopecks; how could I take her away, what could I do? Why, I'd be lost. You\nsee, I didn't know her then, I didn't understand her, I thought she wanted\nmoney, and that she wouldn't forgive my poverty. And so I fiendishly\ncounted out the half of that three thousand, sewed it up, calculating on\nit, sewed it up before I was drunk, and after I had sewn it up, I went off\nto get drunk on the rest. Yes, that was base. Do you understand now?\"\n\nBoth the lawyers laughed aloud.\n\n\"I should have called it sensible and moral on your part not to have\nsquandered it all,\" chuckled Nikolay Parfenovitch, \"for after all what\ndoes it amount to?\"\n\n\"Why, that I stole it, that's what it amounts to! Oh, God, you horrify me\nby not understanding! Every day that I had that fifteen hundred sewn up\nround my neck, every day and every hour I said to myself, 'You're a thief!\nyou're a thief!' Yes, that's why I've been so savage all this month,\nthat's why I fought in the tavern, that's why I attacked my father, it was\nbecause I felt I was a thief. I couldn't make up my mind, I didn't dare\neven to tell Alyosha, my brother, about that fifteen hundred: I felt I was\nsuch a scoundrel and such a pickpocket. But, do you know, while I carried\nit I said to myself at the same time every hour: 'No, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\nyou may yet not be a thief.' Why? Because I might go next day and pay back\nthat fifteen hundred to Katya. And only yesterday I made up my mind to\ntear my amulet off my neck, on my way from Fenya's to Perhotin. I hadn't\nbeen able till that moment to bring myself to it. And it was only when I\ntore it off that I became a downright thief, a thief and a dishonest man\nfor the rest of my life. Why? Because, with that I destroyed, too, my\ndream of going to Katya and saying, 'I'm a scoundrel, but not a thief!' Do\nyou understand now? Do you understand?\"\n\n\"What was it made you decide to do it yesterday?\" Nikolay Parfenovitch\ninterrupted.\n\n\"Why? It's absurd to ask. Because I had condemned myself to die at five\no'clock this morning, here, at dawn. I thought it made no difference\nwhether I died a thief or a man of honor. But I see it's not so, it turns\nout that it does make a difference. Believe me, gentlemen, what has\ntortured me most during this night has not been the thought that I'd\nkilled the old servant, and that I was in danger of Siberia just when my\nlove was being rewarded, and Heaven was open to me again. Oh, that did\ntorture me, but not in the same way: not so much as the damned\nconsciousness that I had torn that damned money off my breast at last and\nspent it, and had become a downright thief! Oh, gentlemen, I tell you\nagain, with a bleeding heart, I have learnt a great deal this night. I\nhave learnt that it's not only impossible to live a scoundrel, but\nimpossible to die a scoundrel.... No, gentlemen, one must die honest....\"\n\nMitya was pale. His face had a haggard and exhausted look, in spite of his\nbeing intensely excited.\n\n\"I am beginning to understand you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" the prosecutor\nsaid slowly, in a soft and almost compassionate tone. \"But all this, if\nyou'll excuse my saying so, is a matter of nerves, in my opinion ... your\noverwrought nerves, that's what it is. And why, for instance, should you\nnot have saved yourself such misery for almost a month, by going and\nreturning that fifteen hundred to the lady who had entrusted it to you?\nAnd why could you not have explained things to her, and in view of your\nposition, which you describe as being so awful, why could you not have had\nrecourse to the plan which would so naturally have occurred to one's mind,\nthat is, after honorably confessing your errors to her, why could you not\nhave asked her to lend you the sum needed for your expenses, which, with\nher generous heart, she would certainly not have refused you in your\ndistress, especially if it had been with some guarantee, or even on the\nsecurity you offered to the merchant Samsonov, and to Madame Hohlakov? I\nsuppose you still regard that security as of value?\"\n\nMitya suddenly crimsoned.\n\n\"Surely you don't think me such an out and out scoundrel as that? You\ncan't be speaking in earnest?\" he said, with indignation, looking the\nprosecutor straight in the face, and seeming unable to believe his ears.\n\n\"I assure you I'm in earnest.... Why do you imagine I'm not serious?\" It\nwas the prosecutor's turn to be surprised.\n\n\"Oh, how base that would have been! Gentlemen, do you know, you are\ntorturing me! Let me tell you everything, so be it. I'll confess all my\ninfernal wickedness, but to put you to shame, and you'll be surprised\nyourselves at the depth of ignominy to which a medley of human passions\ncan sink. You must know that I already had that plan myself, that plan you\nspoke of, just now, prosecutor! Yes, gentlemen, I, too, have had that\nthought in my mind all this current month, so that I was on the point of\ndeciding to go to Katya--I was mean enough for that. But to go to her, to\ntell her of my treachery, and for that very treachery, to carry it out,\nfor the expenses of that treachery, to beg for money from her, Katya (to\nbeg, do you hear, to beg), and go straight from her to run away with the\nother, the rival, who hated and insulted her--to think of it! You must be\nmad, prosecutor!\"\n\n\"Mad I am not, but I did speak in haste, without thinking ... of that\nfeminine jealousy ... if there could be jealousy in this case, as you\nassert ... yes, perhaps there is something of the kind,\" said the\nprosecutor, smiling.\n\n\"But that would have been so infamous!\" Mitya brought his fist down on the\ntable fiercely. \"That would have been filthy beyond everything! Yes, do\nyou know that she might have given me that money, yes, and she would have\ngiven it, too; she'd have been certain to give it, to be revenged on me,\nshe'd have given it to satisfy her vengeance, to show her contempt for me,\nfor hers is an infernal nature, too, and she's a woman of great wrath. I'd\nhave taken the money, too, oh, I should have taken it; I should have taken\nit, and then, for the rest of my life ... oh, God! Forgive me, gentlemen,\nI'm making such an outcry because I've had that thought in my mind so\nlately, only the day before yesterday, that night when I was having all\nthat bother with Lyagavy, and afterwards yesterday, all day yesterday, I\nremember, till that happened ...\"\n\n\"Till what happened?\" put in Nikolay Parfenovitch inquisitively, but Mitya\ndid not hear it.\n\n\"I have made you an awful confession,\" Mitya said gloomily in conclusion.\n\"You must appreciate it, and what's more, you must respect it, for if not,\nif that leaves your souls untouched, then you've simply no respect for me,\ngentlemen, I tell you that, and I shall die of shame at having confessed\nit to men like you! Oh, I shall shoot myself! Yes, I see, I see already\nthat you don't believe me. What, you want to write that down, too?\" he\ncried in dismay.\n\n\"Yes, what you said just now,\" said Nikolay Parfenovitch, looking at him\nin surprise, \"that is, that up to the last hour you were still\ncontemplating going to Katerina Ivanovna to beg that sum from her.... I\nassure you, that's a very important piece of evidence for us, Dmitri\nFyodorovitch, I mean for the whole case ... and particularly for you,\nparticularly important for you.\"\n\n\"Have mercy, gentlemen!\" Mitya flung up his hands. \"Don't write that,\nanyway; have some shame. Here I've torn my heart asunder before you, and\nyou seize the opportunity and are fingering the wounds in both halves....\nOh, my God!\"\n\nIn despair he hid his face in his hands.\n\n\"Don't worry yourself so, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" observed the prosecutor,\n\"everything that is written down will be read over to you afterwards, and\nwhat you don't agree to we'll alter as you like. But now I'll ask you one\nlittle question for the second time. Has no one, absolutely no one, heard\nfrom you of that money you sewed up? That, I must tell you, is almost\nimpossible to believe.\"\n\n\"No one, no one, I told you so before, or you've not understood anything!\nLet me alone!\"\n\n\"Very well, this matter is bound to be explained, and there's plenty of\ntime for it, but meantime, consider; we have perhaps a dozen witnesses\nthat you yourself spread it abroad, and even shouted almost everywhere\nabout the three thousand you'd spent here; three thousand, not fifteen\nhundred. And now, too, when you got hold of the money you had yesterday,\nyou gave many people to understand that you had brought three thousand\nwith you.\"\n\n\"You've got not dozens, but hundreds of witnesses, two hundred witnesses,\ntwo hundred have heard it, thousands have heard it!\" cried Mitya.\n\n\"Well, you see, all bear witness to it. And the word _all_ means\nsomething.\"\n\n\"It means nothing. I talked rot, and every one began repeating it.\"\n\n\"But what need had you to 'talk rot,' as you call it?\"\n\n\"The devil knows. From bravado perhaps ... at having wasted so much\nmoney.... To try and forget that money I had sewn up, perhaps ... yes,\nthat was why ... damn it ... how often will you ask me that question?\nWell, I told a fib, and that was the end of it, once I'd said it, I didn't\ncare to correct it. What does a man tell lies for sometimes?\"\n\n\"That's very difficult to decide, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, what makes a man\ntell lies,\" observed the prosecutor impressively. \"Tell me, though, was\nthat 'amulet,' as you call it, on your neck, a big thing?\"\n\n\"No, not big.\"\n\n\"How big, for instance?\"\n\n\"If you fold a hundred-rouble note in half, that would be the size.\"\n\n\"You'd better show us the remains of it. You must have them somewhere.\"\n\n\"Damnation, what nonsense! I don't know where they are.\"\n\n\"But excuse me: where and when did you take it off your neck? According to\nyour own evidence you didn't go home.\"\n\n\"When I was going from Fenya's to Perhotin's, on the way I tore it off my\nneck and took out the money.\"\n\n\"In the dark?\"\n\n\"What should I want a light for? I did it with my fingers in one minute.\"\n\n\"Without scissors, in the street?\"\n\n\"In the market-place I think it was. Why scissors? It was an old rag. It\nwas torn in a minute.\"\n\n\"Where did you put it afterwards?\"\n\n\"I dropped it there.\"\n\n\"Where was it, exactly?\"\n\n\"In the market-place, in the market-place! The devil knows whereabouts.\nWhat do you want to know for?\"\n\n\"That's extremely important, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. It would be material\nevidence in your favor. How is it you don't understand that? Who helped\nyou to sew it up a month ago?\"\n\n\"No one helped me. I did it myself.\"\n\n\"Can you sew?\"\n\n\"A soldier has to know how to sew. No knowledge was needed to do that.\"\n\n\"Where did you get the material, that is, the rag in which you sewed the\nmoney?\"\n\n\"Are you laughing at me?\"\n\n\"Not at all. And we are in no mood for laughing, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"I don't know where I got the rag from--somewhere, I suppose.\"\n\n\"I should have thought you couldn't have forgotten it?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I don't remember. I might have torn a bit off my linen.\"\n\n\"That's very interesting. We might find in your lodgings to-morrow the\nshirt or whatever it is from which you tore the rag. What sort of rag was\nit, cloth or linen?\"\n\n\"Goodness only knows what it was. Wait a bit.... I believe I didn't tear\nit off anything. It was a bit of calico.... I believe I sewed it up in a\ncap of my landlady's.\"\n\n\"In your landlady's cap?\"\n\n\"Yes. I took it from her.\"\n\n\"How did you get it?\"\n\n\"You see, I remember once taking a cap for a rag, perhaps to wipe my pen\non. I took it without asking, because it was a worthless rag. I tore it\nup, and I took the notes and sewed them up in it. I believe it was in that\nvery rag I sewed them. An old piece of calico, washed a thousand times.\"\n\n\"And you remember that for certain now?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether for certain. I think it was in the cap. But, hang\nit, what does it matter?\"\n\n\"In that case your landlady will remember that the thing was lost?\"\n\n\"No, she won't, she didn't miss it. It was an old rag, I tell you, an old\nrag not worth a farthing.\"\n\n\"And where did you get the needle and thread?\"\n\n\"I'll stop now. I won't say any more. Enough of it!\" said Mitya, losing\nhis temper at last.\n\n\"It's strange that you should have so completely forgotten where you threw\nthe pieces in the market-place.\"\n\n\"Give orders for the market-place to be swept to-morrow, and perhaps\nyou'll find it,\" said Mitya, sneering. \"Enough, gentlemen, enough!\" he\ndecided, in an exhausted voice. \"I see you don't believe me! Not for a\nmoment! It's my fault, not yours. I ought not to have been so ready. Why,\nwhy did I degrade myself by confessing my secret to you? It's a joke to\nyou. I see that from your eyes. You led me on to it, prosecutor? Sing a\nhymn of triumph if you can.... Damn you, you torturers!\"\n\nHe bent his head, and hid his face in his hands. The lawyers were silent.\nA minute later he raised his head and looked at them almost vacantly. His\nface now expressed complete, hopeless despair, and he sat mute and passive\nas though hardly conscious of what was happening. In the meantime they had\nto finish what they were about. They had immediately to begin examining\nthe witnesses. It was by now eight o'clock in the morning. The lights had\nbeen extinguished long ago. Mihail Makarovitch and Kalganov, who had been\ncontinually in and out of the room all the while the interrogation had\nbeen going on, had now both gone out again. The lawyers, too, looked very\ntired. It was a wretched morning, the whole sky was overcast, and the rain\nstreamed down in bucketfuls. Mitya gazed blankly out of the window.\n\n\"May I look out of the window?\" he asked Nikolay Parfenovitch, suddenly.\n\n\"Oh, as much as you like,\" the latter replied.\n\nMitya got up and went to the window.... The rain lashed against its little\ngreenish panes. He could see the muddy road just below the house, and\nfarther away, in the rain and mist, a row of poor, black, dismal huts,\nlooking even blacker and poorer in the rain. Mitya thought of \"Phoebus the\ngolden-haired,\" and how he had meant to shoot himself at his first ray.\n\"Perhaps it would be even better on a morning like this,\" he thought with\na smile, and suddenly, flinging his hand downwards, he turned to his\n\"torturers.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" he cried, \"I see that I am lost! But she? Tell me about her,\nI beseech you. Surely she need not be ruined with me? She's innocent, you\nknow, she was out of her mind when she cried last night 'It's all my\nfault!' She's done nothing, nothing! I've been grieving over her all night\nas I sat with you.... Can't you, won't you tell me what you are going to\ndo with her now?\"\n\n\"You can set your mind quite at rest on that score, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\"\nthe prosecutor answered at once, with evident alacrity. \"We have, so far,\nno grounds for interfering with the lady in whom you are so interested. I\ntrust that it may be the same in the later development of the case.... On\nthe contrary, we'll do everything that lies in our power in that matter.\nSet your mind completely at rest.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen, I thank you. I knew that you were honest, straight-forward\npeople in spite of everything. You've taken a load off my heart.... Well,\nwhat are we to do now? I'm ready.\"\n\n\"Well, we ought to make haste. We must pass to examining the witnesses\nwithout delay. That must be done in your presence and therefore--\"\n\n\"Shouldn't we have some tea first?\" interposed Nikolay Parfenovitch, \"I\nthink we've deserved it!\"\n\nThey decided that if tea were ready downstairs (Mihail Makarovitch had, no\ndoubt, gone down to get some) they would have a glass and then \"go on and\non,\" putting off their proper breakfast until a more favorable\nopportunity. Tea really was ready below, and was soon brought up. Mitya at\nfirst refused the glass that Nikolay Parfenovitch politely offered him,\nbut afterwards he asked for it himself and drank it greedily. He looked\nsurprisingly exhausted. It might have been supposed from his Herculean\nstrength that one night of carousing, even accompanied by the most violent\nemotions, could have had little effect on him. But he felt that he could\nhardly hold his head up, and from time to time all the objects about him\nseemed heaving and dancing before his eyes. \"A little more and I shall\nbegin raving,\" he said to himself.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Witnesses. The Babe\n\n\nThe examination of the witnesses began. But we will not continue our story\nin such detail as before. And so we will not dwell on how Nikolay\nParfenovitch impressed on every witness called that he must give his\nevidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he would\nafterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath, how every witness was\ncalled upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so on. We will only\nnote that the point principally insisted upon in the examination was the\nquestion of the three thousand roubles, that is, was the sum spent here,\nat Mokroe, by Mitya on the first occasion, a month before, three thousand\nor fifteen hundred? And again had he spent three thousand or fifteen\nhundred yesterday? Alas, all the evidence given by every one turned out to\nbe against Mitya. There was not one in his favor, and some witnesses\nintroduced new, almost crushing facts, in contradiction of his, Mitya's,\nstory.\n\nThe first witness examined was Trifon Borissovitch. He was not in the\nleast abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the contrary, an\nair of stern and severe indignation with the accused, which gave him an\nappearance of truthfulness and personal dignity. He spoke little, and with\nreserve, waited to be questioned, answered precisely and deliberately.\nFirmly and unhesitatingly he bore witness that the sum spent a month\nbefore could not have been less than three thousand, that all the peasants\nabout here would testify that they had heard the sum of three thousand\nmentioned by Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself. \"What a lot of money he flung\naway on the gypsy girls alone! He wasted a thousand, I daresay, on them\nalone.\"\n\n\"I don't believe I gave them five hundred,\" was Mitya's gloomy comment on\nthis. \"It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time, but I was\ndrunk....\"\n\nMitya was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He listened\ngloomily, with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he would say:\n\n\"Oh, say what you like. It makes no difference now.\"\n\n\"More than a thousand went on them, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,\" retorted Trifon\nBorissovitch firmly. \"You flung it about at random and they picked it up.\nThey were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers, they've been driven\naway from here, or maybe they'd bear witness themselves how much they got\nfrom you. I saw the sum in your hands, myself--count it I didn't, you\ndidn't let me, that's true enough--but by the look of it I should say it\nwas far more than fifteen hundred ... fifteen hundred, indeed! We've seen\nmoney too. We can judge of amounts....\"\n\nAs for the sum spent yesterday he asserted that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had\ntold him, as soon as he arrived, that he had brought three thousand with\nhim.\n\n\"Come now, is that so, Trifon Borissovitch?\" replied Mitya. \"Surely I\ndidn't declare so positively that I'd brought three thousand?\"\n\n\"You did say so, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You said it before Andrey. Andrey\nhimself is still here. Send for him. And in the hall, when you were\ntreating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you would leave your\nsixth thousand here--that is with what you spent before, we must\nunderstand. Stepan and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov, too,\nwas standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd remember it....\"\n\nThe evidence as to the \"sixth\" thousand made an extraordinary impression\non the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning;\nthree and three made six, three thousand then and three now made six, that\nwas clear.\n\nThey questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borissovitch, Stepan\nand Semyon, the driver Andrey, and Kalganov. The peasants and the driver\nunhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borissovitch's evidence. They noted down,\nwith particular care, Andrey's account of the conversation he had had with\nMitya on the road: \" 'Where,' says he, 'am I, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, going,\nto heaven or to hell, and shall I be forgiven in the next world or not?' \"\n\nThe psychological Ippolit Kirillovitch heard this with a subtle smile, and\nended by recommending that these remarks as to where Dmitri Fyodorovitch\nwould go should be \"included in the case.\"\n\nKalganov, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning and ill-humored, and\nhe spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met them before in his\nlife, though they were acquaintances whom he had been meeting every day\nfor a long time past. He began by saying that \"he knew nothing about it\nand didn't want to.\" But it appeared that he had heard of the \"sixth\"\nthousand, and he admitted that he had been standing close by at the\nmoment. As far as he could see he \"didn't know\" how much money Mitya had\nin his hands. He affirmed that the Poles had cheated at cards. In reply to\nreiterated questions he stated that, after the Poles had been turned out,\nMitya's position with Agrafena Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and\nthat she had said that she loved him. He spoke of Agrafena Alexandrovna\nwith reserve and respect, as though she had been a lady of the best\nsociety, and did not once allow himself to call her Grushenka. In spite of\nthe young man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ippolit\nKirillovitch examined him at great length, and only from him learnt all\nthe details of what made up Mitya's \"romance,\" so to say, on that night.\nMitya did not once pull Kalganov up. At last they let the young man go,\nand he left the room with unconcealed indignation.\n\nThe Poles, too, were examined. Though they had gone to bed in their room,\nthey had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the police officers\nthey hastily dressed and got ready, realizing that they would certainly be\nsent for. They gave their evidence with dignity, though not without some\nuneasiness. The little Pole turned out to be a retired official of the\ntwelfth class, who had served in Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name\nwas Mussyalovitch. Pan Vrublevsky turned out to be an uncertificated\ndentist. Although Nikolay Parfenovitch asked them questions on entering\nthe room they both addressed their answers to Mihail Makarovitch, who was\nstanding on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important\nperson and in command, and addressed him at every word as \"Pan Colonel.\"\nOnly after several reproofs from Mihail Makarovitch himself, they grasped\nthat they had to address their answers to Nikolay Parfenovitch only. It\nturned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly except for their\naccent in some words. Of his relations with Grushenka, past and present,\nPan Mussyalovitch spoke proudly and warmly, so that Mitya was roused at\nonce and declared that he would not allow the \"scoundrel\" to speak like\nthat in his presence! Pan Mussyalovitch at once called attention to the\nword \"scoundrel\" and begged that it should be put down in the protocol.\nMitya fumed with rage.\n\n\"He's a scoundrel! A scoundrel! You can put that down. And put down, too,\nthat, in spite of the protocol I still declare that he's a scoundrel!\" he\ncried.\n\nThough Nikolay Parfenovitch did insert this in the protocol, he showed the\nmost praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly reprimanding Mitya,\nhe cut short all further inquiry into the romantic aspect of the case, and\nhastened to pass to what was essential. One piece of evidence given by the\nPoles roused special interest in the lawyers: that was how, in that very\nroom, Mitya had tried to buy off Pan Mussyalovitch, and had offered him\nthree thousand roubles to resign his claims, seven hundred roubles down,\nand the remaining two thousand three hundred \"to be paid next day in the\ntown.\" He had sworn at the time that he had not the whole sum with him at\nMokroe, but that his money was in the town. Mitya observed hotly that he\nhad not said that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in\nthe town. But Pan Vrublevsky confirmed the statement, and Mitya, after\nthinking for a moment admitted, frowning, that it must have been as the\nPoles stated, that he had been excited at the time, and might indeed have\nsaid so.\n\nThe prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It seemed to\nestablish for the prosecution (and they did, in fact, base this deduction\non it) that half, or a part of, the three thousand that had come into\nMitya's hands might really have been left somewhere hidden in the town, or\neven, perhaps, somewhere here, in Mokroe. This would explain the\ncircumstance, so baffling for the prosecution, that only eight hundred\nroubles were to be found in Mitya's hands. This circumstance had been the\none piece of evidence which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told,\nto some extent, in Mitya's favor. Now this one piece of evidence in his\nfavor had broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry, where he\nwould have got the remaining two thousand three hundred roubles, since he\nhimself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Mitya confidently\nreplied that he had meant to offer the \"little chap,\" not money, but a\nformal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of Tchermashnya,\nthose rights which he had already offered to Samsonov and Madame Hohlakov.\nThe prosecutor positively smiled at the \"innocence of this subterfuge.\"\n\n\"And you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a substitute for\ntwo thousand three hundred roubles in cash?\"\n\n\"He certainly would have accepted it,\" Mitya declared warmly. \"Why, look\nhere, he might have grabbed not two thousand, but four or six, for it. He\nwould have put his lawyers, Poles and Jews, on to the job, and might have\ngot, not three thousand, but the whole property out of the old man.\"\n\nThe evidence of Pan Mussyalovitch was, of course, entered in the protocol\nin the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The incident of the\ncheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolay Parfenovitch was too\nwell pleased with them, as it was, and did not want to worry them with\ntrifles, moreover, it was nothing but a foolish, drunken quarrel over\ncards. There had been drinking and disorder enough, that night.... So the\ntwo hundred roubles remained in the pockets of the Poles.\n\nThen old Maximov was summoned. He came in timidly, approached with little\nsteps, looking very disheveled and depressed. He had, all this time, taken\nrefuge below with Grushenka, sitting dumbly beside her, and \"now and then\nhe'd begin blubbering over her and wiping his eyes with a blue check\nhandkerchief,\" as Mihail Makarovitch described afterwards. So that she\nherself began trying to pacify and comfort him. The old man at once\nconfessed that he had done wrong, that he had borrowed \"ten roubles in my\npoverty,\" from Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that he was ready to pay it back.\nTo Nikolay Parfenovitch's direct question, had he noticed how much money\nDmitri Fyodorovitch held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the\nsum better than any one when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the\nmost positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand.\n\n\"Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then?\" inquired\nNikolay Parfenovitch, with a smile.\n\n\"To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife mortgaged my\nlittle property. She'd only let me look at it from a distance, boasting of\nit to me. It was a very thick bundle, all rainbow-colored notes. And\nDmitri Fyodorovitch's were all rainbow-colored....\"\n\nHe was not kept long. At last it was Grushenka's turn. Nikolay\nParfenovitch was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance might\nhave on Mitya, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Mitya\nbowed his head in silence, giving him to understand \"that he would not\nmake a scene.\" Mihail Makarovitch himself led Grushenka in. She entered\nwith a stern and gloomy face, that looked almost composed and sat down\nquietly on the chair offered her by Nikolay Parfenovitch. She was very\npale, she seemed to be cold, and wrapped herself closely in her\nmagnificent black shawl. She was suffering from a slight feverish\nchill--the first symptom of the long illness which followed that night. Her\ngrave air, her direct earnest look and quiet manner made a very favorable\nimpression on every one. Nikolay Parfenovitch was even a little bit\n\"fascinated.\" He admitted himself, when talking about it afterwards, that\nonly then had he seen \"how handsome the woman was,\" for, though he had\nseen her several times before, he had always looked upon her as something\nof a \"provincial hetaira.\" \"She has the manners of the best society,\" he\nsaid enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies. But this\nwas received with positive indignation by the ladies, who immediately\ncalled him a \"naughty man,\" to his great satisfaction.\n\nAs she entered the room, Grushenka only glanced for an instant at Mitya,\nwho looked at her uneasily. But her face reassured him at once. After the\nfirst inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolay Parfenovitch asked her,\nhesitating a little, but preserving the most courteous manner, on what\nterms she was with the retired lieutenant, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov.\nTo this Grushenka firmly and quietly replied:\n\n\"He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance during the\nlast month.\" To further inquisitive questions she answered plainly and\nwith complete frankness, that, though \"at times\" she had thought him\nattractive, she had not loved him, but had won his heart as well as his\nold father's \"in my nasty spite,\" that she had seen that Mitya was very\njealous of Fyodor Pavlovitch and every one else; but that had only amused\nher. She had never meant to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch, she had simply been\nlaughing at him. \"I had no thoughts for either of them all this last\nmonth. I was expecting another man who had wronged me. But I think,\" she\nsaid in conclusion, \"that there's no need for you to inquire about that,\nnor for me to answer you, for that's my own affair.\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch immediately acted upon this hint. He again dismissed\nthe \"romantic\" aspect of the case and passed to the serious one, that is,\nto the question of most importance, concerning the three thousand roubles.\nGrushenka confirmed the statement that three thousand roubles had\ncertainly been spent on the first carousal at Mokroe, and, though she had\nnot counted the money herself, she had heard that it was three thousand\nfrom Dmitri Fyodorovitch's own lips.\n\n\"Did he tell you that alone, or before some one else, or did you only hear\nhim speak of it to others in your presence?\" the prosecutor inquired\nimmediately.\n\nTo which Grushenka replied that she had heard him say so before other\npeople, and had heard him say so when they were alone.\n\n\"Did he say it to you alone once, or several times?\" inquired the\nprosecutor, and learned that he had told Grushenka so several times.\n\nIppolit Kirillovitch was very well satisfied with this piece of evidence.\nFurther examination elicited that Grushenka knew, too, where that money\nhad come from, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had got it from Katerina\nIvanovna.\n\n\"And did you never, once, hear that the money spent a month ago was not\nthree thousand, but less, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had saved half that\nsum for his own use?\"\n\n\"No, I never heard that,\" answered Grushenka.\n\nIt was explained further that Mitya had, on the contrary, often told her\nthat he hadn't a farthing.\n\n\"He was always expecting to get some from his father,\" said Grushenka in\nconclusion.\n\n\"Did he never say before you ... casually, or in a moment of irritation,\"\nNikolay Parfenovitch put in suddenly, \"that he intended to make an attempt\non his father's life?\"\n\n\"Ach, he did say so,\" sighed Grushenka.\n\n\"Once or several times?\"\n\n\"He mentioned it several times, always in anger.\"\n\n\"And did you believe he would do it?\"\n\n\"No, I never believed it,\" she answered firmly. \"I had faith in his noble\nheart.\"\n\n\"Gentlemen, allow me,\" cried Mitya suddenly, \"allow me to say one word to\nAgrafena Alexandrovna, in your presence.\"\n\n\"You can speak,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch assented.\n\n\"Agrafena Alexandrovna!\" Mitya got up from his chair, \"have faith in God\nand in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder!\"\n\nHaving uttered these words Mitya sat down again on his chair. Grushenka\nstood up and crossed herself devoutly before the ikon. \"Thanks be to Thee,\nO Lord,\" she said, in a voice thrilled with emotion, and still standing,\nshe turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and added:\n\n\"As he has spoken now, believe it! I know him. He'll say anything as a\njoke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you against his\nconscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may believe it.\"\n\n\"Thanks, Agrafena Alexandrovna, you've given me fresh courage,\" Mitya\nresponded in a quivering voice.\n\nAs to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she did not know\nwhat sum it was, but had heard him tell several people that he had three\nthousand with him. And to the question where he got the money, she said\nthat he had told her that he had \"stolen\" it from Katerina Ivanovna, and\nthat she had replied to that that he hadn't stolen it, and that he must\npay the money back next day. On the prosecutor's asking her emphatically\nwhether the money he said he had stolen from Katerina Ivanovna was what he\nhad spent yesterday, or what he had squandered here a month ago, she\ndeclared that he meant the money spent a month ago, and that that was how\nshe understood him.\n\nGrushenka was at last released, and Nikolay Parfenovitch informed her\nimpulsively that she might at once return to the town and that if he could\nbe of any assistance to her, with horses for example, or if she would care\nfor an escort, he ... would be--\n\n\"I thank you sincerely,\" said Grushenka, bowing to him, \"I'm going with\nthis old gentleman, I am driving him back to town with me, and meanwhile,\nif you'll allow me, I'll wait below to hear what you decide about Dmitri\nFyodorovitch.\"\n\nShe went out. Mitya was calm, and even looked more cheerful, but only for\na moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange physical weakness.\nHis eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination of the witnesses was,\nat last, over. They proceeded to a final revision of the protocol. Mitya\ngot up, moved from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a\nlarge chest covered with a rug, and instantly fell asleep.\n\nHe had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the\ntime.\n\nHe was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been stationed long\nago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses,\nthrough snow and sleet. He was cold, it was early in November, and the\nsnow was falling in big wet flakes, melting as soon as it touched the\nearth. And the peasant drove him smartly, he had a fair, long beard. He\nwas not an old man, somewhere about fifty, and he had on a gray peasant's\nsmock. Not far off was a village, he could see the black huts, and half\nthe huts were burnt down, there were only the charred beams sticking up.\nAnd as they drove in, there were peasant women drawn up along the road, a\nlot of women, a whole row, all thin and wan, with their faces a sort of\nbrownish color, especially one at the edge, a tall, bony woman, who looked\nforty, but might have been only twenty, with a long thin face. And in her\narms was a little baby crying. And her breasts seemed so dried up that\nthere was not a drop of milk in them. And the child cried and cried, and\nheld out its little bare arms, with its little fists blue from cold.\n\n\"Why are they crying? Why are they crying?\" Mitya asked, as they dashed\ngayly by.\n\n\"It's the babe,\" answered the driver, \"the babe weeping.\"\n\nAnd Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, \"the babe,\" and he\nliked the peasant's calling it a \"babe.\" There seemed more pity in it.\n\n\"But why is it weeping?\" Mitya persisted stupidly, \"why are its little\narms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?\"\n\n\"The babe's cold, its little clothes are frozen and don't warm it.\"\n\n\"But why is it? Why?\" foolish Mitya still persisted.\n\n\"Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging\nbecause they've been burnt out.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. \"Tell me why it is\nthose poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor?\nWhy is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? Why\ndon't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why\ndon't they feed the babe?\"\n\nAnd he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless,\nyet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. And\nhe felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, was\nrising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do something\nfor them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that the dark-\nfaced, dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed tears\nagain from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once,\nregardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the Karamazovs.\n\n\"And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my life,\nI'm coming with you,\" he heard close beside him Grushenka's tender voice,\nthrilling with emotion. And his heart glowed, and he struggled forward\ntowards the light, and he longed to live, to live, to go on and on,\ntowards the new, beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten, now, at once!\n\n\"What! Where?\" he exclaimed opening his eyes, and sitting up on the chest,\nas though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolay\nParfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the\nprotocol read aloud and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had been asleep an\nhour or more, but he did not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was suddenly\nstruck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't\nbeen there when he had leant back, exhausted, on the chest.\n\n\"Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?\" he cried, with a\nsort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great\nkindness had been shown him.\n\nHe never found out who this kind man was; perhaps one of the peasant\nwitnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary, had compassionately\nthought to put a pillow under his head; but his whole soul was quivering\nwith tears. He went to the table and said that he would sign whatever they\nliked.\n\n\"I've had a good dream, gentlemen,\" he said in a strange voice, with a new\nlight, as of joy, in his face.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX. They Carry Mitya Away\n\n\nWhen the protocol had been signed, Nikolay Parfenovitch turned solemnly to\nthe prisoner and read him the \"Committal,\" setting forth, that in such a\nyear, on such a day, in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such-\nand-such a district court, having examined so-and-so (to wit, Mitya)\naccused of this and of that (all the charges were carefully written out)\nand having considered that the accused, not pleading guilty to the charges\nmade against him, had brought forward nothing in his defense, while the\nwitnesses, so-and-so, and so-and-so, and the circumstances such-and-such\ntestify against him, acting in accordance with such-and-such articles of\nthe Statute Book, and so on, has ruled, that, in order to preclude so-and-\nso (Mitya) from all means of evading pursuit and judgment he be detained\nin such-and-such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused and\ncommunicates a copy of this same \"Committal\" to the deputy prosecutor, and\nso on, and so on.\n\nIn brief, Mitya was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner,\nand that he would be driven at once to the town, and there shut up in a\nvery unpleasant place. Mitya listened attentively, and only shrugged his\nshoulders.\n\n\"Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you. I'm ready.... I understand that\nthere's nothing else for you to do.\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch informed him gently that he would be escorted at once\nby the rural police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, who happened to be on\nthe spot....\n\n\"Stay,\" Mitya interrupted, suddenly, and impelled by uncontrollable\nfeeling he pronounced, addressing all in the room:\n\n\"Gentlemen, we're all cruel, we're all monsters, we all make men weep, and\nmothers, and babes at the breast, but of all, let it be settled here, now,\nof all I am the lowest reptile! I've sworn to amend, and every day I've\ndone the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a\nblow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by a\nforce from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself! But the\nthunderbolt has fallen. I accept the torture of accusation, and my public\nshame, I want to suffer and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I\nshall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not\nguilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment, not because I killed\nhim, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have\nkilled him. Still I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that.\nI'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Good-by,\ngentlemen, don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the\nexamination. Oh, I was still such a fool then.... In another minute I\nshall be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, as a free man, Dmitri\nKaramazov offers you his hand. Saying good-by to you, I say it to all\nmen.\"\n\nHis voice quivered and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolay\nParfenovitch, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden, almost\nnervous movement, hid his hands behind his back. Mitya instantly noticed\nthis, and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once.\n\n\"The preliminary inquiry is not yet over,\" Nikolay Parfenovitch faltered,\nsomewhat embarrassed. \"We will continue it in the town, and I, for my\npart, of course, am ready to wish you all success ... in your defense....\nAs a matter of fact, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I've always been disposed to\nregard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here,\nif I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognize that\nyou are, at bottom, a young man of honor, but, alas, one who has been\ncarried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree....\"\n\nNikolay Parfenovitch's little figure was positively majestic by the time\nhe had finished speaking. It struck Mitya that in another minute this\n\"boy\" would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their\nconversation about \"girls.\" But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate\nthoughts sometimes occur even to a prisoner when he is being led out to\nexecution.\n\n\"Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane, may I see _her_ to say 'good-by'\nfor the last time?\" asked Mitya.\n\n\"Certainly, but considering ... in fact, now it's impossible except in the\npresence of--\"\n\n\"Oh, well, if it must be so, it must!\"\n\nGrushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, and of few words,\nand did not at all satisfy Nikolay Parfenovitch. Grushenka made a deep bow\nto Mitya.\n\n\"I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you for\never, wherever they may send you. Farewell; you are guiltless, though\nyou've been your own undoing.\"\n\nHer lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes.\n\n\"Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love.\"\n\nMitya would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He\nwas at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the\nbottom of the steps to which he had driven up with such a dash the day\nbefore with Andrey's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky\nMavrikyevitch, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed\nabout something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He\nasked Mitya to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness.\n\n\"When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different\nface,\" thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of\npeople, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the\nsteps too. All stared at Mitya.\n\n\"Forgive me at parting, good people!\" Mitya shouted suddenly from the\ncart.\n\n\"Forgive us too!\" he heard two or three voices.\n\n\"Good-by to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!\"\n\nBut Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too\nbusy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that\neverything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables\nwere to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. The peasant who had been ordered\nto drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining\nthat it was not his turn to go, but Akim's. But Akim was not to be seen.\nThey ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait.\n\n\"You see what our peasants are, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. They've no shame!\"\nexclaimed Trifon Borissovitch. \"Akim gave you twenty-five copecks the day\nbefore yesterday. You've drunk it all and now you cry out. I'm simply\nsurprised at your good-nature, with our low peasants, Mavriky\nMavrikyevitch, that's all I can say.\"\n\n\"But what do we want a second cart for?\" Mitya put in. \"Let's start with\nthe one, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. I won't be unruly, I won't run away from\nyou, old fellow. What do we want an escort for?\"\n\n\"I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been\ntaught. I'm not 'old fellow' to you, and you can keep your advice for\nanother time!\" Mavriky Mavrikyevitch snapped out savagely, as though glad\nto vent his wrath.\n\nMitya was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt\nsuddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still\novercast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face.\n\n\"I've taken a chill,\" thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders.\n\nAt last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily,\nand, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is\ntrue that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been\nlaid upon him.\n\n\"Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!\" Mitya shouted again, and felt himself,\nthat he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily,\nfrom resentment.\n\nBut Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back,\nand staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no\nreply.\n\n\"Good-by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-by!\" he heard all at once the voice of\nKalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out\nhis hand to Mitya. He had no cap on.\n\nMitya had time to seize and press his hand.\n\n\"Good-by, dear fellow! I shan't forget your generosity,\" he cried warmly.\n\nBut the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and\nMitya was driven off.\n\nKalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in\nhis hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying\nas though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he\nbelieved almost without doubt in Mitya's guilt.\n\n\"What are these people? What can men be after this?\" he exclaimed\nincoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had\nno desire to live.\n\n\"Is it worth it? Is it worth it?\" exclaimed the boy in his grief.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART IV Book X. The Boys Chapter I. Kolya Krassotkin\n\n\nIt was the beginning of November. There had been a hard frost, eleven\ndegrees Reaumur, without snow, but a little dry snow had fallen on the\nfrozen ground during the night, and a keen dry wind was lifting and\nblowing it along the dreary streets of our town, especially about the\nmarket-place. It was a dull morning, but the snow had ceased.\n\nNot far from the market-place, close to Plotnikov's shop, there stood a\nsmall house, very clean both without and within. It belonged to Madame\nKrassotkin, the widow of a former provincial secretary, who had been dead\nfor fourteen years. His widow, still a nice-looking woman of thirty-two,\nwas living in her neat little house on her private means. She lived in\nrespectable seclusion; she was of a soft but fairly cheerful disposition.\nShe was about eighteen at the time of her husband's death; she had been\nmarried only a year and had just borne him a son. From the day of his\ndeath she had devoted herself heart and soul to the bringing up of her\nprecious treasure, her boy Kolya. Though she had loved him passionately\nthose fourteen years, he had caused her far more suffering than happiness.\nShe had been trembling and fainting with terror almost every day, afraid\nhe would fall ill, would catch cold, do something naughty, climb on a\nchair and fall off it, and so on and so on. When Kolya began going to\nschool, the mother devoted herself to studying all the sciences with him\nso as to help him, and go through his lessons with him. She hastened to\nmake the acquaintance of the teachers and their wives, even made up to\nKolya's schoolfellows, and fawned upon them in the hope of thus saving\nKolya from being teased, laughed at, or beaten by them. She went so far\nthat the boys actually began to mock at him on her account and taunt him\nwith being a \"mother's darling.\"\n\nBut the boy could take his own part. He was a resolute boy, \"tremendously\nstrong,\" as was rumored in his class, and soon proved to be the fact; he\nwas agile, strong-willed, and of an audacious and enterprising temper. He\nwas good at lessons, and there was a rumor in the school that he could\nbeat the teacher, Dardanelov, at arithmetic and universal history. Though\nhe looked down upon every one, he was a good comrade and not supercilious.\nHe accepted his schoolfellows' respect as his due, but was friendly with\nthem. Above all, he knew where to draw the line. He could restrain himself\non occasion, and in his relations with the teachers he never overstepped\nthat last mystic limit beyond which a prank becomes an unpardonable breach\nof discipline. But he was as fond of mischief on every possible occasion\nas the smallest boy in the school, and not so much for the sake of\nmischief as for creating a sensation, inventing something, something\neffective and conspicuous. He was extremely vain. He knew how to make even\nhis mother give way to him; he was almost despotic in his control of her.\nShe gave way to him, oh, she had given way to him for years. The one\nthought unendurable to her was that her boy had no great love for her. She\nwas always fancying that Kolya was \"unfeeling\" to her, and at times,\ndissolving into hysterical tears, she used to reproach him with his\ncoldness. The boy disliked this, and the more demonstrations of feeling\nwere demanded of him the more he seemed intentionally to avoid them. Yet\nit was not intentional on his part but instinctive--it was his character.\nHis mother was mistaken; he was very fond of her. He only disliked\n\"sheepish sentimentality,\" as he expressed it in his schoolboy language.\n\nThere was a bookcase in the house containing a few books that had been his\nfather's. Kolya was fond of reading, and had read several of them by\nhimself. His mother did not mind that and only wondered sometimes at\nseeing the boy stand for hours by the bookcase poring over a book instead\nof going to play. And in that way Kolya read some things unsuitable for\nhis age.\n\nThough the boy, as a rule, knew where to draw the line in his mischief, he\nhad of late begun to play pranks that caused his mother serious alarm. It\nis true there was nothing vicious in what he did, but a wild mad\nrecklessness.\n\nIt happened that July, during the summer holidays, that the mother and son\nwent to another district, forty-five miles away, to spend a week with a\ndistant relation, whose husband was an official at the railway station\n(the very station, the nearest one to our town, from which a month later\nIvan Fyodorovitch Karamazov set off for Moscow). There Kolya began by\ncarefully investigating every detail connected with the railways, knowing\nthat he could impress his schoolfellows when he got home with his newly\nacquired knowledge. But there happened to be some other boys in the place\nwith whom he soon made friends. Some of them were living at the station,\nothers in the neighborhood; there were six or seven of them, all between\ntwelve and fifteen, and two of them came from our town. The boys played\ntogether, and on the fourth or fifth day of Kolya's stay at the station, a\nmad bet was made by the foolish boys. Kolya, who was almost the youngest\nof the party and rather looked down upon by the others in consequence, was\nmoved by vanity or by reckless bravado to bet them two roubles that he\nwould lie down between the rails at night when the eleven o'clock train\nwas due, and would lie there without moving while the train rolled over\nhim at full speed. It is true they made a preliminary investigation, from\nwhich it appeared that it was possible to lie so flat between the rails\nthat the train could pass over without touching, but to lie there was no\njoke! Kolya maintained stoutly that he would. At first they laughed at\nhim, called him a little liar, a braggart, but that only egged him on.\nWhat piqued him most was that these boys of fifteen turned up their noses\nat him too superciliously, and were at first disposed to treat him as \"a\nsmall boy,\" not fit to associate with them, and that was an unendurable\ninsult.\n\nAnd so it was resolved to go in the evening, half a mile from the station,\nso that the train might have time to get up full speed after leaving the\nstation. The boys assembled. It was a pitch-dark night without a moon. At\nthe time fixed, Kolya lay down between the rails. The five others who had\ntaken the bet waited among the bushes below the embankment, their hearts\nbeating with suspense, which was followed by alarm and remorse. At last\nthey heard in the distance the rumble of the train leaving the station.\nTwo red lights gleamed out of the darkness; the monster roared as it\napproached.\n\n\"Run, run away from the rails,\" the boys cried to Kolya from the bushes,\nbreathless with terror. But it was too late: the train darted up and flew\npast. The boys rushed to Kolya. He lay without moving. They began pulling\nat him, lifting him up. He suddenly got up and walked away without a word.\nThen he explained that he had lain there as though he were insensible to\nfrighten them, but the fact was that he really had lost consciousness, as\nhe confessed long after to his mother. In this way his reputation as \"a\ndesperate character,\" was established for ever. He returned home to the\nstation as white as a sheet. Next day he had a slight attack of nervous\nfever, but he was in high spirits and well pleased with himself. The\nincident did not become known at once, but when they came back to the town\nit penetrated to the school and even reached the ears of the masters. But\nthen Kolya's mother hastened to entreat the masters on her boy's behalf,\nand in the end Dardanelov, a respected and influential teacher, exerted\nhimself in his favor, and the affair was ignored.\n\nDardanelov was a middle-aged bachelor, who had been passionately in love\nwith Madame Krassotkin for many years past, and had once already, about a\nyear previously, ventured, trembling with fear and the delicacy of his\nsentiments, to offer her most respectfully his hand in marriage. But she\nrefused him resolutely, feeling that to accept him would be an act of\ntreachery to her son, though Dardanelov had, to judge from certain\nmysterious symptoms, reason for believing that he was not an object of\naversion to the charming but too chaste and tender-hearted widow. Kolya's\nmad prank seemed to have broken the ice, and Dardanelov was rewarded for\nhis intercession by a suggestion of hope. The suggestion, it is true, was\na faint one, but then Dardanelov was such a paragon of purity and delicacy\nthat it was enough for the time being to make him perfectly happy. He was\nfond of the boy, though he would have felt it beneath him to try and win\nhim over, and was severe and strict with him in class. Kolya, too, kept\nhim at a respectful distance. He learned his lessons perfectly; he was\nsecond in his class, was reserved with Dardanelov, and the whole class\nfirmly believed that Kolya was so good at universal history that he could\n\"beat\" even Dardanelov. Kolya did indeed ask him the question, \"Who\nfounded Troy?\" to which Dardanelov had made a very vague reply, referring\nto the movements and migrations of races, to the remoteness of the period,\nto the mythical legends. But the question, \"Who had founded Troy?\" that\nis, what individuals, he could not answer, and even for some reason\nregarded the question as idle and frivolous. But the boys remained\nconvinced that Dardanelov did not know who founded Troy. Kolya had read of\nthe founders of Troy in Smaragdov, whose history was among the books in\nhis father's bookcase. In the end all the boys became interested in the\nquestion, who it was that had founded Troy, but Krassotkin would not tell\nhis secret, and his reputation for knowledge remained unshaken.\n\nAfter the incident on the railway a certain change came over Kolya's\nattitude to his mother. When Anna Fyodorovna (Madame Krassotkin) heard of\nher son's exploit, she almost went out of her mind with horror. She had\nsuch terrible attacks of hysterics, lasting with intervals for several\ndays, that Kolya, seriously alarmed at last, promised on his honor that\nsuch pranks should never be repeated. He swore on his knees before the\nholy image, and swore by the memory of his father, at Madame Krassotkin's\ninstance, and the \"manly\" Kolya burst into tears like a boy of six. And\nall that day the mother and son were constantly rushing into each other's\narms sobbing. Next day Kolya woke up as \"unfeeling\" as before, but he had\nbecome more silent, more modest, sterner, and more thoughtful.\n\nSix weeks later, it is true, he got into another scrape, which even\nbrought his name to the ears of our Justice of the Peace, but it was a\nscrape of quite another kind, amusing, foolish, and he did not, as it\nturned out, take the leading part in it, but was only implicated in it.\nBut of this later. His mother still fretted and trembled, but the more\nuneasy she became, the greater were the hopes of Dardanelov. It must be\nnoted that Kolya understood and divined what was in Dardanelov's heart\nand, of course, despised him profoundly for his \"feelings\"; he had in the\npast been so tactless as to show this contempt before his mother, hinting\nvaguely that he knew what Dardanelov was after. But from the time of the\nrailway incident his behavior in this respect also was changed; he did not\nallow himself the remotest allusion to the subject and began to speak more\nrespectfully of Dardanelov before his mother, which the sensitive woman at\nonce appreciated with boundless gratitude. But at the slightest mention of\nDardanelov by a visitor in Kolya's presence, she would flush as pink as a\nrose. At such moments Kolya would either stare out of the window scowling,\nor would investigate the state of his boots, or would shout angrily for\n\"Perezvon,\" the big, shaggy, mangy dog, which he had picked up a month\nbefore, brought home, and kept for some reason secretly indoors, not\nshowing him to any of his schoolfellows. He bullied him frightfully,\nteaching him all sorts of tricks, so that the poor dog howled for him\nwhenever he was absent at school, and when he came in, whined with\ndelight, rushed about as if he were crazy, begged, lay down on the ground\npretending to be dead, and so on; in fact, showed all the tricks he had\ntaught him, not at the word of command, but simply from the zeal of his\nexcited and grateful heart.\n\nI have forgotten, by the way, to mention that Kolya Krassotkin was the boy\nstabbed with a penknife by the boy already known to the reader as the son\nof Captain Snegiryov. Ilusha had been defending his father when the\nschoolboys jeered at him, shouting the nickname \"wisp of tow.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. Children\n\n\nAnd so on that frosty, snowy, and windy day in November, Kolya Krassotkin\nwas sitting at home. It was Sunday and there was no school. It had just\nstruck eleven, and he particularly wanted to go out \"on very urgent\nbusiness,\" but he was left alone in charge of the house, for it so\nhappened that all its elder inmates were absent owing to a sudden and\nsingular event. Madame Krassotkin had let two little rooms, separated from\nthe rest of the house by a passage, to a doctor's wife with her two small\nchildren. This lady was the same age as Anna Fyodorovna, and a great\nfriend of hers. Her husband, the doctor, had taken his departure twelve\nmonths before, going first to Orenburg and then to Tashkend, and for the\nlast six months she had not heard a word from him. Had it not been for her\nfriendship with Madame Krassotkin, which was some consolation to the\nforsaken lady, she would certainly have completely dissolved away in\ntears. And now, to add to her misfortunes, Katerina, her only servant, was\nsuddenly moved the evening before to announce, to her mistress's\namazement, that she proposed to bring a child into the world before\nmorning. It seemed almost miraculous to every one that no one had noticed\nthe probability of it before. The astounded doctor's wife decided to move\nKaterina while there was still time to an establishment in the town kept\nby a midwife for such emergencies. As she set great store by her servant,\nshe promptly carried out this plan and remained there looking after her.\nBy the morning all Madame Krassotkin's friendly sympathy and energy were\ncalled upon to render assistance and appeal to some one for help in the\ncase.\n\nSo both the ladies were absent from home, the Krassotkins' servant,\nAgafya, had gone out to the market, and Kolya was thus left for a time to\nprotect and look after \"the kids,\" that is, the son and daughter of the\ndoctor's wife, who were left alone. Kolya was not afraid of taking care of\nthe house, besides he had Perezvon, who had been told to lie flat, without\nmoving, under the bench in the hall. Every time Kolya, walking to and fro\nthrough the rooms, came into the hall, the dog shook his head and gave two\nloud and insinuating taps on the floor with his tail, but alas! the\nwhistle did not sound to release him. Kolya looked sternly at the luckless\ndog, who relapsed again into obedient rigidity. The one thing that\ntroubled Kolya was \"the kids.\" He looked, of course, with the utmost scorn\non Katerina's unexpected adventure, but he was very fond of the bereaved\n\"kiddies,\" and had already taken them a picture-book. Nastya, the elder, a\ngirl of eight, could read, and Kostya, the boy, aged seven, was very fond\nof being read to by her. Krassotkin could, of course, have provided more\ndiverting entertainment for them. He could have made them stand side by\nside and played soldiers with them, or sent them hiding all over the\nhouse. He had done so more than once before and was not above doing it, so\nmuch so that a report once spread at school that Krassotkin played horses\nwith the little lodgers at home, prancing with his head on one side like a\ntrace-horse. But Krassotkin haughtily parried this thrust, pointing out\nthat to play horses with boys of one's own age, boys of thirteen, would\ncertainly be disgraceful \"at this date,\" but that he did it for the sake\nof \"the kids\" because he liked them, and no one had a right to call him to\naccount for his feelings. The two \"kids\" adored him.\n\nBut on this occasion he was in no mood for games. He had very important\nbusiness of his own before him, something almost mysterious. Meanwhile\ntime was passing and Agafya, with whom he could have left the children,\nwould not come back from market. He had several times already crossed the\npassage, opened the door of the lodgers' room and looked anxiously at \"the\nkids\" who were sitting over the book, as he had bidden them. Every time he\nopened the door they grinned at him, hoping he would come in and would do\nsomething delightful and amusing. But Kolya was bothered and did not go\nin.\n\nAt last it struck eleven and he made up his mind, once for all, that if\nthat \"damned\" Agafya did not come back within ten minutes he should go out\nwithout waiting for her, making \"the kids\" promise, of course, to be brave\nwhen he was away, not to be naughty, not to cry from fright. With this\nidea he put on his wadded winter overcoat with its catskin fur collar,\nslung his satchel round his shoulder, and, regardless of his mother's\nconstantly reiterated entreaties that he would always put on goloshes in\nsuch cold weather, he looked at them contemptuously as he crossed the hall\nand went out with only his boots on. Perezvon, seeing him in his outdoor\nclothes, began tapping nervously, yet vigorously, on the floor with his\ntail. Twitching all over, he even uttered a plaintive whine. But Kolya,\nseeing his dog's passionate excitement, decided that it was a breach of\ndiscipline, kept him for another minute under the bench, and only when he\nhad opened the door into the passage, whistled for him. The dog leapt up\nlike a mad creature and rushed bounding before him rapturously.\n\nKolya opened the door to peep at \"the kids.\" They were both sitting as\nbefore at the table, not reading but warmly disputing about something. The\nchildren often argued together about various exciting problems of life,\nand Nastya, being the elder, always got the best of it. If Kostya did not\nagree with her, he almost always appealed to Kolya Krassotkin, and his\nverdict was regarded as infallible by both of them. This time the \"kids'\"\ndiscussion rather interested Krassotkin, and he stood still in the passage\nto listen. The children saw he was listening and that made them dispute\nwith even greater energy.\n\n\"I shall never, never believe,\" Nastya prattled, \"that the old women find\nbabies among the cabbages in the kitchen-garden. It's winter now and there\nare no cabbages, and so the old woman couldn't have taken Katerina a\ndaughter.\"\n\nKolya whistled to himself.\n\n\"Or perhaps they do bring babies from somewhere, but only to those who are\nmarried.\"\n\nKostya stared at Nastya and listened, pondering profoundly.\n\n\"Nastya, how silly you are!\" he said at last, firmly and calmly. \"How can\nKaterina have a baby when she isn't married?\"\n\nNastya was exasperated.\n\n\"You know nothing about it,\" she snapped irritably. \"Perhaps she has a\nhusband, only he is in prison, so now she's got a baby.\"\n\n\"But is her husband in prison?\" the matter-of-fact Kostya inquired\ngravely.\n\n\"Or, I tell you what,\" Nastya interrupted impulsively, completely\nrejecting and forgetting her first hypothesis. \"She hasn't a husband, you\nare right there, but she wants to be married, and so she's been thinking\nof getting married, and thinking and thinking of it till now she's got it,\nthat is, not a husband but a baby.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps so,\" Kostya agreed, entirely vanquished. \"But you didn't\nsay so before. So how could I tell?\"\n\n\"Come, kiddies,\" said Kolya, stepping into the room. \"You're terrible\npeople, I see.\"\n\n\"And Perezvon with you!\" grinned Kostya, and began snapping his fingers\nand calling Perezvon.\n\n\"I am in a difficulty, kids,\" Krassotkin began solemnly, \"and you must\nhelp me. Agafya must have broken her leg, since she has not turned up till\nnow, that's certain. I must go out. Will you let me go?\"\n\nThe children looked anxiously at one another. Their smiling faces showed\nsigns of uneasiness, but they did not yet fully grasp what was expected of\nthem.\n\n\"You won't be naughty while I am gone? You won't climb on the cupboard and\nbreak your legs? You won't be frightened alone and cry?\"\n\nA look of profound despondency came into the children's faces.\n\n\"And I could show you something as a reward, a little copper cannon which\ncan be fired with real gunpowder.\"\n\nThe children's faces instantly brightened. \"Show us the cannon,\" said\nKostya, beaming all over.\n\nKrassotkin put his hand in his satchel, and pulling out a little bronze\ncannon stood it on the table.\n\n\"Ah, you are bound to ask that! Look, it's on wheels.\" He rolled the toy\non along the table. \"And it can be fired off, too. It can be loaded with\nshot and fired off.\"\n\n\"And it could kill any one?\"\n\n\"It can kill any one; you've only got to aim at anybody,\" and Krassotkin\nexplained where the powder had to be put, where the shot should be rolled\nin, showing a tiny hole like a touch-hole, and told them that it kicked\nwhen it was fired.\n\nThe children listened with intense interest. What particularly struck\ntheir imagination was that the cannon kicked.\n\n\"And have you got any powder?\" Nastya inquired.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Show us the powder, too,\" she drawled with a smile of entreaty.\n\nKrassotkin dived again into his satchel and pulled out a small flask\ncontaining a little real gunpowder. He had some shot, too, in a screw of\npaper. He even uncorked the flask and shook a little powder into the palm\nof his hand.\n\n\"One has to be careful there's no fire about, or it would blow up and kill\nus all,\" Krassotkin warned them sensationally.\n\nThe children gazed at the powder with an awe-stricken alarm that only\nintensified their enjoyment. But Kostya liked the shot better.\n\n\"And does the shot burn?\" he inquired.\n\n\"No, it doesn't.\"\n\n\"Give me a little shot,\" he asked in an imploring voice.\n\n\"I'll give you a little shot; here, take it, but don't show it to your\nmother till I come back, or she'll be sure to think it's gunpowder, and\nwill die of fright and give you a thrashing.\"\n\n\"Mother never does whip us,\" Nastya observed at once.\n\n\"I know, I only said it to finish the sentence. And don't you ever deceive\nyour mother except just this once, until I come back. And so, kiddies, can\nI go out? You won't be frightened and cry when I'm gone?\"\n\n\"We sha--all cry,\" drawled Kostya, on the verge of tears already.\n\n\"We shall cry, we shall be sure to cry,\" Nastya chimed in with timid\nhaste.\n\n\"Oh, children, children, how fraught with peril are your years! There's no\nhelp for it, chickens, I shall have to stay with you I don't know how\nlong. And time is passing, time is passing, oogh!\"\n\n\"Tell Perezvon to pretend to be dead!\" Kostya begged.\n\n\"There's no help for it, we must have recourse to Perezvon. _Ici_,\nPerezvon.\" And Kolya began giving orders to the dog, who performed all his\ntricks.\n\nHe was a rough-haired dog, of medium size, with a coat of a sort of lilac-\ngray color. He was blind in his right eye, and his left ear was torn. He\nwhined and jumped, stood and walked on his hind legs, lay on his back with\nhis paws in the air, rigid as though he were dead. While this last\nperformance was going on, the door opened and Agafya, Madame Krassotkin's\nservant, a stout woman of forty, marked with small-pox, appeared in the\ndoorway. She had come back from market and had a bag full of provisions in\nher hand. Holding up the bag of provisions in her left hand she stood\nstill to watch the dog. Though Kolya had been so anxious for her return,\nhe did not cut short the performance, and after keeping Perezvon dead for\nthe usual time, at last he whistled to him. The dog jumped up and began\nbounding about in his joy at having done his duty.\n\n\"Only think, a dog!\" Agafya observed sententiously.\n\n\"Why are you late, female?\" asked Krassotkin sternly.\n\n\"Female, indeed! Go on with you, you brat.\"\n\n\"Brat?\"\n\n\"Yes, a brat. What is it to you if I'm late; if I'm late, you may be sure\nI have good reason,\" muttered Agafya, busying herself about the stove,\nwithout a trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She seemed quite\npleased, in fact, to enjoy a skirmish with her merry young master.\n\n\"Listen, you frivolous young woman,\" Krassotkin began, getting up from the\nsofa, \"can you swear by all you hold sacred in the world and something\nelse besides, that you will watch vigilantly over the kids in my absence?\nI am going out.\"\n\n\"And what am I going to swear for?\" laughed Agafya. \"I shall look after\nthem without that.\"\n\n\"No, you must swear on your eternal salvation. Else I shan't go.\"\n\n\"Well, don't then. What does it matter to me? It's cold out; stay at\nhome.\"\n\n\"Kids,\" Kolya turned to the children, \"this woman will stay with you till\nI come back or till your mother comes, for she ought to have been back\nlong ago. She will give you some lunch, too. You'll give them something,\nAgafya, won't you?\"\n\n\"That I can do.\"\n\n\"Good-by, chickens, I go with my heart at rest. And you, granny,\" he added\ngravely, in an undertone, as he passed Agafya, \"I hope you'll spare their\ntender years and not tell them any of your old woman's nonsense about\nKaterina. _Ici_, Perezvon!\"\n\n\"Get along with you!\" retorted Agafya, really angry this time. \"Ridiculous\nboy! You want a whipping for saying such things, that's what you want!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Schoolboy\n\n\nBut Kolya did not hear her. At last he could go out. As he went out at the\ngate he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders, and saying \"It is\nfreezing,\" went straight along the street and turned off to the right\ntowards the market-place. When he reached the last house but one before\nthe market-place he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of his\npocket, and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal. He had\nnot to wait more than a minute before a rosy-cheeked boy of about eleven,\nwearing a warm, neat and even stylish coat, darted out to meet him. This\nwas Smurov, a boy in the preparatory class (two classes below Kolya\nKrassotkin), son of a well-to-do official. Apparently he was forbidden by\nhis parents to associate with Krassotkin, who was well known to be a\ndesperately naughty boy, so Smurov was obviously slipping out on the sly.\nHe was--if the reader has not forgotten--one of the group of boys who two\nmonths before had thrown stones at Ilusha. He was the one who told Alyosha\nKaramazov about Ilusha.\n\n\"I've been waiting for you for the last hour, Krassotkin,\" said Smurov\nstolidly, and the boys strode towards the market-place.\n\n\"I am late,\" answered Krassotkin. \"I was detained by circumstances. You\nwon't be thrashed for coming with me?\"\n\n\"Come, I say, I'm never thrashed! And you've got Perezvon with you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You're taking him, too?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Ah! if it were only Zhutchka!\"\n\n\"That's impossible. Zhutchka's non-existent. Zhutchka is lost in the mists\nof obscurity.\"\n\n\"Ah! couldn't we do this?\" Smurov suddenly stood still. \"You see Ilusha\nsays that Zhutchka was a shaggy, grayish, smoky-looking dog like Perezvon.\nCouldn't you tell him this is Zhutchka, and he might believe you?\"\n\n\"Boy, shun a lie, that's one thing; even with a good object--that's\nanother. Above all, I hope you've not told them anything about my coming.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid! I know what I am about. But you won't comfort him with\nPerezvon,\" said Smurov, with a sigh. \"You know his father, the captain,\n'the wisp of tow,' told us that he was going to bring him a real mastiff\npup, with a black nose, to-day. He thinks that would comfort Ilusha; but I\ndoubt it.\"\n\n\"And how is Ilusha?\"\n\n\"Ah, he is bad, very bad! I believe he's in consumption: he is quite\nconscious, but his breathing! His breathing's gone wrong. The other day he\nasked to have his boots on to be led round the room. He tried to walk, but\nhe couldn't stand. 'Ah, I told you before, father,' he said, 'that those\nboots were no good. I could never walk properly in them.' He fancied it\nwas his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply weakness, really.\nHe won't live another week. Herzenstube is looking after him. Now they are\nrich again--they've got heaps of money.\"\n\n\"They are rogues.\"\n\n\"Who are rogues?\"\n\n\"Doctors and the whole crew of quacks collectively, and also, of course,\nindividually. I don't believe in medicine. It's a useless institution. I\nmean to go into all that. But what's that sentimentality you've got up\nthere? The whole class seems to be there every day.\"\n\n\"Not the whole class: it's only ten of our fellows who go to see him every\nday. There's nothing in that.\"\n\n\"What I don't understand in all this is the part that Alexey Karamazov is\ntaking in it. His brother's going to be tried to-morrow or next day for\nsuch a crime, and yet he has so much time to spend on sentimentality with\nboys.\"\n\n\"There's no sentimentality about it. You are going yourself now to make it\nup with Ilusha.\"\n\n\"Make it up with him? What an absurd expression! But I allow no one to\nanalyze my actions.\"\n\n\"And how pleased Ilusha will be to see you! He has no idea that you are\ncoming. Why was it, why was it you wouldn't come all this time?\" Smurov\ncried with sudden warmth.\n\n\"My dear boy, that's my business, not yours. I am going of myself because\nI choose to, but you've all been hauled there by Alexey Karamazov--there's\na difference, you know. And how do you know? I may not be going to make it\nup at all. It's a stupid expression.\"\n\n\"It's not Karamazov at all; it's not his doing. Our fellows began going\nthere of themselves. Of course, they went with Karamazov at first. And\nthere's been nothing of that sort--no silliness. First one went, and then\nanother. His father was awfully pleased to see us. You know he will simply\ngo out of his mind if Ilusha dies. He sees that Ilusha's dying. And he\nseems so glad we've made it up with Ilusha. Ilusha asked after you, that\nwas all. He just asks and says no more. His father will go out of his mind\nor hang himself. He behaved like a madman before. You know he is a very\ndecent man. We made a mistake then. It's all the fault of that murderer\nwho beat him then.\"\n\n\"Karamazov's a riddle to me all the same. I might have made his\nacquaintance long ago, but I like to have a proper pride in some cases.\nBesides, I have a theory about him which I must work out and verify.\"\n\nKolya subsided into dignified silence. Smurov, too, was silent. Smurov, of\ncourse, worshiped Krassotkin and never dreamed of putting himself on a\nlevel with him. Now he was tremendously interested at Kolya's saying that\nhe was \"going of himself\" to see Ilusha. He felt that there must be some\nmystery in Kolya's suddenly taking it into his head to go to him that day.\nThey crossed the market-place, in which at that hour were many loaded\nwagons from the country and a great number of live fowls. The market women\nwere selling rolls, cottons and threads, etc., in their booths. These\nSunday markets were naively called \"fairs\" in the town, and there were\nmany such fairs in the year.\n\nPerezvon ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about first one side,\nthen the other. When he met other dogs they zealously smelt each other\nover according to the rules of canine etiquette.\n\n\"I like to watch such realistic scenes, Smurov,\" said Kolya suddenly.\n\"Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It seems\nto be a law of their nature.\"\n\n\"Yes; it's a funny habit.\"\n\n\"No, it's not funny; you are wrong there. There's nothing funny in nature,\nhowever funny it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs could reason\nand criticize us they'd be sure to find just as much that would be funny\nto them, if not far more, in the social relations of men, their\nmasters--far more, indeed. I repeat that, because I am convinced that there\nis far more foolishness among us. That's Rakitin's idea--a remarkable idea.\nI am a Socialist, Smurov.\"\n\n\"And what is a Socialist?\" asked Smurov.\n\n\"That's when all are equal and all have property in common, there are no\nmarriages, and every one has any religion and laws he likes best, and all\nthe rest of it. You are not old enough to understand that yet. It's cold,\nthough.\"\n\n\"Yes, twelve degrees of frost. Father looked at the thermometer just now.\"\n\n\"Have you noticed, Smurov, that in the middle of winter we don't feel so\ncold even when there are fifteen or eighteen degrees of frost as we do\nnow, in the beginning of winter, when there is a sudden frost of twelve\ndegrees, especially when there is not much snow. It's because people are\nnot used to it. Everything is habit with men, everything even in their\nsocial and political relations. Habit is the great motive-power. What a\nfunny-looking peasant!\"\n\nKolya pointed to a tall peasant, with a good-natured countenance in a long\nsheepskin coat, who was standing by his wagon, clapping together his\nhands, in their shapeless leather gloves, to warm them. His long fair\nbeard was all white with frost.\n\n\"That peasant's beard's frozen,\" Kolya cried in a loud provocative voice\nas he passed him.\n\n\"Lots of people's beards are frozen,\" the peasant replied, calmly and\nsententiously.\n\n\"Don't provoke him,\" observed Smurov.\n\n\"It's all right; he won't be cross; he's a nice fellow. Good-by, Matvey.\"\n\n\"Good-by.\"\n\n\"Is your name Matvey?\"\n\n\"Yes. Didn't you know?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't. It was a guess.\"\n\n\"You don't say so! You are a schoolboy, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You get whipped, I expect?\"\n\n\"Nothing to speak of--sometimes.\"\n\n\"Does it hurt?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, it does.\"\n\n\"Ech, what a life!\" The peasant heaved a sigh from the bottom of his\nheart.\n\n\"Good-by, Matvey.\"\n\n\"Good-by. You are a nice chap, that you are.\"\n\nThe boys went on.\n\n\"That was a nice peasant,\" Kolya observed to Smurov. \"I like talking to\nthe peasants, and am always glad to do them justice.\"\n\n\"Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are thrashed?\" asked Smurov.\n\n\"I had to say that to please him.\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"You know, Smurov, I don't like being asked the same thing twice. I like\npeople to understand at the first word. Some things can't be explained.\nAccording to a peasant's notions, schoolboys are whipped, and must be\nwhipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped? And if I were\nto tell him we are not, he'd be disappointed. But you don't understand\nthat. One has to know how to talk to the peasants.\"\n\n\"Only don't tease them, please, or you'll get into another scrape as you\ndid about that goose.\"\n\n\"So you're afraid?\"\n\n\"Don't laugh, Kolya. Of course I'm afraid. My father would be awfully\ncross. I am strictly forbidden to go out with you.\"\n\n\"Don't be uneasy, nothing will happen this time. Hallo, Natasha!\" he\nshouted to a market woman in one of the booths.\n\n\"Call me Natasha! What next! My name is Marya,\" the middle-aged market\nwoman shouted at him.\n\n\"I am so glad it's Marya. Good-by!\"\n\n\"Ah, you young rascal! A brat like you to carry on so!\"\n\n\"I'm in a hurry. I can't stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday.\" Kolya\nwaved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he her.\n\n\"I've nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent young\nmonkey. I didn't say anything,\" bawled Marya. \"You want a whipping, that's\nwhat you want, you saucy jackanapes!\"\n\nThere was a roar of laughter among the other market women round her.\nSuddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close\nby. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark, curly hair\nand a long, pale face, marked with smallpox. He wore a long blue coat and\na peaked cap, and looked like a merchant's clerk. He was in a state of\nstupid excitement and brandished his fist at Kolya.\n\n\"I know you!\" he cried angrily, \"I know you!\"\n\nKolya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with\nthe man. But he had been in so many rows in the street that he could\nhardly remember them all.\n\n\"Do you?\" he asked sarcastically.\n\n\"I know you! I know you!\" the man repeated idiotically.\n\n\"So much the better for you. Well, it's time I was going. Good-by!\"\n\n\"You are at your saucy pranks again?\" cried the man. \"You are at your\nsaucy pranks again? I know, you are at it again!\"\n\n\"It's not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks again,\" said\nKolya, standing still and scanning him.\n\n\"Not my business?\"\n\n\"No; it's not your business.\"\n\n\"Whose then? Whose then? Whose then?\"\n\n\"It's Trifon Nikititch's business, not yours.\"\n\n\"What Trifon Nikititch?\" asked the youth, staring with loutish amazement\nat Kolya, but still as angry as ever.\n\nKolya scanned him gravely.\n\n\"Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?\" he suddenly asked him,\nwith stern emphasis.\n\n\"What Church of Ascension? What for? No, I haven't,\" said the young man,\nsomewhat taken aback.\n\n\"Do you know Sabaneyev?\" Kolya went on even more emphatically and even\nmore severely.\n\n\"What Sabaneyev? No, I don't know him.\"\n\n\"Well then you can go to the devil,\" said Kolya, cutting short the\nconversation; and turning sharply to the right he strode quickly on his\nway as though he disdained further conversation with a dolt who did not\neven know Sabaneyev.\n\n\"Stop, heigh! What Sabaneyev?\" the young man recovered from his momentary\nstupefaction and was as excited as before. \"What did he say?\" He turned to\nthe market women with a silly stare.\n\nThe women laughed.\n\n\"You can never tell what he's after,\" said one of them.\n\n\"What Sabaneyev is it he's talking about?\" the young man repeated, still\nfurious and brandishing his right arm.\n\n\"It must be a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmitchovs, that's who it must\nbe,\" one of the women suggested.\n\nThe young man stared at her wildly.\n\n\"For the Kuzmitchovs?\" repeated another woman. \"But his name wasn't\nTrifon. His name's Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon Nikititch,\nso it can't be the same.\"\n\n\"His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it's Tchizhov,\" put in suddenly\na third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. \"Alexey\nIvanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch.\"\n\n\"Not a doubt about it, it's Tchizhov,\" a fourth woman emphatically\nconfirmed the statement.\n\nThe bewildered youth gazed from one to another.\n\n\"But what did he ask for, what did he ask for, good people?\" he cried\nalmost in desperation. \" 'Do you know Sabaneyev?' says he. And who the\ndevil's to know who is Sabaneyev?\"\n\n\"You're a senseless fellow. I tell you it's not Sabaneyev, but Tchizhov,\nAlexey Ivanitch Tchizhov, that's who it is!\" one of the women shouted at\nhim impressively.\n\n\"What Tchizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know.\"\n\n\"That tall, sniveling fellow who used to sit in the market in the summer.\"\n\n\"And what's your Tchizhov to do with me, good people, eh?\"\n\n\"How can I tell what he's to do with you?\" put in another. \"You ought to\nknow yourself what you want with him, if you make such a clamor about him.\nHe spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don't you really know\nhim?\"\n\n\"Know whom?\"\n\n\"Tchizhov.\"\n\n\"The devil take Tchizhov and you with him. I'll give him a hiding, that I\nwill. He was laughing at me!\"\n\n\"Will give Tchizhov a hiding! More likely he will give you one. You are a\nfool, that's what you are!\"\n\n\"Not Tchizhov, not Tchizhov, you spiteful, mischievous woman. I'll give\nthe boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him, he was laughing at me!\"\n\nThe woman guffawed. But Kolya was by now a long way off, marching along\nwith a triumphant air. Smurov walked beside him, looking round at the\nshouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was still\nafraid of getting into some scrape in Kolya's company.\n\n\"What Sabaneyev did you mean?\" he asked Kolya, foreseeing what his answer\nwould be.\n\n\"How do I know? Now there'll be a hubbub among them all day. I like to\nstir up fools in every class of society. There's another blockhead, that\npeasant there. You know, they say 'there's no one stupider than a stupid\nFrenchman,' but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can't\nyou see it all over his face that he is a fool, that peasant, eh?\"\n\n\"Let him alone, Kolya. Let's go on.\"\n\n\"Nothing could stop me, now I am once off. Hey, good morning, peasant!\"\n\nA sturdy-looking peasant, with a round, simple face and grizzled beard,\nwho was walking by, raised his head and looked at the boy. He seemed not\nquite sober.\n\n\"Good morning, if you are not laughing at me,\" he said deliberately in\nreply.\n\n\"And if I am?\" laughed Kolya.\n\n\"Well, a joke's a joke. Laugh away. I don't mind. There's no harm in a\njoke.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, brother, it was a joke.\"\n\n\"Well, God forgive you!\"\n\n\"Do you forgive me, too?\"\n\n\"I quite forgive you. Go along.\"\n\n\"I say, you seem a clever peasant.\"\n\n\"Cleverer than you,\" the peasant answered unexpectedly, with the same\ngravity.\n\n\"I doubt it,\" said Kolya, somewhat taken aback.\n\n\"It's true, though.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is.\"\n\n\"It is, brother.\"\n\n\"Good-by, peasant!\"\n\n\"Good-by!\"\n\n\"There are all sorts of peasants,\" Kolya observed to Smurov after a brief\nsilence. \"How could I tell I had hit on a clever one? I am always ready to\nrecognize intelligence in the peasantry.\"\n\nIn the distance the cathedral clock struck half-past eleven. The boys made\nhaste and they walked as far as Captain Snegiryov's lodging, a\nconsiderable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces from\nthe house Kolya stopped and told Smurov to go on ahead and ask Karamazov\nto come out to him.\n\n\"One must sniff round a bit first,\" he observed to Smurov.\n\n\"Why ask him to come out?\" Smurov protested. \"You go in; they will be\nawfully glad to see you. What's the sense of making friends in the frost\nout here?\"\n\n\"I know why I want to see him out here in the frost,\" Kolya cut him short\nin the despotic tone he was fond of adopting with \"small boys,\" and Smurov\nran to do his bidding.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. The Lost Dog\n\n\nKolya leaned against the fence with an air of dignity, waiting for Alyosha\nto appear. Yes, he had long wanted to meet him. He had heard a great deal\nabout him from the boys, but hitherto he had always maintained an\nappearance of disdainful indifference when he was mentioned, and he had\neven \"criticized\" what he heard about Alyosha. But secretly he had a great\nlonging to make his acquaintance; there was something sympathetic and\nattractive in all he was told about Alyosha. So the present moment was\nimportant: to begin with, he had to show himself at his best, to show his\nindependence, \"Or he'll think of me as thirteen and take me for a boy,\nlike the rest of them. And what are these boys to him? I shall ask him\nwhen I get to know him. It's a pity I am so short, though. Tuzikov is\nyounger than I am, yet he is half a head taller. But I have a clever face.\nI am not good-looking. I know I'm hideous, but I've a clever face. I\nmustn't talk too freely; if I fall into his arms all at once, he may\nthink--Tfoo! how horrible if he should think--!\"\n\nSuch were the thoughts that excited Kolya while he was doing his utmost to\nassume the most independent air. What distressed him most was his being so\nshort; he did not mind so much his \"hideous\" face, as being so short. On\nthe wall in a corner at home he had the year before made a pencil-mark to\nshow his height, and every two months since he anxiously measured himself\nagainst it to see how much he had gained. But alas! he grew very slowly,\nand this sometimes reduced him almost to despair. His face was in reality\nby no means \"hideous\"; on the contrary, it was rather attractive, with a\nfair, pale skin, freckled. His small, lively gray eyes had a fearless\nlook, and often glowed with feeling. He had rather high cheekbones; small,\nvery red, but not very thick, lips; his nose was small and unmistakably\nturned up. \"I've a regular pug nose, a regular pug nose,\" Kolya used to\nmutter to himself when he looked in the looking-glass, and he always left\nit with indignation. \"But perhaps I haven't got a clever face?\" he\nsometimes thought, doubtful even of that. But it must not be supposed that\nhis mind was preoccupied with his face and his height. On the contrary,\nhowever bitter the moments before the looking-glass were to him, he\nquickly forgot them, and forgot them for a long time, \"abandoning himself\nentirely to ideas and to real life,\" as he formulated it to himself.\n\nAlyosha came out quickly and hastened up to Kolya. Before he reached him,\nKolya could see that he looked delighted. \"Can he be so glad to see me?\"\nKolya wondered, feeling pleased. We may note here, in passing, that\nAlyosha's appearance had undergone a complete change since we saw him\nlast. He had abandoned his cassock and was wearing now a well-cut coat, a\nsoft, round hat, and his hair had been cropped short. All this was very\nbecoming to him, and he looked quite handsome. His charming face always\nhad a good-humored expression; but there was a gentleness and serenity in\nhis good-humor. To Kolya's surprise, Alyosha came out to him just as he\nwas, without an overcoat. He had evidently come in haste. He held out his\nhand to Kolya at once.\n\n\"Here you are at last! How anxious we've been to see you!\"\n\n\"There were reasons which you shall know directly. Anyway, I am glad to\nmake your acquaintance. I've long been hoping for an opportunity, and have\nheard a great deal about you,\" Kolya muttered, a little breathless.\n\n\"We should have met anyway. I've heard a great deal about you, too; but\nyou've been a long time coming here.\"\n\n\"Tell me, how are things going?\"\n\n\"Ilusha is very ill. He is certainly dying.\"\n\n\"How awful! You must admit that medicine is a fraud, Karamazov,\" cried\nKolya warmly.\n\n\"Ilusha has mentioned you often, very often, even in his sleep, in\ndelirium, you know. One can see that you used to be very, very dear to him\n... before the incident ... with the knife.... Then there's another\nreason.... Tell me, is that your dog?\"\n\n\"Yes, Perezvon.\"\n\n\"Not Zhutchka?\" Alyosha looked at Kolya with eyes full of pity. \"Is she\nlost for ever?\"\n\n\"I know you would all like it to be Zhutchka. I've heard all about it.\"\nKolya smiled mysteriously. \"Listen, Karamazov, I'll tell you all about it.\nThat's what I came for; that's what I asked you to come out here for, to\nexplain the whole episode to you before we go in,\" he began with\nanimation. \"You see, Karamazov, Ilusha came into the preparatory class\nlast spring. Well, you know what our preparatory class is--a lot of small\nboys. They began teasing Ilusha at once. I am two classes higher up, and,\nof course, I only look on at them from a distance. I saw the boy was weak\nand small, but he wouldn't give in to them; he fought with them. I saw he\nwas proud, and his eyes were full of fire. I like children like that. And\nthey teased him all the more. The worst of it was he was horribly dressed\nat the time, his breeches were too small for him, and there were holes in\nhis boots. They worried him about it; they jeered at him. That I can't\nstand. I stood up for him at once, and gave it to them hot. I beat them,\nbut they adore me, do you know, Karamazov?\" Kolya boasted impulsively;\n\"but I am always fond of children. I've two chickens in my hands at home\nnow--that's what detained me to-day. So they left off beating Ilusha and I\ntook him under my protection. I saw the boy was proud. I tell you that,\nthe boy was proud; but in the end he became slavishly devoted to me: he\ndid my slightest bidding, obeyed me as though I were God, tried to copy\nme. In the intervals between the classes he used to run to me at once, and\nI'd go about with him. On Sundays, too. They always laugh when an older\nboy makes friends with a younger one like that; but that's a prejudice. If\nit's my fancy, that's enough. I am teaching him, developing him. Why\nshouldn't I develop him if I like him? Here you, Karamazov, have taken up\nwith all these nestlings. I see you want to influence the younger\ngeneration--to develop them, to be of use to them, and I assure you this\ntrait in your character, which I knew by hearsay, attracted me more than\nanything. Let us get to the point, though. I noticed that there was a sort\nof softness and sentimentality coming over the boy, and you know I have a\npositive hatred of this sheepish sentimentality, and I have had it from a\nbaby. There were contradictions in him, too: he was proud, but he was\nslavishly devoted to me, and yet all at once his eyes would flash and he'd\nrefuse to agree with me; he'd argue, fly into a rage. I used sometimes to\npropound certain ideas; I could see that it was not so much that he\ndisagreed with the ideas, but that he was simply rebelling against me,\nbecause I was cool in responding to his endearments. And so, in order to\ntrain him properly, the tenderer he was, the colder I became. I did it on\npurpose: that was my idea. My object was to form his character, to lick\nhim into shape, to make a man of him ... and besides ... no doubt, you\nunderstand me at a word. Suddenly I noticed for three days in succession\nhe was downcast and dejected, not because of my coldness, but for\nsomething else, something more important. I wondered what the tragedy was.\nI have pumped him and found out that he had somehow got to know\nSmerdyakov, who was footman to your late father--it was before his death,\nof course--and he taught the little fool a silly trick--that is, a brutal,\nnasty trick. He told him to take a piece of bread, to stick a pin in it,\nand throw it to one of those hungry dogs who snap up anything without\nbiting it, and then to watch and see what would happen. So they prepared a\npiece of bread like that and threw it to Zhutchka, that shaggy dog there's\nbeen such a fuss about. The people of the house it belonged to never fed\nit at all, though it barked all day. (Do you like that stupid barking,\nKaramazov? I can't stand it.) So it rushed at the bread, swallowed it, and\nbegan to squeal; it turned round and round and ran away, squealing as it\nran out of sight. That was Ilusha's own account of it. He confessed it to\nme, and cried bitterly. He hugged me, shaking all over. He kept on\nrepeating 'He ran away squealing': the sight of that haunted him. He was\ntormented by remorse, I could see that. I took it seriously. I determined\nto give him a lesson for other things as well. So I must confess I wasn't\nquite straightforward, and pretended to be more indignant perhaps than I\nwas. 'You've done a nasty thing,' I said, 'you are a scoundrel. I won't\ntell of it, of course, but I shall have nothing more to do with you for a\ntime. I'll think it over and let you know through Smurov'--that's the boy\nwho's just come with me; he's always ready to do anything for me--'whether\nI will have anything to do with you in the future or whether I give you up\nfor good as a scoundrel.' He was tremendously upset. I must own I felt I'd\ngone too far as I spoke, but there was no help for it. I did what I\nthought best at the time. A day or two after, I sent Smurov to tell him\nthat I would not speak to him again. That's what we call it when two\nschoolfellows refuse to have anything more to do with one another.\nSecretly I only meant to send him to Coventry for a few days and then, if\nI saw signs of repentance, to hold out my hand to him again. That was my\nintention. But what do you think happened? He heard Smurov's message, his\neyes flashed. 'Tell Krassotkin from me,' he cried, 'that I will throw\nbread with pins to all the dogs--all--all of them!' 'So he's going in for a\nlittle temper. We must smoke it out of him.' And I began to treat him with\ncontempt; whenever I met him I turned away or smiled sarcastically. And\njust then that affair with his father happened. You remember? You must\nrealize that he was fearfully worked up by what had happened already. The\nboys, seeing I'd given him up, set on him and taunted him, shouting, 'Wisp\nof tow, wisp of tow!' And he had soon regular skirmishes with them, which\nI am very sorry for. They seem to have given him one very bad beating. One\nday he flew at them all as they were coming out of school. I stood a few\nyards off, looking on. And, I swear, I don't remember that I laughed; it\nwas quite the other way, I felt awfully sorry for him, in another minute I\nwould have run up to take his part. But he suddenly met my eyes. I don't\nknow what he fancied; but he pulled out a penknife, rushed at me, and\nstruck at my thigh, here in my right leg. I didn't move. I don't mind\nowning I am plucky sometimes, Karamazov. I simply looked at him\ncontemptuously, as though to say, 'This is how you repay all my kindness!\nDo it again, if you like, I'm at your service.' But he didn't stab me\nagain; he broke down, he was frightened at what he had done, he threw away\nthe knife, burst out crying, and ran away. I did not sneak on him, of\ncourse, and I made them all keep quiet, so it shouldn't come to the ears\nof the masters. I didn't even tell my mother till it had healed up. And\nthe wound was a mere scratch. And then I heard that the same day he'd been\nthrowing stones and had bitten your finger--but you understand now what a\nstate he was in! Well, it can't be helped: it was stupid of me not to come\nand forgive him--that is, to make it up with him--when he was taken ill. I\nam sorry for it now. But I had a special reason. So now I've told you all\nabout it ... but I'm afraid it was stupid of me.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a pity,\" exclaimed Alyosha, with feeling, \"that I didn't know\nbefore what terms you were on with him, or I'd have come to you long ago\nto beg you to go to him with me. Would you believe it, when he was\nfeverish he talked about you in delirium. I didn't know how much you were\nto him! And you've really not succeeded in finding that dog? His father\nand the boys have been hunting all over the town for it. Would you believe\nit, since he's been ill, I've three times heard him repeat with tears,\n'It's because I killed Zhutchka, father, that I am ill now. God is\npunishing me for it.' He can't get that idea out of his head. And if the\ndog were found and proved to be alive, one might almost fancy the joy\nwould cure him. We have all rested our hopes on you.\"\n\n\"Tell me, what made you hope that I should be the one to find him?\" Kolya\nasked, with great curiosity. \"Why did you reckon on me rather than any one\nelse?\"\n\n\"There was a report that you were looking for the dog, and that you would\nbring it when you'd found it. Smurov said something of the sort. We've all\nbeen trying to persuade Ilusha that the dog is alive, that it's been seen.\nThe boys brought him a live hare; he just looked at it, with a faint\nsmile, and asked them to set it free in the fields. And so we did. His\nfather has just this moment come back, bringing him a mastiff pup, hoping\nto comfort him with that; but I think it only makes it worse.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Karamazov, what sort of man is the father? I know him, but what\ndo you make of him--a mountebank, a buffoon?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; there are people of deep feeling who have been somehow crushed.\nBuffoonery in them is a form of resentful irony against those to whom they\ndaren't speak the truth, from having been for years humiliated and\nintimidated by them. Believe me, Krassotkin, that sort of buffoonery is\nsometimes tragic in the extreme. His whole life now is centered in Ilusha,\nand if Ilusha dies, he will either go mad with grief or kill himself. I\nfeel almost certain of that when I look at him now.\"\n\n\"I understand you, Karamazov. I see you understand human nature,\" Kolya\nadded, with feeling.\n\n\"And as soon as I saw you with a dog, I thought it was Zhutchka you were\nbringing.\"\n\n\"Wait a bit, Karamazov, perhaps we shall find it yet; but this is\nPerezvon. I'll let him go in now and perhaps it will amuse Ilusha more\nthan the mastiff pup. Wait a bit, Karamazov, you will know something in a\nminute. But, I say, I am keeping you here!\" Kolya cried suddenly. \"You've\nno overcoat on in this bitter cold. You see what an egoist I am. Oh, we\nare all egoists, Karamazov!\"\n\n\"Don't trouble; it is cold, but I don't often catch cold. Let us go in,\nthough, and, by the way, what is your name? I know you are called Kolya,\nbut what else?\"\n\n\"Nikolay--Nikolay Ivanovitch Krassotkin, or, as they say in official\ndocuments, 'Krassotkin son.' \" Kolya laughed for some reason, but added\nsuddenly, \"Of course I hate my name Nikolay.\"\n\n\"Why so?\"\n\n\"It's so trivial, so ordinary.\"\n\n\"You are thirteen?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"No, fourteen--that is, I shall be fourteen very soon, in a fortnight. I'll\nconfess one weakness of mine, Karamazov, just to you, since it's our first\nmeeting, so that you may understand my character at once. I hate being\nasked my age, more than that ... and in fact ... there's a libelous story\ngoing about me, that last week I played robbers with the preparatory boys.\nIt's a fact that I did play with them, but it's a perfect libel to say I\ndid it for my own amusement. I have reasons for believing that you've\nheard the story; but I wasn't playing for my own amusement, it was for the\nsake of the children, because they couldn't think of anything to do by\nthemselves. But they've always got some silly tale. This is an awful town\nfor gossip, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"But what if you had been playing for your own amusement, what's the\nharm?\"\n\n\"Come, I say, for my own amusement! You don't play horses, do you?\"\n\n\"But you must look at it like this,\" said Alyosha, smiling. \"Grown-up\npeople go to the theater and there the adventures of all sorts of heroes\nare represented--sometimes there are robbers and battles, too--and isn't\nthat just the same thing, in a different form, of course? And young\npeople's games of soldiers or robbers in their playtime are also art in\nits first stage. You know, they spring from the growing artistic instincts\nof the young. And sometimes these games are much better than performances\nin the theater, the only difference is that people go there to look at the\nactors, while in these games the young people are the actors themselves.\nBut that's only natural.\"\n\n\"You think so? Is that your idea?\" Kolya looked at him intently. \"Oh, you\nknow, that's rather an interesting view. When I go home, I'll think it\nover. I'll admit I thought I might learn something from you. I've come to\nlearn of you, Karamazov,\" Kolya concluded, in a voice full of spontaneous\nfeeling.\n\n\"And I of you,\" said Alyosha, smiling and pressing his hand.\n\nKolya was much pleased with Alyosha. What struck him most was that he\ntreated him exactly like an equal and that he talked to him just as if he\nwere \"quite grown up.\"\n\n\"I'll show you something directly, Karamazov; it's a theatrical\nperformance, too,\" he said, laughing nervously. \"That's why I've come.\"\n\n\"Let us go first to the people of the house, on the left. All the boys\nleave their coats in there, because the room is small and hot.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm only coming in for a minute. I'll keep on my overcoat. Perezvon\nwill stay here in the passage and be dead. _Ici_, Perezvon, lie down and\nbe dead! You see how he's dead. I'll go in first and explore, then I'll\nwhistle to him when I think fit, and you'll see, he'll dash in like mad.\nOnly Smurov must not forget to open the door at the moment. I'll arrange\nit all and you'll see something.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. By Ilusha's Bedside\n\n\nThe room inhabited by the family of the retired captain Snegiryov is\nalready familiar to the reader. It was close and crowded at that moment\nwith a number of visitors. Several boys were sitting with Ilusha, and\nthough all of them, like Smurov, were prepared to deny that it was Alyosha\nwho had brought them and reconciled them with Ilusha, it was really the\nfact. All the art he had used had been to take them, one by one, to\nIlusha, without \"sheepish sentimentality,\" appearing to do so casually and\nwithout design. It was a great consolation to Ilusha in his suffering. He\nwas greatly touched by seeing the almost tender affection and sympathy\nshown him by these boys, who had been his enemies. Krassotkin was the only\none missing and his absence was a heavy load on Ilusha's heart. Perhaps\nthe bitterest of all his bitter memories was his stabbing Krassotkin, who\nhad been his one friend and protector. Clever little Smurov, who was the\nfirst to make it up with Ilusha, thought it was so. But when Smurov hinted\nto Krassotkin that Alyosha wanted to come and see him about something, the\nlatter cut him short, bidding Smurov tell \"Karamazov\" at once that he knew\nbest what to do, that he wanted no one's advice, and that, if he went to\nsee Ilusha, he would choose his own time for he had \"his own reasons.\"\n\nThat was a fortnight before this Sunday. That was why Alyosha had not been\nto see him, as he had meant to. But though he waited, he sent Smurov to\nhim twice again. Both times Krassotkin met him with a curt, impatient\nrefusal, sending Alyosha a message not to bother him any more, that if he\ncame himself, he, Krassotkin, would not go to Ilusha at all. Up to the\nvery last day, Smurov did not know that Kolya meant to go to Ilusha that\nmorning, and only the evening before, as he parted from Smurov, Kolya\nabruptly told him to wait at home for him next morning, for he would go\nwith him to the Snegiryovs', but warned him on no account to say he was\ncoming, as he wanted to drop in casually. Smurov obeyed. Smurov's fancy\nthat Kolya would bring back the lost dog was based on the words Kolya had\ndropped that \"they must be asses not to find the dog, if it was alive.\"\nWhen Smurov, waiting for an opportunity, timidly hinted at his guess about\nthe dog, Krassotkin flew into a violent rage. \"I'm not such an ass as to\ngo hunting about the town for other people's dogs when I've got a dog of\nmy own! And how can you imagine a dog could be alive after swallowing a\npin? Sheepish sentimentality, that's what it is!\"\n\nFor the last fortnight Ilusha had not left his little bed under the ikons\nin the corner. He had not been to school since the day he met Alyosha and\nbit his finger. He was taken ill the same day, though for a month\nafterwards he was sometimes able to get up and walk about the room and\npassage. But latterly he had become so weak that he could not move without\nhelp from his father. His father was terribly concerned about him. He even\ngave up drinking and was almost crazy with terror that his boy would die.\nAnd often, especially after leading him round the room on his arm and\nputting him back to bed, he would run to a dark corner in the passage and,\nleaning his head against the wall, he would break into paroxysms of\nviolent weeping, stifling his sobs that they might not be heard by Ilusha.\n\nReturning to the room, he would usually begin doing something to amuse and\ncomfort his precious boy; he would tell him stories, funny anecdotes, or\nwould mimic comic people he had happened to meet, even imitate the howls\nand cries of animals. But Ilusha could not bear to see his father fooling\nand playing the buffoon. Though the boy tried not to show how he disliked\nit, he saw with an aching heart that his father was an object of contempt,\nand he was continually haunted by the memory of the \"wisp of tow\" and that\n\"terrible day.\"\n\nNina, Ilusha's gentle, crippled sister, did not like her father's\nbuffoonery either (Varvara had been gone for some time past to Petersburg\nto study at the university). But the half-imbecile mother was greatly\ndiverted and laughed heartily when her husband began capering about or\nperforming something. It was the only way she could be amused; all the\nrest of the time she was grumbling and complaining that now every one had\nforgotten her, that no one treated her with respect, that she was\nslighted, and so on. But during the last few days she had completely\nchanged. She began looking constantly at Ilusha's bed in the corner and\nseemed lost in thought. She was more silent, quieter, and, if she cried,\nshe cried quietly so as not to be heard. The captain noticed the change in\nher with mournful perplexity. The boys' visits at first only angered her,\nbut later on their merry shouts and stories began to divert her, and at\nlast she liked them so much that, if the boys had given up coming, she\nwould have felt dreary without them. When the children told some story or\nplayed a game, she laughed and clapped her hands. She called some of them\nto her and kissed them. She was particularly fond of Smurov.\n\nAs for the captain, the presence in his room of the children, who came to\ncheer up Ilusha, filled his heart from the first with ecstatic joy. He\neven hoped that Ilusha would now get over his depression, and that that\nwould hasten his recovery. In spite of his alarm about Ilusha, he had not,\ntill lately, felt one minute's doubt of his boy's ultimate recovery.\n\nHe met his little visitors with homage, waited upon them hand and foot; he\nwas ready to be their horse and even began letting them ride on his back,\nbut Ilusha did not like the game and it was given up. He began buying\nlittle things for them, gingerbread and nuts, gave them tea and cut them\nsandwiches. It must be noted that all this time he had plenty of money. He\nhad taken the two hundred roubles from Katerina Ivanovna just as Alyosha\nhad predicted he would. And afterwards Katerina Ivanovna, learning more\nabout their circumstances and Ilusha's illness, visited them herself, made\nthe acquaintance of the family, and succeeded in fascinating the half-\nimbecile mother. Since then she had been lavish in helping them, and the\ncaptain, terror-stricken at the thought that his boy might be dying,\nforgot his pride and humbly accepted her assistance.\n\nAll this time Doctor Herzenstube, who was called in by Katerina Ivanovna,\ncame punctually every other day, but little was gained by his visits and\nhe dosed the invalid mercilessly. But on that Sunday morning a new doctor\nwas expected, who had come from Moscow, where he had a great reputation.\nKaterina Ivanovna had sent for him from Moscow at great expense, not\nexpressly for Ilusha, but for another object of which more will be said in\nits place hereafter. But, as he had come, she had asked him to see Ilusha\nas well, and the captain had been told to expect him. He hadn't the\nslightest idea that Kolya Krassotkin was coming, though he had long wished\nfor a visit from the boy for whom Ilusha was fretting.\n\nAt the moment when Krassotkin opened the door and came into the room, the\ncaptain and all the boys were round Ilusha's bed, looking at a tiny\nmastiff pup, which had only been born the day before, though the captain\nhad bespoken it a week ago to comfort and amuse Ilusha, who was still\nfretting over the lost and probably dead Zhutchka. Ilusha, who had heard\nthree days before that he was to be presented with a puppy, not an\nordinary puppy, but a pedigree mastiff (a very important point, of\ncourse), tried from delicacy of feeling to pretend that he was pleased.\nBut his father and the boys could not help seeing that the puppy only\nserved to recall to his little heart the thought of the unhappy dog he had\nkilled. The puppy lay beside him feebly moving and he, smiling sadly,\nstroked it with his thin, pale, wasted hand. Clearly he liked the puppy,\nbut ... it wasn't Zhutchka; if he could have had Zhutchka and the puppy,\ntoo, then he would have been completely happy.\n\n\"Krassotkin!\" cried one of the boys suddenly. He was the first to see him\ncome in.\n\nKrassotkin's entrance made a general sensation; the boys moved away and\nstood on each side of the bed, so that he could get a full view of Ilusha.\nThe captain ran eagerly to meet Kolya.\n\n\"Please come in ... you are welcome!\" he said hurriedly. \"Ilusha, Mr.\nKrassotkin has come to see you!\"\n\nBut Krassotkin, shaking hands with him hurriedly, instantly showed his\ncomplete knowledge of the manners of good society. He turned first to the\ncaptain's wife sitting in her arm-chair, who was very ill-humored at the\nmoment, and was grumbling that the boys stood between her and Ilusha's bed\nand did not let her see the new puppy. With the greatest courtesy he made\nher a bow, scraping his foot, and turning to Nina, he made her, as the\nonly other lady present, a similar bow. This polite behavior made an\nextremely favorable impression on the deranged lady.\n\n\"There, you can see at once he is a young man that has been well brought\nup,\" she commented aloud, throwing up her hands; \"but as for our other\nvisitors they come in one on the top of another.\"\n\n\"How do you mean, mamma, one on the top of another, how is that?\" muttered\nthe captain affectionately, though a little anxious on her account.\n\n\"That's how they ride in. They get on each other's shoulders in the\npassage and prance in like that on a respectable family. Strange sort of\nvisitors!\"\n\n\"But who's come in like that, mamma?\"\n\n\"Why, that boy came in riding on that one's back and this one on that\none's.\"\n\nKolya was already by Ilusha's bedside. The sick boy turned visibly paler.\nHe raised himself in the bed and looked intently at Kolya. Kolya had not\nseen his little friend for two months, and he was overwhelmed at the sight\nof him. He had never imagined that he would see such a wasted, yellow\nface, such enormous, feverishly glowing eyes and such thin little hands.\nHe saw, with grieved surprise, Ilusha's rapid, hard breathing and dry\nlips. He stepped close to him, held out his hand, and almost overwhelmed,\nhe said:\n\n\"Well, old man ... how are you?\" But his voice failed him, he couldn't\nachieve an appearance of ease; his face suddenly twitched and the corners\nof his mouth quivered. Ilusha smiled a pitiful little smile, still unable\nto utter a word. Something moved Kolya to raise his hand and pass it over\nIlusha's hair.\n\n\"Never mind!\" he murmured softly to him to cheer him up, or perhaps not\nknowing why he said it. For a minute they were silent again.\n\n\"Hallo, so you've got a new puppy?\" Kolya said suddenly, in a most callous\nvoice.\n\n\"Ye--es,\" answered Ilusha in a long whisper, gasping for breath.\n\n\"A black nose, that means he'll be fierce, a good house-dog,\" Kolya\nobserved gravely and stolidly, as if the only thing he cared about was the\npuppy and its black nose. But in reality he still had to do his utmost to\ncontrol his feelings not to burst out crying like a child, and do what he\nwould he could not control it. \"When it grows up, you'll have to keep it\non the chain, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"He'll be a huge dog!\" cried one of the boys.\n\n\"Of course he will,\" \"a mastiff,\" \"large,\" \"like this,\" \"as big as a\ncalf,\" shouted several voices.\n\n\"As big as a calf, as a real calf,\" chimed in the captain. \"I got one like\nthat on purpose, one of the fiercest breed, and his parents are huge and\nvery fierce, they stand as high as this from the floor.... Sit down here,\non Ilusha's bed, or here on the bench. You are welcome, we've been hoping\nto see you a long time.... You were so kind as to come with Alexey\nFyodorovitch?\"\n\nKrassotkin sat on the edge of the bed, at Ilusha's feet. Though he had\nperhaps prepared a free-and-easy opening for the conversation on his way,\nnow he completely lost the thread of it.\n\n\"No ... I came with Perezvon. I've got a dog now, called Perezvon. A\nSlavonic name. He's out there ... if I whistle, he'll run in. I've brought\na dog, too,\" he said, addressing Ilusha all at once. \"Do you remember\nZhutchka, old man?\" he suddenly fired the question at him.\n\nIlusha's little face quivered. He looked with an agonized expression at\nKolya. Alyosha, standing at the door, frowned and signed to Kolya not to\nspeak of Zhutchka, but he did not or would not notice.\n\n\"Where ... is Zhutchka?\" Ilusha asked in a broken voice.\n\n\"Oh, well, my boy, your Zhutchka's lost and done for!\"\n\nIlusha did not speak, but he fixed an intent gaze once more on Kolya.\nAlyosha, catching Kolya's eye, signed to him vigorously again, but he\nturned away his eyes pretending not to have noticed.\n\n\"It must have run away and died somewhere. It must have died after a meal\nlike that,\" Kolya pronounced pitilessly, though he seemed a little\nbreathless. \"But I've got a dog, Perezvon ... A Slavonic name.... I've\nbrought him to show you.\"\n\n\"I don't want him!\" said Ilusha suddenly.\n\n\"No, no, you really must see him ... it will amuse you. I brought him on\npurpose.... He's the same sort of shaggy dog.... You allow me to call in\nmy dog, madam?\" He suddenly addressed Madame Snegiryov, with inexplicable\nexcitement in his manner.\n\n\"I don't want him, I don't want him!\" cried Ilusha, with a mournful break\nin his voice. There was a reproachful light in his eyes.\n\n\"You'd better,\" the captain started up from the chest by the wall on which\nhe had just sat down, \"you'd better ... another time,\" he muttered, but\nKolya could not be restrained. He hurriedly shouted to Smurov, \"Open the\ndoor,\" and as soon as it was open, he blew his whistle. Perezvon dashed\nheadlong into the room.\n\n\"Jump, Perezvon, beg! Beg!\" shouted Kolya, jumping up, and the dog stood\nerect on its hind-legs by Ilusha's bedside. What followed was a surprise\nto every one: Ilusha started, lurched violently forward, bent over\nPerezvon and gazed at him, faint with suspense.\n\n\"It's ... Zhutchka!\" he cried suddenly, in a voice breaking with joy and\nsuffering.\n\n\"And who did you think it was?\" Krassotkin shouted with all his might, in\na ringing, happy voice, and bending down he seized the dog and lifted him\nup to Ilusha.\n\n\"Look, old man, you see, blind of one eye and the left ear is torn, just\nthe marks you described to me. It was by that I found him. I found him\ndirectly. He did not belong to any one!\" he explained, turning quickly to\nthe captain, to his wife, to Alyosha and then again to Ilusha. \"He used to\nlive in the Fedotovs' back-yard. Though he made his home there, they did\nnot feed him. He was a stray dog that had run away from the village ... I\nfound him.... You see, old man, he couldn't have swallowed what you gave\nhim. If he had, he must have died, he must have! So he must have spat it\nout, since he is alive. You did not see him do it. But the pin pricked his\ntongue, that is why he squealed. He ran away squealing and you thought\nhe'd swallowed it. He might well squeal, because the skin of dogs' mouths\nis so tender ... tenderer than in men, much tenderer!\" Kolya cried\nimpetuously, his face glowing and radiant with delight. Ilusha could not\nspeak. White as a sheet, he gazed open-mouthed at Kolya, with his great\neyes almost starting out of his head. And if Krassotkin, who had no\nsuspicion of it, had known what a disastrous and fatal effect such a\nmoment might have on the sick child's health, nothing would have induced\nhim to play such a trick on him. But Alyosha was perhaps the only person\nin the room who realized it. As for the captain he behaved like a small\nchild.\n\n\"Zhutchka! It's Zhutchka!\" he cried in a blissful voice, \"Ilusha, this is\nZhutchka, your Zhutchka! Mamma, this is Zhutchka!\" He was almost weeping.\n\n\"And I never guessed!\" cried Smurov regretfully. \"Bravo, Krassotkin! I\nsaid he'd find the dog and here he's found him.\"\n\n\"Here he's found him!\" another boy repeated gleefully.\n\n\"Krassotkin's a brick!\" cried a third voice.\n\n\"He's a brick, he's a brick!\" cried the other boys, and they began\nclapping.\n\n\"Wait, wait,\" Krassotkin did his utmost to shout above them all. \"I'll\ntell you how it happened, that's the whole point. I found him, I took him\nhome and hid him at once. I kept him locked up at home and did not show\nhim to any one till to-day. Only Smurov has known for the last fortnight,\nbut I assured him this dog was called Perezvon and he did not guess. And\nmeanwhile I taught the dog all sorts of tricks. You should only see all\nthe things he can do! I trained him so as to bring you a well-trained dog,\nin good condition, old man, so as to be able to say to you, 'See, old man,\nwhat a fine dog your Zhutchka is now!' Haven't you a bit of meat? He'll\nshow you a trick that will make you die with laughing. A piece of meat,\nhaven't you got any?\"\n\nThe captain ran across the passage to the landlady, where their cooking\nwas done. Not to lose precious time, Kolya, in desperate haste, shouted to\nPerezvon, \"Dead!\" And the dog immediately turned round and lay on his back\nwith its four paws in the air. The boys laughed. Ilusha looked on with the\nsame suffering smile, but the person most delighted with the dog's\nperformance was \"mamma.\" She laughed at the dog and began snapping her\nfingers and calling it, \"Perezvon, Perezvon!\"\n\n\"Nothing will make him get up, nothing!\" Kolya cried triumphantly, proud\nof his success. \"He won't move for all the shouting in the world, but if I\ncall to him, he'll jump up in a minute. Ici, Perezvon!\" The dog leapt up\nand bounded about, whining with delight. The captain ran back with a piece\nof cooked beef.\n\n\"Is it hot?\" Kolya inquired hurriedly, with a business-like air, taking\nthe meat. \"Dogs don't like hot things. No, it's all right. Look,\neverybody, look, Ilusha, look, old man; why aren't you looking? He does\nnot look at him, now I've brought him.\"\n\nThe new trick consisted in making the dog stand motionless with his nose\nout and putting a tempting morsel of meat just on his nose. The luckless\ndog had to stand without moving, with the meat on his nose, as long as his\nmaster chose to keep him, without a movement, perhaps for half an hour.\nBut he kept Perezvon only for a brief moment.\n\n\"Paid for!\" cried Kolya, and the meat passed in a flash from the dog's\nnose to his mouth. The audience, of course, expressed enthusiasm and\nsurprise.\n\n\"Can you really have put off coming all this time simply to train the\ndog?\" exclaimed Alyosha, with an involuntary note of reproach in his\nvoice.\n\n\"Simply for that!\" answered Kolya, with perfect simplicity. \"I wanted to\nshow him in all his glory.\"\n\n\"Perezvon! Perezvon,\" called Ilusha suddenly, snapping his thin fingers\nand beckoning to the dog.\n\n\"What is it? Let him jump up on the bed! _Ici_, Perezvon!\" Kolya slapped\nthe bed and Perezvon darted up by Ilusha. The boy threw both arms round\nhis head and Perezvon instantly licked his cheek. Ilusha crept close to\nhim, stretched himself out in bed and hid his face in the dog's shaggy\ncoat.\n\n\"Dear, dear!\" kept exclaiming the captain. Kolya sat down again on the\nedge of the bed.\n\n\"Ilusha, I can show you another trick. I've brought you a little cannon.\nYou remember, I told you about it before and you said how much you'd like\nto see it. Well, here, I've brought it to you.\"\n\nAnd Kolya hurriedly pulled out of his satchel the little bronze cannon. He\nhurried, because he was happy himself. Another time he would have waited\ntill the sensation made by Perezvon had passed off, now he hurried on\nregardless of all consideration. \"You are all happy now,\" he felt, \"so\nhere's something to make you happier!\" He was perfectly enchanted himself.\n\n\"I've been coveting this thing for a long while; it's for you, old man,\nit's for you. It belonged to Morozov, it was no use to him, he had it from\nhis brother. I swopped a book from father's book-case for it, _A Kinsman\nof Mahomet or Salutary Folly_, a scandalous book published in Moscow a\nhundred years ago, before they had any censorship. And Morozov has a taste\nfor such things. He was grateful to me, too....\"\n\nKolya held the cannon in his hand so that all could see and admire it.\nIlusha raised himself, and, with his right arm still round the dog, he\ngazed enchanted at the toy. The sensation was even greater when Kolya\nannounced that he had gunpowder too, and that it could be fired off at\nonce \"if it won't alarm the ladies.\" \"Mamma\" immediately asked to look at\nthe toy closer and her request was granted. She was much pleased with the\nlittle bronze cannon on wheels and began rolling it to and fro on her lap.\nShe readily gave permission for the cannon to be fired, without any idea\nof what she had been asked. Kolya showed the powder and the shot. The\ncaptain, as a military man, undertook to load it, putting in a minute\nquantity of powder. He asked that the shot might be put off till another\ntime. The cannon was put on the floor, aiming towards an empty part of the\nroom, three grains of powder were thrust into the touch-hole and a match\nwas put to it. A magnificent explosion followed. Mamma was startled, but\nat once laughed with delight. The boys gazed in speechless triumph. But\nthe captain, looking at Ilusha, was more enchanted than any of them. Kolya\npicked up the cannon and immediately presented it to Ilusha, together with\nthe powder and the shot.\n\n\"I got it for you, for you! I've been keeping it for you a long time,\" he\nrepeated once more in his delight.\n\n\"Oh, give it to me! No, give me the cannon!\" mamma began begging like a\nlittle child. Her face showed a piteous fear that she would not get it.\nKolya was disconcerted. The captain fidgeted uneasily.\n\n\"Mamma, mamma,\" he ran to her, \"the cannon's yours, of course, but let\nIlusha have it, because it's a present to him, but it's just as good as\nyours. Ilusha will always let you play with it; it shall belong to both of\nyou, both of you.\"\n\n\"No, I don't want it to belong to both of us, I want it to be mine\naltogether, not Ilusha's,\" persisted mamma, on the point of tears.\n\n\"Take it, mother, here, keep it!\" Ilusha cried. \"Krassotkin, may I give it\nto my mother?\" he turned to Krassotkin with an imploring face, as though\nhe were afraid he might be offended at his giving his present to some one\nelse.\n\n\"Of course you may,\" Krassotkin assented heartily, and, taking the cannon\nfrom Ilusha, he handed it himself to mamma with a polite bow. She was so\ntouched that she cried.\n\n\"Ilusha, darling, he's the one who loves his mamma!\" she said tenderly,\nand at once began wheeling the cannon to and fro on her lap again.\n\n\"Mamma, let me kiss your hand.\" The captain darted up to her at once and\ndid so.\n\n\"And I never saw such a charming fellow as this nice boy,\" said the\ngrateful lady, pointing to Krassotkin.\n\n\"And I'll bring you as much powder as you like, Ilusha. We make the powder\nourselves now. Borovikov found out how it's made--twenty-four parts of\nsaltpeter, ten of sulphur and six of birchwood charcoal. It's all pounded\ntogether, mixed into a paste with water and rubbed through a tammy\nsieve--that's how it's done.\"\n\n\"Smurov told me about your powder, only father says it's not real\ngunpowder,\" responded Ilusha.\n\n\"Not real?\" Kolya flushed. \"It burns. I don't know, of course.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't mean that,\" put in the captain with a guilty face. \"I only\nsaid that real powder is not made like that, but that's nothing, it can be\nmade so.\"\n\n\"I don't know, you know best. We lighted some in a pomatum pot, it burned\nsplendidly, it all burnt away leaving only a tiny ash. But that was only\nthe paste, and if you rub it through ... but of course you know best, I\ndon't know.... And Bulkin's father thrashed him on account of our powder,\ndid you hear?\" he turned to Ilusha.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Ilusha. He listened to Kolya with immense interest and\nenjoyment.\n\n\"We had prepared a whole bottle of it and he used to keep it under his\nbed. His father saw it. He said it might explode, and thrashed him on the\nspot. He was going to make a complaint against me to the masters. He is\nnot allowed to go about with me now, no one is allowed to go about with me\nnow. Smurov is not allowed to either, I've got a bad name with every one.\nThey say I'm a 'desperate character,' \" Kolya smiled scornfully. \"It all\nbegan from what happened on the railway.\"\n\n\"Ah, we've heard of that exploit of yours, too,\" cried the captain. \"How\ncould you lie still on the line? Is it possible you weren't the least\nafraid, lying there under the train? Weren't you frightened?\"\n\nThe captain was abject in his flattery of Kolya.\n\n\"N--not particularly,\" answered Kolya carelessly. \"What's blasted my\nreputation more than anything here was that cursed goose,\" he said,\nturning again to Ilusha. But though he assumed an unconcerned air as he\ntalked, he still could not control himself and was continually missing the\nnote he tried to keep up.\n\n\"Ah! I heard about the goose!\" Ilusha laughed, beaming all over. \"They\ntold me, but I didn't understand. Did they really take you to the court?\"\n\n\"The most stupid, trivial affair, they made a mountain of a molehill as\nthey always do,\" Kolya began carelessly. \"I was walking through the\nmarket-place here one day, just when they'd driven in the geese. I stopped\nand looked at them. All at once a fellow, who is an errand-boy at\nPlotnikov's now, looked at me and said, 'What are you looking at the geese\nfor?' I looked at him; he was a stupid, moon-faced fellow of twenty. I am\nalways on the side of the peasantry, you know. I like talking to the\npeasants.... We've dropped behind the peasants--that's an axiom. I believe\nyou are laughing, Karamazov?\"\n\n\"No, Heaven forbid, I am listening,\" said Alyosha with a most good-natured\nair, and the sensitive Kolya was immediately reassured.\n\n\"My theory, Karamazov, is clear and simple,\" he hurried on again, looking\npleased. \"I believe in the people and am always glad to give them their\ndue, but I am not for spoiling them, that is a _sine qua non_ ... But I\nwas telling you about the goose. So I turned to the fool and answered, 'I\nam wondering what the goose thinks about.' He looked at me quite stupidly,\n'And what does the goose think about?' he asked. 'Do you see that cart\nfull of oats?' I said. 'The oats are dropping out of the sack, and the\ngoose has put its neck right under the wheel to gobble them up--do you\nsee?' 'I see that quite well,' he said. 'Well,' said I, 'if that cart were\nto move on a little, would it break the goose's neck or not?' 'It'd be\nsure to break it,' and he grinned all over his face, highly delighted.\n'Come on, then,' said I, 'let's try.' 'Let's,' he said. And it did not\ntake us long to arrange: he stood at the bridle without being noticed, and\nI stood on one side to direct the goose. And the owner wasn't looking, he\nwas talking to some one, so I had nothing to do, the goose thrust its head\nin after the oats of itself, under the cart, just under the wheel. I\nwinked at the lad, he tugged at the bridle, and crack. The goose's neck\nwas broken in half. And, as luck would have it, all the peasants saw us at\nthat moment and they kicked up a shindy at once. 'You did that on\npurpose!' 'No, not on purpose.' 'Yes, you did, on purpose!' Well, they\nshouted, 'Take him to the justice of the peace!' They took me, too. 'You\nwere there, too,' they said, 'you helped, you're known all over the\nmarket!' And, for some reason, I really am known all over the market,\"\nKolya added conceitedly. \"We all went off to the justice's, they brought\nthe goose, too. The fellow was crying in a great funk, simply blubbering\nlike a woman. And the farmer kept shouting that you could kill any number\nof geese like that. Well, of course, there were witnesses. The justice of\nthe peace settled it in a minute, that the farmer was to be paid a rouble\nfor the goose, and the fellow to have the goose. And he was warned not to\nplay such pranks again. And the fellow kept blubbering like a woman. 'It\nwasn't me,' he said, 'it was he egged me on,' and he pointed to me. I\nanswered with the utmost composure that I hadn't egged him on, that I\nsimply stated the general proposition, had spoken hypothetically. The\njustice of the peace smiled and was vexed with himself at once for having\nsmiled. 'I'll complain to your masters of you, so that for the future you\nmayn't waste your time on such general propositions, instead of sitting at\nyour books and learning your lessons.' He didn't complain to the masters,\nthat was a joke, but the matter was noised abroad and came to the ears of\nthe masters. Their ears are long, you know! The classical master,\nKolbasnikov, was particularly shocked about it, but Dardanelov got me off\nagain. But Kolbasnikov is savage with every one now like a green ass. Did\nyou know, Ilusha, he is just married, got a dowry of a thousand roubles,\nand his bride's a regular fright of the first rank and the last degree.\nThe third-class fellows wrote an epigram on it:\n\n\n    Astounding news has reached the class,\n    Kolbasnikov has been an ass.\n\n\nAnd so on, awfully funny, I'll bring it to you later on. I say nothing\nagainst Dardanelov, he is a learned man, there's no doubt about it. I\nrespect men like that and it's not because he stood up for me.\"\n\n\"But you took him down about the founders of Troy!\" Smurov put in\nsuddenly, unmistakably proud of Krassotkin at such a moment. He was\nparticularly pleased with the story of the goose.\n\n\"Did you really take him down?\" the captain inquired, in a flattering way.\n\"On the question who founded Troy? We heard of it, Ilusha told me about it\nat the time.\"\n\n\"He knows everything, father, he knows more than any of us!\" put in\nIlusha; \"he only pretends to be like that, but really he is top in every\nsubject....\"\n\nIlusha looked at Kolya with infinite happiness.\n\n\"Oh, that's all nonsense about Troy, a trivial matter. I consider this an\nunimportant question,\" said Kolya with haughty humility. He had by now\ncompletely recovered his dignity, though he was still a little uneasy. He\nfelt that he was greatly excited and that he had talked about the goose,\nfor instance, with too little reserve, while Alyosha had looked serious\nand had not said a word all the time. And the vain boy began by degrees to\nhave a rankling fear that Alyosha was silent because he despised him, and\nthought he was showing off before him. If he dared to think anything like\nthat Kolya would--\n\n\"I regard the question as quite a trivial one,\" he rapped out again,\nproudly.\n\n\"And I know who founded Troy,\" a boy, who had not spoken before, said\nsuddenly, to the surprise of every one. He was silent and seemed to be\nshy. He was a pretty boy of about eleven, called Kartashov. He was sitting\nnear the door. Kolya looked at him with dignified amazement.\n\nThe fact was that the identity of the founders of Troy had become a secret\nfor the whole school, a secret which could only be discovered by reading\nSmaragdov, and no one had Smaragdov but Kolya. One day, when Kolya's back\nwas turned, Kartashov hastily opened Smaragdov, which lay among Kolya's\nbooks, and immediately lighted on the passage relating to the foundation\nof Troy. This was a good time ago, but he felt uneasy and could not bring\nhimself to announce publicly that he too knew who had founded Troy, afraid\nof what might happen and of Krassotkin's somehow putting him to shame over\nit. But now he couldn't resist saying it. For weeks he had been longing\nto.\n\n\"Well, who did found it?\" asked Kolya, turning to him with haughty\nsuperciliousness. He saw from his face that he really did know and at once\nmade up his mind how to take it. There was, so to speak, a discordant note\nin the general harmony.\n\n\"Troy was founded by Teucer, Dardanus, Ilius and Tros,\" the boy rapped out\nat once, and in the same instant he blushed, blushed so, that it was\npainful to look at him. But the boys stared at him, stared at him for a\nwhole minute, and then all the staring eyes turned at once and were\nfastened upon Kolya, who was still scanning the audacious boy with\ndisdainful composure.\n\n\"In what sense did they found it?\" he deigned to comment at last. \"And\nwhat is meant by founding a city or a state? What do they do? Did they go\nand each lay a brick, do you suppose?\"\n\nThere was laughter. The offending boy turned from pink to crimson. He was\nsilent and on the point of tears. Kolya held him so for a minute.\n\n\"Before you talk of a historical event like the foundation of a\nnationality, you must first understand what you mean by it,\" he admonished\nhim in stern, incisive tones. \"But I attach no consequence to these old\nwives' tales and I don't think much of universal history in general,\" he\nadded carelessly, addressing the company generally.\n\n\"Universal history?\" the captain inquired, looking almost scared.\n\n\"Yes, universal history! It's the study of the successive follies of\nmankind and nothing more. The only subjects I respect are mathematics and\nnatural science,\" said Kolya. He was showing off and he stole a glance at\nAlyosha; his was the only opinion he was afraid of there. But Alyosha was\nstill silent and still serious as before. If Alyosha had said a word it\nwould have stopped him, but Alyosha was silent and \"it might be the\nsilence of contempt,\" and that finally irritated Kolya.\n\n\"The classical languages, too ... they are simply madness, nothing more.\nYou seem to disagree with me again, Karamazov?\"\n\n\"I don't agree,\" said Alyosha, with a faint smile.\n\n\"The study of the classics, if you ask my opinion, is simply a police\nmeasure, that's simply why it has been introduced into our schools.\" By\ndegrees Kolya began to get breathless again. \"Latin and Greek were\nintroduced because they are a bore and because they stupefy the intellect.\nIt was dull before, so what could they do to make things duller? It was\nsenseless enough before, so what could they do to make it more senseless?\nSo they thought of Greek and Latin. That's my opinion, I hope I shall\nnever change it,\" Kolya finished abruptly. His cheeks were flushed.\n\n\"That's true,\" assented Smurov suddenly, in a ringing tone of conviction.\nHe had listened attentively.\n\n\"And yet he is first in Latin himself,\" cried one of the group of boys\nsuddenly.\n\n\"Yes, father, he says that and yet he is first in Latin,\" echoed Ilusha.\n\n\"What of it?\" Kolya thought fit to defend himself, though the praise was\nvery sweet to him. \"I am fagging away at Latin because I have to, because\nI promised my mother to pass my examination, and I think that whatever you\ndo, it's worth doing it well. But in my soul I have a profound contempt\nfor the classics and all that fraud.... You don't agree, Karamazov?\"\n\n\"Why 'fraud'?\" Alyosha smiled again.\n\n\"Well, all the classical authors have been translated into all languages,\nso it was not for the sake of studying the classics they introduced Latin,\nbut solely as a police measure, to stupefy the intelligence. So what can\none call it but a fraud?\"\n\n\"Why, who taught you all this?\" cried Alyosha, surprised at last.\n\n\"In the first place I am capable of thinking for myself without being\ntaught. Besides, what I said just now about the classics being translated\nour teacher Kolbasnikov has said to the whole of the third class.\"\n\n\"The doctor has come!\" cried Nina, who had been silent till then.\n\nA carriage belonging to Madame Hohlakov drove up to the gate. The captain,\nwho had been expecting the doctor all the morning, rushed headlong out to\nmeet him. \"Mamma\" pulled herself together and assumed a dignified air.\nAlyosha went up to Ilusha and began setting his pillows straight. Nina,\nfrom her invalid chair, anxiously watched him putting the bed tidy. The\nboys hurriedly took leave. Some of them promised to come again in the\nevening. Kolya called Perezvon and the dog jumped off the bed.\n\n\"I won't go away, I won't go away,\" Kolya said hastily to Ilusha. \"I'll\nwait in the passage and come back when the doctor's gone, I'll come back\nwith Perezvon.\"\n\nBut by now the doctor had entered, an important-looking person with long,\ndark whiskers and a shiny, shaven chin, wearing a bearskin coat. As he\ncrossed the threshold he stopped, taken aback; he probably fancied he had\ncome to the wrong place. \"How is this? Where am I?\" he muttered, not\nremoving his coat nor his peaked sealskin cap. The crowd, the poverty of\nthe room, the washing hanging on a line in the corner, puzzled him. The\ncaptain, bent double, was bowing low before him.\n\n\"It's here, sir, here, sir,\" he muttered cringingly; \"it's here, you've\ncome right, you were coming to us...\"\n\n\"Sne-gi-ryov?\" the doctor said loudly and pompously. \"Mr. Snegiryov--is\nthat you?\"\n\n\"That's me, sir!\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\nThe doctor looked round the room with a squeamish air once more and threw\noff his coat, displaying to all eyes the grand decoration at his neck. The\ncaptain caught the fur coat in the air, and the doctor took off his cap.\n\n\"Where is the patient?\" he asked emphatically.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. Precocity\n\n\n\"What do you think the doctor will say to him?\" Kolya asked quickly. \"What\na repulsive mug, though, hasn't he? I can't endure medicine!\"\n\n\"Ilusha is dying. I think that's certain,\" answered Alyosha, mournfully.\n\n\"They are rogues! Medicine's a fraud! I am glad to have made your\nacquaintance, though, Karamazov. I wanted to know you for a long time. I\nam only sorry we meet in such sad circumstances.\"\n\nKolya had a great inclination to say something even warmer and more\ndemonstrative, but he felt ill at ease. Alyosha noticed this, smiled, and\npressed his hand.\n\n\"I've long learned to respect you as a rare person,\" Kolya muttered again,\nfaltering and uncertain. \"I have heard you are a mystic and have been in\nthe monastery. I know you are a mystic, but ... that hasn't put me off.\nContact with real life will cure you.... It's always so with characters\nlike yours.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by mystic? Cure me of what?\" Alyosha was rather\nastonished.\n\n\"Oh, God and all the rest of it.\"\n\n\"What, don't you believe in God?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've nothing against God. Of course, God is only a hypothesis, but\n... I admit that He is needed ... for the order of the universe and all\nthat ... and that if there were no God He would have to be invented,\"\nadded Kolya, beginning to blush. He suddenly fancied that Alyosha might\nthink he was trying to show off his knowledge and to prove that he was\n\"grown up.\" \"I haven't the slightest desire to show off my knowledge to\nhim,\" Kolya thought indignantly. And all of a sudden he felt horribly\nannoyed.\n\n\"I must confess I can't endure entering on such discussions,\" he said with\na final air. \"It's possible for one who doesn't believe in God to love\nmankind, don't you think so? Voltaire didn't believe in God and loved\nmankind?\" (\"I am at it again,\" he thought to himself.)\n\n\"Voltaire believed in God, though not very much, I think, and I don't\nthink he loved mankind very much either,\" said Alyosha quietly, gently,\nand quite naturally, as though he were talking to some one of his own age,\nor even older. Kolya was particularly struck by Alyosha's apparent\ndiffidence about his opinion of Voltaire. He seemed to be leaving the\nquestion for him, little Kolya, to settle.\n\n\"Have you read Voltaire?\" Alyosha finished.\n\n\"No, not to say read.... But I've read _Candide_ in the Russian\ntranslation ... in an absurd, grotesque, old translation ... (At it again!\nagain!)\"\n\n\"And did you understand it?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, everything.... That is ... Why do you suppose I shouldn't\nunderstand it? There's a lot of nastiness in it, of course.... Of course I\ncan understand that it's a philosophical novel and written to advocate an\nidea....\" Kolya was getting mixed by now. \"I am a Socialist, Karamazov, I\nam an incurable Socialist,\" he announced suddenly, apropos of nothing.\n\n\"A Socialist?\" laughed Alyosha. \"But when have you had time to become one?\nWhy, I thought you were only thirteen?\"\n\nKolya winced.\n\n\"In the first place I am not thirteen, but fourteen, fourteen in a\nfortnight,\" he flushed angrily, \"and in the second place I am at a\ncomplete loss to understand what my age has to do with it? The question is\nwhat are my convictions, not what is my age, isn't it?\"\n\n\"When you are older, you'll understand for yourself the influence of age\non convictions. I fancied, too, that you were not expressing your own\nideas,\" Alyosha answered serenely and modestly, but Kolya interrupted him\nhotly:\n\n\"Come, you want obedience and mysticism. You must admit that the Christian\nreligion, for instance, has only been of use to the rich and the powerful\nto keep the lower classes in slavery. That's so, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Ah, I know where you read that, and I am sure some one told you so!\"\ncried Alyosha.\n\n\"I say, what makes you think I read it? And certainly no one told me so. I\ncan think for myself.... I am not opposed to Christ, if you like. He was a\nmost humane person, and if He were alive to-day, He would be found in the\nranks of the revolutionists, and would perhaps play a conspicuous part....\nThere's no doubt about that.\"\n\n\"Oh, where, where did you get that from? What fool have you made friends\nwith?\" exclaimed Alyosha.\n\n\"Come, the truth will out! It has so chanced that I have often talked to\nMr. Rakitin, of course, but ... old Byelinsky said that, too, so they\nsay.\"\n\n\"Byelinsky? I don't remember. He hasn't written that anywhere.\"\n\n\"If he didn't write it, they say he said it. I heard that from a ... but\nnever mind.\"\n\n\"And have you read Byelinsky?\"\n\n\"Well, no ... I haven't read all of him, but ... I read the passage about\nTatyana, why she didn't go off with Onyegin.\"\n\n\"Didn't go off with Onyegin? Surely you don't ... understand that\nalready?\"\n\n\"Why, you seem to take me for little Smurov,\" said Kolya, with a grin of\nirritation. \"But please don't suppose I am such a revolutionist. I often\ndisagree with Mr. Rakitin. Though I mention Tatyana, I am not at all for\nthe emancipation of women. I acknowledge that women are a subject race and\nmust obey. _Les femmes tricottent_, as Napoleon said.\" Kolya, for some\nreason, smiled, \"And on that question at least I am quite of one mind with\nthat pseudo-great man. I think, too, that to leave one's own country and\nfly to America is mean, worse than mean--silly. Why go to America when one\nmay be of great service to humanity here? Now especially. There's a\nperfect mass of fruitful activity open to us. That's what I answered.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Answered whom? Has some one suggested your going to\nAmerica already?\"\n\n\"I must own, they've been at me to go, but I declined. That's between\nourselves, of course, Karamazov; do you hear, not a word to any one. I say\nthis only to you. I am not at all anxious to fall into the clutches of the\nsecret police and take lessons at the Chain bridge.\n\n\n    _Long will you remember_\n    _The house at the Chain bridge._\n\n\nDo you remember? It's splendid. Why are you laughing? You don't suppose I\nam fibbing, do you?\" (\"What if he should find out that I've only that one\nnumber of _The Bell_ in father's bookcase, and haven't read any more of\nit?\" Kolya thought with a shudder.)\n\n\"Oh, no, I am not laughing and don't suppose for a moment that you are\nlying. No, indeed, I can't suppose so, for all this, alas! is perfectly\ntrue. But tell me, have you read Pushkin--_Onyegin_, for instance?... You\nspoke just now of Tatyana.\"\n\n\"No, I haven't read it yet, but I want to read it. I have no prejudices,\nKaramazov; I want to hear both sides. What makes you ask?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Karamazov, have you an awful contempt for me?\" Kolya rapped out\nsuddenly and drew himself up before Alyosha, as though he were on drill.\n\"Be so kind as to tell me, without beating about the bush.\"\n\n\"I have a contempt for you?\" Alyosha looked at him wondering. \"What for? I\nam only sad that a charming nature such as yours should be perverted by\nall this crude nonsense before you have begun life.\"\n\n\"Don't be anxious about my nature,\" Kolya interrupted, not without\ncomplacency. \"But it's true that I am stupidly sensitive, crudely\nsensitive. You smiled just now, and I fancied you seemed to--\"\n\n\"Oh, my smile meant something quite different. I'll tell you why I smiled.\nNot long ago I read the criticism made by a German who had lived in\nRussia, on our students and schoolboys of to-day. 'Show a Russian\nschoolboy,' he writes, 'a map of the stars, which he knows nothing about,\nand he will give you back the map next day with corrections on it.' No\nknowledge and unbounded conceit--that's what the German meant to say about\nthe Russian schoolboy.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's perfectly right,\" Kolya laughed suddenly, \"exactly so! Bravo\nthe German! But he did not see the good side, what do you think? Conceit\nmay be, that comes from youth, that will be corrected if need be, but, on\nthe other hand, there is an independent spirit almost from childhood,\nboldness of thought and conviction, and not the spirit of these sausage\nmakers, groveling before authority.... But the German was right all the\nsame. Bravo the German! But Germans want strangling all the same. Though\nthey are so good at science and learning they must be strangled.\"\n\n\"Strangled, what for?\" smiled Alyosha.\n\n\"Well, perhaps I am talking nonsense, I agree. I am awfully childish\nsometimes, and when I am pleased about anything I can't restrain myself\nand am ready to talk any stuff. But, I say, we are chattering away here\nabout nothing, and that doctor has been a long time in there. But perhaps\nhe's examining the mamma and that poor crippled Nina. I liked that Nina,\nyou know. She whispered to me suddenly as I was coming away, 'Why didn't\nyou come before?' And in such a voice, so reproachfully! I think she is\nawfully nice and pathetic.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes! Well, you'll be coming often, you will see what she is like. It\nwould do you a great deal of good to know people like that, to learn to\nvalue a great deal which you will find out from knowing these people,\"\nAlyosha observed warmly. \"That would have more effect on you than\nanything.\"\n\n\"Oh, how I regret and blame myself for not having come sooner!\" Kolya\nexclaimed, with bitter feeling.\n\n\"Yes, it's a great pity. You saw for yourself how delighted the poor child\nwas to see you. And how he fretted for you to come!\"\n\n\"Don't tell me! You make it worse! But it serves me right. What kept me\nfrom coming was my conceit, my egoistic vanity, and the beastly\nwilfullness, which I never can get rid of, though I've been struggling\nwith it all my life. I see that now. I am a beast in lots of ways,\nKaramazov!\"\n\n\"No, you have a charming nature, though it's been distorted, and I quite\nunderstand why you have had such an influence on this generous, morbidly\nsensitive boy,\" Alyosha answered warmly.\n\n\"And you say that to me!\" cried Kolya; \"and would you believe it, I\nthought--I've thought several times since I've been here--that you despised\nme! If only you knew how I prize your opinion!\"\n\n\"But are you really so sensitive? At your age! Would you believe it, just\nnow, when you were telling your story, I thought, as I watched you, that\nyou must be very sensitive!\"\n\n\"You thought so? What an eye you've got, I say! I bet that was when I was\ntalking about the goose. That was just when I was fancying you had a great\ncontempt for me for being in such a hurry to show off, and for a moment I\nquite hated you for it, and began talking like a fool. Then I fancied--just\nnow, here--when I said that if there were no God He would have to be\ninvented, that I was in too great a hurry to display my knowledge,\nespecially as I got that phrase out of a book. But I swear I wasn't\nshowing off out of vanity, though I really don't know why. Because I was\nso pleased? Yes, I believe it was because I was so pleased ... though it's\nperfectly disgraceful for any one to be gushing directly they are pleased,\nI know that. But I am convinced now that you don't despise me; it was all\nmy imagination. Oh, Karamazov, I am profoundly unhappy. I sometimes fancy\nall sorts of things, that every one is laughing at me, the whole world,\nand then I feel ready to overturn the whole order of things.\"\n\n\"And you worry every one about you,\" smiled Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes, I worry every one about me, especially my mother. Karamazov, tell\nme, am I very ridiculous now?\"\n\n\"Don't think about that, don't think of it at all!\" cried Alyosha. \"And\nwhat does ridiculous mean? Isn't every one constantly being or seeming\nridiculous? Besides, nearly all clever people now are fearfully afraid of\nbeing ridiculous, and that makes them unhappy. All I am surprised at is\nthat you should be feeling that so early, though I've observed it for some\ntime past, and not only in you. Nowadays the very children have begun to\nsuffer from it. It's almost a sort of insanity. The devil has taken the\nform of that vanity and entered into the whole generation; it's simply the\ndevil,\" added Alyosha, without a trace of the smile that Kolya, staring at\nhim, expected to see. \"You are like every one else,\" said Alyosha, in\nconclusion, \"that is, like very many others. Only you must not be like\neverybody else, that's all.\"\n\n\"Even if every one is like that?\"\n\n\"Yes, even if every one is like that. You be the only one not like it. You\nreally are not like every one else, here you are not ashamed to confess to\nsomething bad and even ridiculous. And who will admit so much in these\ndays? No one. And people have even ceased to feel the impulse to self-\ncriticism. Don't be like every one else, even if you are the only one.\"\n\n\"Splendid! I was not mistaken in you. You know how to console one. Oh, how\nI have longed to know you, Karamazov! I've long been eager for this\nmeeting. Can you really have thought about me, too? You said just now that\nyou thought of me, too?\"\n\n\"Yes, I'd heard of you and had thought of you, too ... and if it's partly\nvanity that makes you ask, it doesn't matter.\"\n\n\"Do you know, Karamazov, our talk has been like a declaration of love,\"\nsaid Kolya, in a bashful and melting voice. \"That's not ridiculous, is\nit?\"\n\n\"Not at all ridiculous, and if it were, it wouldn't matter, because it's\nbeen a good thing.\" Alyosha smiled brightly.\n\n\"But do you know, Karamazov, you must admit that you are a little ashamed\nyourself, now.... I see it by your eyes.\" Kolya smiled with a sort of sly\nhappiness.\n\n\"Why ashamed?\"\n\n\"Well, why are you blushing?\"\n\n\"It was you made me blush,\" laughed Alyosha, and he really did blush. \"Oh,\nwell, I am a little, goodness knows why, I don't know...\" he muttered,\nalmost embarrassed.\n\n\"Oh, how I love you and admire you at this moment just because you are\nrather ashamed! Because you are just like me,\" cried Kolya, in positive\necstasy. His cheeks glowed, his eyes beamed.\n\n\"You know, Kolya, you will be very unhappy in your life,\" something made\nAlyosha say suddenly.\n\n\"I know, I know. How you know it all beforehand!\" Kolya agreed at once.\n\n\"But you will bless life on the whole, all the same.\"\n\n\"Just so, hurrah! You are a prophet. Oh, we shall get on together,\nKaramazov! Do you know, what delights me most, is that you treat me quite\nlike an equal. But we are not equals, no, we are not, you are better! But\nwe shall get on. Do you know, all this last month, I've been saying to\nmyself, 'Either we shall be friends at once, for ever, or we shall part\nenemies to the grave!' \"\n\n\"And saying that, of course, you loved me,\" Alyosha laughed gayly.\n\n\"I did. I loved you awfully. I've been loving and dreaming of you. And how\ndo you know it all beforehand? Ah, here's the doctor. Goodness! What will\nhe tell us? Look at his face!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. Ilusha\n\n\nThe doctor came out of the room again, muffled in his fur coat and with\nhis cap on his head. His face looked almost angry and disgusted, as though\nhe were afraid of getting dirty. He cast a cursory glance round the\npassage, looking sternly at Alyosha and Kolya as he did so. Alyosha waved\nfrom the door to the coachman, and the carriage that had brought the\ndoctor drove up. The captain darted out after the doctor, and, bowing\napologetically, stopped him to get the last word. The poor fellow looked\nutterly crushed; there was a scared look in his eyes.\n\n\"Your Excellency, your Excellency ... is it possible?\" he began, but could\nnot go on and clasped his hands in despair. Yet he still gazed imploringly\nat the doctor, as though a word from him might still change the poor boy's\nfate.\n\n\"I can't help it, I am not God!\" the doctor answered offhand, though with\nthe customary impressiveness.\n\n\"Doctor ... your Excellency ... and will it be soon, soon?\"\n\n\"You must be prepared for anything,\" said the doctor in emphatic and\nincisive tones, and dropping his eyes, he was about to step out to the\ncoach.\n\n\"Your Excellency, for Christ's sake!\" the terror-stricken captain stopped\nhim again. \"Your Excellency! but can nothing, absolutely nothing save him\nnow?\"\n\n\"It's not in my hands now,\" said the doctor impatiently, \"but h'm!...\" he\nstopped suddenly. \"If you could, for instance ... send ... your patient\n... at once, without delay\" (the words \"at once, without delay,\" the\ndoctor uttered with an almost wrathful sternness that made the captain\nstart) \"to Syracuse, the change to the new be-ne-ficial climatic\nconditions might possibly effect--\"\n\n\"To Syracuse!\" cried the captain, unable to grasp what was said.\n\n\"Syracuse is in Sicily,\" Kolya jerked out suddenly in explanation. The\ndoctor looked at him.\n\n\"Sicily! your Excellency,\" faltered the captain, \"but you've seen\"--he\nspread out his hands, indicating his surroundings--\"mamma and my family?\"\n\n\"N--no, Sicily is not the place for the family, the family should go to\nCaucasus in the early spring ... your daughter must go to the Caucasus,\nand your wife ... after a course of the waters in the Caucasus for her\nrheumatism ... must be sent straight to Paris to the mental specialist\nLepelletier; I could give you a note to him, and then ... there might be a\nchange--\"\n\n\"Doctor, doctor! But you see!\" The captain flung wide his hands again\ndespairingly, indicating the bare wooden walls of the passage.\n\n\"Well, that's not my business,\" grinned the doctor. \"I have only told you\nthe answer of medical science to your question as to possible treatment.\nAs for the rest, to my regret--\"\n\n\"Don't be afraid, apothecary, my dog won't bite you,\" Kolya rapped out\nloudly, noticing the doctor's rather uneasy glance at Perezvon, who was\nstanding in the doorway. There was a wrathful note in Kolya's voice. He\nused the word apothecary instead of doctor on purpose, and, as he\nexplained afterwards, used it \"to insult him.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" The doctor flung up his head, staring with surprise at\nKolya. \"Who's this?\" he addressed Alyosha, as though asking him to\nexplain.\n\n\"It's Perezvon's master, don't worry about me,\" Kolya said incisively\nagain.\n\n\"Perezvon?\"(7) repeated the doctor, perplexed.\n\n\"He hears the bell, but where it is he cannot tell. Good-by, we shall meet\nin Syracuse.\"\n\n\"Who's this? Who's this?\" The doctor flew into a terrible rage.\n\n\"He is a schoolboy, doctor, he is a mischievous boy; take no notice of\nhim,\" said Alyosha, frowning and speaking quickly. \"Kolya, hold your\ntongue!\" he cried to Krassotkin. \"Take no notice of him, doctor,\" he\nrepeated, rather impatiently.\n\n\"He wants a thrashing, a good thrashing!\" The doctor stamped in a perfect\nfury.\n\n\"And you know, apothecary, my Perezvon might bite!\" said Kolya, turning\npale, with quivering voice and flashing eyes. \"_Ici_, Perezvon!\"\n\n\"Kolya, if you say another word, I'll have nothing more to do with you,\"\nAlyosha cried peremptorily.\n\n\"There is only one man in the world who can command Nikolay\nKrassotkin--this is the man\"; Kolya pointed to Alyosha. \"I obey him, good-\nby!\"\n\nHe stepped forward, opened the door, and quickly went into the inner room.\nPerezvon flew after him. The doctor stood still for five seconds in\namazement, looking at Alyosha; then, with a curse, he went out quickly to\nthe carriage, repeating aloud, \"This is ... this is ... I don't know what\nit is!\" The captain darted forward to help him into the carriage. Alyosha\nfollowed Kolya into the room. He was already by Ilusha's bedside. The sick\nboy was holding his hand and calling for his father. A minute later the\ncaptain, too, came back.\n\n\"Father, father, come ... we ...\" Ilusha faltered in violent excitement,\nbut apparently unable to go on, he flung his wasted arms round his father\nand Kolya, uniting them in one embrace, and hugging them as tightly as he\ncould. The captain suddenly began to shake with dumb sobs, and Kolya's\nlips and chin twitched.\n\n\"Father, father! How sorry I am for you!\" Ilusha moaned bitterly.\n\n\"Ilusha ... darling ... the doctor said ... you would be all right ... we\nshall be happy ... the doctor ...\" the captain began.\n\n\"Ah, father! I know what the new doctor said to you about me.... I saw!\"\ncried Ilusha, and again he hugged them both with all his strength, hiding\nhis face on his father's shoulder.\n\n\"Father, don't cry, and when I die get a good boy, another one ... choose\none of them all, a good one, call him Ilusha and love him instead of\nme....\"\n\n\"Hush, old man, you'll get well,\" Krassotkin cried suddenly, in a voice\nthat sounded angry.\n\n\"But don't ever forget me, father,\" Ilusha went on, \"come to my grave ...\nand, father, bury me by our big stone, where we used to go for our walk,\nand come to me there with Krassotkin in the evening ... and Perezvon ... I\nshall expect you.... Father, father!\"\n\nHis voice broke. They were all three silent, still embracing. Nina was\ncrying quietly in her chair, and at last seeing them all crying, \"mamma,\"\ntoo, burst into tears.\n\n\"Ilusha! Ilusha!\" she exclaimed.\n\nKrassotkin suddenly released himself from Ilusha's embrace.\n\n\"Good-by, old man, mother expects me back to dinner,\" he said quickly.\n\"What a pity I did not tell her! She will be dreadfully anxious.... But\nafter dinner I'll come back to you for the whole day, for the whole\nevening, and I'll tell you all sorts of things, all sorts of things. And\nI'll bring Perezvon, but now I will take him with me, because he will\nbegin to howl when I am away and bother you. Good-by!\"\n\nAnd he ran out into the passage. He didn't want to cry, but in the passage\nhe burst into tears. Alyosha found him crying.\n\n\"Kolya, you must be sure to keep your word and come, or he will be\nterribly disappointed,\" Alyosha said emphatically.\n\n\"I will! Oh, how I curse myself for not having come before!\" muttered\nKolya, crying, and no longer ashamed of it.\n\nAt that moment the captain flew out of the room, and at once closed the\ndoor behind him. His face looked frenzied, his lips were trembling. He\nstood before the two and flung up his arms.\n\n\"I don't want a good boy! I don't want another boy!\" he muttered in a wild\nwhisper, clenching his teeth. \"If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my\ntongue--\" He broke off with a sob and sank on his knees before the wooden\nbench. Pressing his fists against his head, he began sobbing with absurd\nwhimpering cries, doing his utmost that his cries should not be heard in\nthe room.\n\nKolya ran out into the street.\n\n\"Good-by, Karamazov? Will you come yourself?\" he cried sharply and angrily\nto Alyosha.\n\n\"I will certainly come in the evening.\"\n\n\"What was that he said about Jerusalem?... What did he mean by that?\"\n\n\"It's from the Bible. 'If I forget thee, Jerusalem,' that is, if I forget\nall that is most precious to me, if I let anything take its place, then\nmay--\"\n\n\"I understand, that's enough! Mind you come! _Ici_, Perezvon!\" he cried\nwith positive ferocity to the dog, and with rapid strides he went home.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook XI. Ivan  Chapter I. At Grushenka's\n\n\nAlyosha went towards the cathedral square to the widow Morozov's house to\nsee Grushenka, who had sent Fenya to him early in the morning with an\nurgent message begging him to come. Questioning Fenya, Alyosha learned\nthat her mistress had been particularly distressed since the previous day.\nDuring the two months that had passed since Mitya's arrest, Alyosha had\ncalled frequently at the widow Morozov's house, both from his own\ninclination and to take messages for Mitya. Three days after Mitya's\narrest, Grushenka was taken very ill and was ill for nearly five weeks.\nFor one whole week she was unconscious. She was very much changed--thinner\nand a little sallow, though she had for the past fortnight been well\nenough to go out. But to Alyosha her face was even more attractive than\nbefore, and he liked to meet her eyes when he went in to her. A look of\nfirmness and intelligent purpose had developed in her face. There were\nsigns of a spiritual transformation in her, and a steadfast, fine and\nhumble determination that nothing could shake could be discerned in her.\nThere was a small vertical line between her brows which gave her charming\nface a look of concentrated thought, almost austere at the first glance.\nThere was scarcely a trace of her former frivolity.\n\nIt seemed strange to Alyosha, too, that in spite of the calamity that had\novertaken the poor girl, betrothed to a man who had been arrested for a\nterrible crime, almost at the instant of their betrothal, in spite of her\nillness and the almost inevitable sentence hanging over Mitya, Grushenka\nhad not yet lost her youthful cheerfulness. There was a soft light in the\nonce proud eyes, though at times they gleamed with the old vindictive fire\nwhen she was visited by one disturbing thought stronger than ever in her\nheart. The object of that uneasiness was the same as ever--Katerina\nIvanovna, of whom Grushenka had even raved when she lay in delirium.\nAlyosha knew that she was fearfully jealous of her. Yet Katerina Ivanovna\nhad not once visited Mitya in his prison, though she might have done it\nwhenever she liked. All this made a difficult problem for Alyosha, for he\nwas the only person to whom Grushenka opened her heart and from whom she\nwas continually asking advice. Sometimes he was unable to say anything.\n\nFull of anxiety he entered her lodging. She was at home. She had returned\nfrom seeing Mitya half an hour before, and from the rapid movement with\nwhich she leapt up from her chair to meet him he saw that she had been\nexpecting him with great impatience. A pack of cards dealt for a game of\n\"fools\" lay on the table. A bed had been made up on the leather sofa on\nthe other side and Maximov lay, half-reclining, on it. He wore a dressing-\ngown and a cotton nightcap, and was evidently ill and weak, though he was\nsmiling blissfully. When the homeless old man returned with Grushenka from\nMokroe two months before, he had simply stayed on and was still staying\nwith her. He arrived with her in rain and sleet, sat down on the sofa,\ndrenched and scared, and gazed mutely at her with a timid, appealing\nsmile. Grushenka, who was in terrible grief and in the first stage of\nfever, almost forgot his existence in all she had to do the first half-\nhour after her arrival. Suddenly she chanced to look at him intently: he\nlaughed a pitiful, helpless little laugh. She called Fenya and told her to\ngive him something to eat. All that day he sat in the same place, almost\nwithout stirring. When it got dark and the shutters were closed, Fenya\nasked her mistress:\n\n\"Is the gentleman going to stay the night, mistress?\"\n\n\"Yes; make him a bed on the sofa,\" answered Grushenka.\n\nQuestioning him more in detail, Grushenka learned from him that he had\nliterally nowhere to go, and that \"Mr. Kalganov, my benefactor, told me\nstraight that he wouldn't receive me again and gave me five roubles.\"\n\n\"Well, God bless you, you'd better stay, then,\" Grushenka decided in her\ngrief, smiling compassionately at him. Her smile wrung the old man's heart\nand his lips twitched with grateful tears. And so the destitute wanderer\nhad stayed with her ever since. He did not leave the house even when she\nwas ill. Fenya and her grandmother, the cook, did not turn him out, but\nwent on serving him meals and making up his bed on the sofa. Grushenka had\ngrown used to him, and coming back from seeing Mitya (whom she had begun\nto visit in prison before she was really well) she would sit down and\nbegin talking to \"Maximushka\" about trifling matters, to keep her from\nthinking of her sorrow. The old man turned out to be a good story-teller\non occasions, so that at last he became necessary to her. Grushenka saw\nscarcely any one else beside Alyosha, who did not come every day and never\nstayed long. Her old merchant lay seriously ill at this time, \"at his last\ngasp\" as they said in the town, and he did, in fact, die a week after\nMitya's trial. Three weeks before his death, feeling the end approaching,\nhe made his sons, their wives and children, come upstairs to him at last\nand bade them not leave him again. From that moment he gave strict orders\nto his servants not to admit Grushenka and to tell her if she came, \"The\nmaster wishes you long life and happiness and tells you to forget him.\"\nBut Grushenka sent almost every day to inquire after him.\n\n\"You've come at last!\" she cried, flinging down the cards and joyfully\ngreeting Alyosha, \"and Maximushka's been scaring me that perhaps you\nwouldn't come. Ah, how I need you! Sit down to the table. What will you\nhave--coffee?\"\n\n\"Yes, please,\" said Alyosha, sitting down at the table. \"I am very\nhungry.\"\n\n\"That's right. Fenya, Fenya, coffee,\" cried Grushenka. \"It's been made a\nlong time ready for you. And bring some little pies, and mind they are\nhot. Do you know, we've had a storm over those pies to-day. I took them to\nthe prison for him, and would you believe it, he threw them back to me: he\nwould not eat them. He flung one of them on the floor and stamped on it.\nSo I said to him: 'I shall leave them with the warder; if you don't eat\nthem before evening, it will be that your venomous spite is enough for\nyou!' With that I went away. We quarreled again, would you believe it?\nWhenever I go we quarrel.\"\n\nGrushenka said all this in one breath in her agitation. Maximov, feeling\nnervous, at once smiled and looked on the floor.\n\n\"What did you quarrel about this time?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"I didn't expect it in the least. Only fancy, he is jealous of the Pole.\n'Why are you keeping him?' he said. 'So you've begun keeping him.' He is\njealous, jealous of me all the time, jealous eating and sleeping! He even\ntook it into his head to be jealous of Kuzma last week.\"\n\n\"But he knew about the Pole before?\"\n\n\"Yes, but there it is. He has known about him from the very beginning, but\nto-day he suddenly got up and began scolding about him. I am ashamed to\nrepeat what he said. Silly fellow! Rakitin went in as I came out. Perhaps\nRakitin is egging him on. What do you think?\" she added carelessly.\n\n\"He loves you, that's what it is: he loves you so much. And now he is\nparticularly worried.\"\n\n\"I should think he might be, with the trial to-morrow. And I went to him\nto say something about to-morrow, for I dread to think what's going to\nhappen then. You say that he is worried, but how worried I am! And he\ntalks about the Pole! He's too silly! He is not jealous of Maximushka yet,\nanyway.\"\n\n\"My wife was dreadfully jealous over me, too,\" Maximov put in his word.\n\n\"Jealous of you?\" Grushenka laughed in spite of herself. \"Of whom could\nshe have been jealous?\"\n\n\"Of the servant girls.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, Maximushka, I am in no laughing mood now; I feel angry.\nDon't ogle the pies. I shan't give you any; they are not good for you, and\nI won't give you any vodka either. I have to look after him, too, just as\nthough I kept an almshouse,\" she laughed.\n\n\"I don't deserve your kindness. I am a worthless creature,\" said Maximov,\nwith tears in his voice. \"You would do better to spend your kindness on\npeople of more use than me.\"\n\n\"Ech, every one is of use, Maximushka, and how can we tell who's of most\nuse? If only that Pole didn't exist, Alyosha. He's taken it into his head\nto fall ill, too, to-day. I've been to see him also. And I shall send him\nsome pies, too, on purpose. I hadn't sent him any, but Mitya accused me of\nit, so now I shall send some! Ah, here's Fenya with a letter! Yes, it's\nfrom the Poles--begging again!\"\n\nPan Mussyalovitch had indeed sent an extremely long and characteristically\neloquent letter in which he begged her to lend him three roubles. In the\nletter was enclosed a receipt for the sum, with a promise to repay it\nwithin three months, signed by Pan Vrublevsky as well. Grushenka had\nreceived many such letters, accompanied by such receipts, from her former\nlover during the fortnight of her convalescence. But she knew that the two\nPoles had been to ask after her health during her illness. The first\nletter Grushenka got from them was a long one, written on large notepaper\nand with a big family crest on the seal. It was so obscure and rhetorical\nthat Grushenka put it down before she had read half, unable to make head\nor tail of it. She could not attend to letters then. The first letter was\nfollowed next day by another in which Pan Mussyalovitch begged her for a\nloan of two thousand roubles for a very short period. Grushenka left that\nletter, too, unanswered. A whole series of letters had followed--one every\nday--all as pompous and rhetorical, but the loan asked for, gradually\ndiminishing, dropped to a hundred roubles, then to twenty-five, to ten,\nand finally Grushenka received a letter in which both the Poles begged her\nfor only one rouble and included a receipt signed by both.\n\nThen Grushenka suddenly felt sorry for them, and at dusk she went round\nherself to their lodging. She found the two Poles in great poverty, almost\ndestitution, without food or fuel, without cigarettes, in debt to their\nlandlady. The two hundred roubles they had carried off from Mitya at\nMokroe had soon disappeared. But Grushenka was surprised at their meeting\nher with arrogant dignity and self-assertion, with the greatest punctilio\nand pompous speeches. Grushenka simply laughed, and gave her former\nadmirer ten roubles. Then, laughing, she told Mitya of it and he was not\nin the least jealous. But ever since, the Poles had attached themselves to\nGrushenka and bombarded her daily with requests for money and she had\nalways sent them small sums. And now that day Mitya had taken it into his\nhead to be fearfully jealous.\n\n\"Like a fool, I went round to him just for a minute, on the way to see\nMitya, for he is ill, too, my Pole,\" Grushenka began again with nervous\nhaste. \"I was laughing, telling Mitya about it. 'Fancy,' I said, 'my Pole\nhad the happy thought to sing his old songs to me to the guitar. He\nthought I would be touched and marry him!' Mitya leapt up swearing.... So,\nthere, I'll send them the pies! Fenya, is it that little girl they've\nsent? Here, give her three roubles and pack a dozen pies up in a paper and\ntell her to take them. And you, Alyosha, be sure to tell Mitya that I did\nsend them the pies.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't tell him for anything,\" said Alyosha, smiling.\n\n\"Ech! You think he is unhappy about it. Why, he's jealous on purpose. He\ndoesn't care,\" said Grushenka bitterly.\n\n\"On purpose?\" queried Alyosha.\n\n\"I tell you you are silly, Alyosha. You know nothing about it, with all\nyour cleverness. I am not offended that he is jealous of a girl like me. I\nwould be offended if he were not jealous. I am like that. I am not\noffended at jealousy. I have a fierce heart, too. I can be jealous myself.\nOnly what offends me is that he doesn't love me at all. I tell you he is\njealous now _on purpose_. Am I blind? Don't I see? He began talking to me\njust now of that woman, of Katerina, saying she was this and that, how she\nhad ordered a doctor from Moscow for him, to try and save him; how she had\nordered the best counsel, the most learned one, too. So he loves her, if\nhe'll praise her to my face, more shame to him! He's treated me badly\nhimself, so he attacked me, to make out I am in fault first and to throw\nit all on me. 'You were with your Pole before me, so I can't be blamed for\nKaterina,' that's what it amounts to. He wants to throw the whole blame on\nme. He attacked me on purpose, on purpose, I tell you, but I'll--\"\n\nGrushenka could not finish saying what she would do. She hid her eyes in\nher handkerchief and sobbed violently.\n\n\"He doesn't love Katerina Ivanovna,\" said Alyosha firmly.\n\n\"Well, whether he loves her or not, I'll soon find out for myself,\" said\nGrushenka, with a menacing note in her voice, taking the handkerchief from\nher eyes. Her face was distorted. Alyosha saw sorrowfully that from being\nmild and serene, it had become sullen and spiteful.\n\n\"Enough of this foolishness,\" she said suddenly; \"it's not for that I sent\nfor you. Alyosha, darling, to-morrow--what will happen to-morrow? That's\nwhat worries me! And it's only me it worries! I look at every one and no\none is thinking of it. No one cares about it. Are you thinking about it\neven? To-morrow he'll be tried, you know. Tell me, how will he be tried?\nYou know it's the valet, the valet killed him! Good heavens! Can they\ncondemn him in place of the valet and will no one stand up for him? They\nhaven't troubled the valet at all, have they?\"\n\n\"He's been severely cross-examined,\" observed Alyosha thoughtfully; \"but\nevery one came to the conclusion it was not he. Now he is lying very ill.\nHe has been ill ever since that attack. Really ill,\" added Alyosha.\n\n\"Oh, dear! couldn't you go to that counsel yourself and tell him the whole\nthing by yourself? He's been brought from Petersburg for three thousand\nroubles, they say.\"\n\n\"We gave these three thousand together--Ivan, Katerina Ivanovna and I--but\nshe paid two thousand for the doctor from Moscow herself. The counsel\nFetyukovitch would have charged more, but the case has become known all\nover Russia; it's talked of in all the papers and journals. Fetyukovitch\nagreed to come more for the glory of the thing, because the case has\nbecome so notorious. I saw him yesterday.\"\n\n\"Well? Did you talk to him?\" Grushenka put in eagerly.\n\n\"He listened and said nothing. He told me that he had already formed his\nopinion. But he promised to give my words consideration.\"\n\n\"Consideration! Ah, they are swindlers! They'll ruin him. And why did she\nsend for the doctor?\"\n\n\"As an expert. They want to prove that Mitya's mad and committed the\nmurder when he didn't know what he was doing\"; Alyosha smiled gently; \"but\nMitya won't agree to that.\"\n\n\"Yes; but that would be the truth if he had killed him!\" cried Grushenka.\n\"He was mad then, perfectly mad, and that was my fault, wretch that I am!\nBut, of course, he didn't do it, he didn't do it! And they are all against\nhim, the whole town. Even Fenya's evidence went to prove he had done it.\nAnd the people at the shop, and that official, and at the tavern, too,\nbefore, people had heard him say so! They are all, all against him, all\ncrying out against him.\"\n\n\"Yes, there's a fearful accumulation of evidence,\" Alyosha observed\ngrimly.\n\n\"And Grigory--Grigory Vassilyevitch--sticks to his story that the door was\nopen, persists that he saw it--there's no shaking him. I went and talked to\nhim myself. He's rude about it, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's perhaps the strongest evidence against him,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"And as for Mitya's being mad, he certainly seems like it now,\" Grushenka\nbegan with a peculiarly anxious and mysterious air. \"Do you know, Alyosha,\nI've been wanting to talk to you about it for a long time. I go to him\nevery day and simply wonder at him. Tell me, now, what do you suppose he's\nalways talking about? He talks and talks and I can make nothing of it. I\nfancied he was talking of something intellectual that I couldn't\nunderstand in my foolishness. Only he suddenly began talking to me about a\nbabe--that is, about some child. 'Why is the babe poor?' he said. 'It's for\nthat babe I am going to Siberia now. I am not a murderer, but I must go to\nSiberia!' What that meant, what babe, I couldn't tell for the life of me.\nOnly I cried when he said it, because he said it so nicely. He cried\nhimself, and I cried, too. He suddenly kissed me and made the sign of the\ncross over me. What did it mean, Alyosha, tell me? What is this babe?\"\n\n\"It must be Rakitin, who's been going to see him lately,\" smiled Alyosha,\n\"though ... that's not Rakitin's doing. I didn't see Mitya yesterday. I'll\nsee him to-day.\"\n\n\"No, it's not Rakitin; it's his brother Ivan Fyodorovitch upsetting him.\nIt's his going to see him, that's what it is,\" Grushenka began, and\nsuddenly broke off. Alyosha gazed at her in amazement.\n\n\"Ivan's going? Has he been to see him? Mitya told me himself that Ivan\nhasn't been once.\"\n\n\"There ... there! What a girl I am! Blurting things out!\" exclaimed\nGrushenka, confused and suddenly blushing. \"Stay, Alyosha, hush! Since\nI've said so much I'll tell the whole truth--he's been to see him twice,\nthe first directly he arrived. He galloped here from Moscow at once, of\ncourse, before I was taken ill; and the second time was a week ago. He\ntold Mitya not to tell you about it, under any circumstances; and not to\ntell any one, in fact. He came secretly.\"\n\nAlyosha sat plunged in thought, considering something. The news evidently\nimpressed him.\n\n\"Ivan doesn't talk to me of Mitya's case,\" he said slowly. \"He's said very\nlittle to me these last two months. And whenever I go to see him, he seems\nvexed at my coming, so I've not been to him for the last three weeks.\nH'm!... if he was there a week ago ... there certainly has been a change\nin Mitya this week.\"\n\n\"There has been a change,\" Grushenka assented quickly. \"They have a\nsecret, they have a secret! Mitya told me himself there was a secret, and\nsuch a secret that Mitya can't rest. Before then, he was cheerful--and,\nindeed, he is cheerful now--but when he shakes his head like that, you\nknow, and strides about the room and keeps pulling at the hair on his\nright temple with his right hand, I know there is something on his mind\nworrying him.... I know! He was cheerful before, though, indeed, he is\ncheerful to-day.\"\n\n\"But you said he was worried.\"\n\n\"Yes, he is worried and yet cheerful. He keeps on being irritable for a\nminute and then cheerful and then irritable again. And you know, Alyosha,\nI am constantly wondering at him--with this awful thing hanging over him,\nhe sometimes laughs at such trifles as though he were a baby himself.\"\n\n\"And did he really tell you not to tell me about Ivan? Did he say, 'Don't\ntell him'?\"\n\n\"Yes, he told me, 'Don't tell him.' It's you that Mitya's most afraid of.\nBecause it's a secret: he said himself it was a secret. Alyosha, darling,\ngo to him and find out what their secret is and come and tell me,\"\nGrushenka besought him with sudden eagerness. \"Set my mind at rest that I\nmay know the worst that's in store for me. That's why I sent for you.\"\n\n\"You think it's something to do with you? If it were, he wouldn't have\ntold you there was a secret.\"\n\n\"I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell me, but doesn't dare to. He warns\nme. There is a secret, he tells me, but he won't tell me what it is.\"\n\n\"What do you think yourself?\"\n\n\"What do I think? It's the end for me, that's what I think. They all three\nhave been plotting my end, for Katerina's in it. It's all Katerina, it all\ncomes from her. She is this and that, and that means that I am not. He\ntells me that beforehand--warns me. He is planning to throw me over, that's\nthe whole secret. They've planned it together, the three of them--Mitya,\nKaterina, and Ivan Fyodorovitch. Alyosha, I've been wanting to ask you a\nlong time. A week ago he suddenly told me that Ivan was in love with\nKaterina, because he often goes to see her. Did he tell me the truth or\nnot? Tell me, on your conscience, tell me the worst.\"\n\n\"I won't tell you a lie. Ivan is not in love with Katerina Ivanovna, I\nthink.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's what I thought! He is lying to me, shameless deceiver, that's\nwhat it is! And he was jealous of me just now, so as to put the blame on\nme afterwards. He is stupid, he can't disguise what he is doing; he is so\nopen, you know.... But I'll give it to him, I'll give it to him! 'You\nbelieve I did it,' he said. He said that to me, to me. He reproached me\nwith that! God forgive him! You wait, I'll make it hot for Katerina at the\ntrial! I'll just say a word then ... I'll tell everything then!\"\n\nAnd again she cried bitterly.\n\n\"This I can tell you for certain, Grushenka,\" Alyosha said, getting up.\n\"First, that he loves you, loves you more than any one in the world, and\nyou only, believe me. I know. I do know. The second thing is that I don't\nwant to worm his secret out of him, but if he'll tell me of himself to-\nday, I shall tell him straight out that I have promised to tell you. Then\nI'll come to you to-day, and tell you. Only ... I fancy ... Katerina\nIvanovna has nothing to do with it, and that the secret is about something\nelse. That's certain. It isn't likely it's about Katerina Ivanovna, it\nseems to me. Good-by for now.\"\n\nAlyosha shook hands with her. Grushenka was still crying. He saw that she\nput little faith in his consolation, but she was better for having had her\nsorrow out, for having spoken of it. He was sorry to leave her in such a\nstate of mind, but he was in haste. He had a great many things to do\nstill.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. The Injured Foot\n\n\nThe first of these things was at the house of Madame Hohlakov, and he\nhurried there to get it over as quickly as possible and not be too late\nfor Mitya. Madame Hohlakov had been slightly ailing for the last three\nweeks: her foot had for some reason swollen up, and though she was not in\nbed, she lay all day half-reclining on the couch in her boudoir, in a\nfascinating but decorous _deshabille_. Alyosha had once noted with\ninnocent amusement that, in spite of her illness, Madame Hohlakov had\nbegun to be rather dressy--top-knots, ribbons, loose wrappers, had made\ntheir appearance, and he had an inkling of the reason, though he dismissed\nsuch ideas from his mind as frivolous. During the last two months the\nyoung official, Perhotin, had become a regular visitor at the house.\n\nAlyosha had not called for four days and he was in haste to go straight to\nLise, as it was with her he had to speak, for Lise had sent a maid to him\nthe previous day, specially asking him to come to her \"about something\nvery important,\" a request which, for certain reasons, had interest for\nAlyosha. But while the maid went to take his name in to Lise, Madame\nHohlakov heard of his arrival from some one, and immediately sent to beg\nhim to come to her \"just for one minute.\" Alyosha reflected that it was\nbetter to accede to the mamma's request, or else she would be sending down\nto Lise's room every minute that he was there. Madame Hohlakov was lying\non a couch. She was particularly smartly dressed and was evidently in a\nstate of extreme nervous excitement. She greeted Alyosha with cries of\nrapture.\n\n\"It's ages, ages, perfect ages since I've seen you! It's a whole week--only\nthink of it! Ah, but you were here only four days ago, on Wednesday. You\nhave come to see Lise. I'm sure you meant to slip into her room on tiptoe,\nwithout my hearing you. My dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, if you only\nknew how worried I am about her! But of that later, though that's the most\nimportant thing, of that later. Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I trust you\nimplicitly with my Lise. Since the death of Father Zossima--God rest his\nsoul!\" (she crossed herself)--\"I look upon you as a monk, though you look\ncharming in your new suit. Where did you find such a tailor in these\nparts? No, no, that's not the chief thing--of that later. Forgive me for\nsometimes calling you Alyosha; an old woman like me may take liberties,\"\nshe smiled coquettishly; \"but that will do later, too. The important thing\nis that I shouldn't forget what is important. Please remind me of it\nyourself. As soon as my tongue runs away with me, you just say 'the\nimportant thing?' Ach! how do I know now what is of most importance? Ever\nsince Lise took back her promise--her childish promise, Alexey\nFyodorovitch--to marry you, you've realized, of course, that it was only\nthe playful fancy of a sick child who had been so long confined to her\nchair--thank God, she can walk now!... that new doctor Katya sent for from\nMoscow for your unhappy brother, who will to-morrow--But why speak of to-\nmorrow? I am ready to die at the very thought of to-morrow. Ready to die\nof curiosity.... That doctor was with us yesterday and saw Lise.... I paid\nhim fifty roubles for the visit. But that's not the point, that's not the\npoint again. You see, I'm mixing everything up. I am in such a hurry. Why\nam I in a hurry? I don't understand. It's awful how I seem growing unable\nto understand anything. Everything seems mixed up in a sort of tangle. I\nam afraid you are so bored you will jump up and run away, and that will be\nall I shall see of you. Goodness! Why are we sitting here and no coffee?\nYulia, Glafira, coffee!\"\n\nAlyosha made haste to thank her, and said that he had only just had\ncoffee.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"At Agrafena Alexandrovna's.\"\n\n\"At ... at that woman's? Ah, it's she has brought ruin on every one. I\nknow nothing about it though. They say she has become a saint, though it's\nrather late in the day. She had better have done it before. What use is it\nnow? Hush, hush, Alexey Fyodorovitch, for I have so much to say to you\nthat I am afraid I shall tell you nothing. This awful trial ... I shall\ncertainly go, I am making arrangements. I shall be carried there in my\nchair; besides I can sit up. I shall have people with me. And, you know, I\nam a witness. How shall I speak, how shall I speak? I don't know what I\nshall say. One has to take an oath, hasn't one?\"\n\n\"Yes; but I don't think you will be able to go.\"\n\n\"I can sit up. Ah, you put me out! Ah! this trial, this savage act, and\nthen they are all going to Siberia, some are getting married, and all this\nso quickly, so quickly, everything's changing, and at last--nothing. All\ngrow old and have death to look forward to. Well, so be it! I am weary.\nThis Katya, _cette charmante personne_, has disappointed all my hopes. Now\nshe is going to follow one of your brothers to Siberia, and your other\nbrother is going to follow her, and will live in the nearest town, and\nthey will all torment one another. It drives me out of my mind. Worst of\nall--the publicity. The story has been told a million times over in all the\npapers in Moscow and Petersburg. Ah! yes, would you believe it, there's a\nparagraph that I was 'a dear friend' of your brother's ----, I can't repeat\nthe horrid word. Just fancy, just fancy!\"\n\n\"Impossible! Where was the paragraph? What did it say?\"\n\n\"I'll show you directly. I got the paper and read it yesterday. Here, in\nthe Petersburg paper _Gossip_. The paper began coming out this year. I am\nawfully fond of gossip, and I take it in, and now it pays me out--this is\nwhat gossip comes to! Here it is, here, this passage. Read it.\"\n\nAnd she handed Alyosha a sheet of newspaper which had been under her\npillow.\n\nIt was not exactly that she was upset, she seemed overwhelmed and perhaps\neverything really was mixed up in a tangle in her head. The paragraph was\nvery typical, and must have been a great shock to her, but, fortunately\nperhaps, she was unable to keep her mind fixed on any one subject at that\nmoment, and so might race off in a minute to something else and quite\nforget the newspaper.\n\nAlyosha was well aware that the story of the terrible case had spread all\nover Russia. And, good heavens! what wild rumors about his brother, about\nthe Karamazovs, and about himself he had read in the course of those two\nmonths, among other equally credible items! One paper had even stated that\nhe had gone into a monastery and become a monk, in horror at his brother's\ncrime. Another contradicted this, and stated that he and his elder, Father\nZossima, had broken into the monastery chest and \"made tracks from the\nmonastery.\" The present paragraph in the paper _Gossip_ was under the\nheading, \"The Karamazov Case at Skotoprigonyevsk.\" (That, alas! was the\nname of our little town. I had hitherto kept it concealed.) It was brief,\nand Madame Hohlakov was not directly mentioned in it. No names appeared,\nin fact. It was merely stated that the criminal, whose approaching trial\nwas making such a sensation--retired army captain, an idle swaggerer, and\nreactionary bully--was continually involved in amorous intrigues, and\nparticularly popular with certain ladies \"who were pining in solitude.\"\nOne such lady, a pining widow, who tried to seem young though she had a\ngrown-up daughter, was so fascinated by him that only two hours before the\ncrime she offered him three thousand roubles, on condition that he would\nelope with her to the gold mines. But the criminal, counting on escaping\npunishment, had preferred to murder his father to get the three thousand\nrather than go off to Siberia with the middle-aged charms of his pining\nlady. This playful paragraph finished, of course, with an outburst of\ngenerous indignation at the wickedness of parricide and at the lately\nabolished institution of serfdom. Reading it with curiosity, Alyosha\nfolded up the paper and handed it back to Madame Hohlakov.\n\n\"Well, that must be me,\" she hurried on again. \"Of course I am meant.\nScarcely more than an hour before, I suggested gold mines to him, and here\nthey talk of 'middle-aged charms' as though that were my motive! He writes\nthat out of spite! God Almighty forgive him for the middle-aged charms, as\nI forgive him! You know it's-- Do you know who it is? It's your friend\nRakitin.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Alyosha, \"though I've heard nothing about it.\"\n\n\"It's he, it's he! No 'perhaps' about it. You know I turned him out of the\nhouse.... You know all that story, don't you?\"\n\n\"I know that you asked him not to visit you for the future, but why it\nwas, I haven't heard ... from you, at least.\"\n\n\"Ah, then you've heard it from him! He abuses me, I suppose, abuses me\ndreadfully?\"\n\n\"Yes, he does; but then he abuses every one. But why you've given him up I\nhaven't heard from him either. I meet him very seldom now, indeed. We are\nnot friends.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I'll tell you all about it. There's no help for it, I'll\nconfess, for there is one point in which I was perhaps to blame. Only a\nlittle, little point, so little that perhaps it doesn't count. You see, my\ndear boy\"--Madame Hohlakov suddenly looked arch and a charming, though\nenigmatic, smile played about her lips--\"you see, I suspect ... You must\nforgive me, Alyosha. I am like a mother to you.... No, no; quite the\ncontrary. I speak to you now as though you were my father--mother's quite\nout of place. Well, it's as though I were confessing to Father Zossima,\nthat's just it. I called you a monk just now. Well, that poor young man,\nyour friend, Rakitin (Mercy on us! I can't be angry with him. I feel\ncross, but not very), that frivolous young man, would you believe it,\nseems to have taken it into his head to fall in love with me. I only\nnoticed it later. At first--a month ago--he only began to come oftener to\nsee me, almost every day; though, of course, we were acquainted before. I\nknew nothing about it ... and suddenly it dawned upon me, and I began to\nnotice things with surprise. You know, two months ago, that modest,\ncharming, excellent young man, Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, who's in the\nservice here, began to be a regular visitor at the house. You met him here\never so many times yourself. And he is an excellent, earnest young man,\nisn't he? He comes once every three days, not every day (though I should\nbe glad to see him every day), and always so well dressed. Altogether, I\nlove young people, Alyosha, talented, modest, like you, and he has almost\nthe mind of a statesman, he talks so charmingly, and I shall certainly,\ncertainly try and get promotion for him. He is a future diplomat. On that\nawful day he almost saved me from death by coming in the night. And your\nfriend Rakitin comes in such boots, and always stretches them out on the\ncarpet.... He began hinting at his feelings, in fact, and one day, as he\nwas going, he squeezed my hand terribly hard. My foot began to swell\ndirectly after he pressed my hand like that. He had met Pyotr Ilyitch here\nbefore, and would you believe it, he is always gibing at him, growling at\nhim, for some reason. I simply looked at the way they went on together and\nlaughed inwardly. So I was sitting here alone--no, I was laid up then.\nWell, I was lying here alone and suddenly Rakitin comes in, and only\nfancy! brought me some verses of his own composition--a short poem, on my\nbad foot: that is, he described my foot in a poem. Wait a minute--how did\nit go?\n\n\n    A captivating little foot.\n\n\nIt began somehow like that. I can never remember poetry. I've got it here.\nI'll show it to you later. But it's a charming thing--charming; and, you\nknow, it's not only about the foot, it had a good moral, too, a charming\nidea, only I've forgotten it; in fact, it was just the thing for an album.\nSo, of course, I thanked him, and he was evidently flattered. I'd hardly\nhad time to thank him when in comes Pyotr Ilyitch, and Rakitin suddenly\nlooked as black as night. I could see that Pyotr Ilyitch was in the way,\nfor Rakitin certainly wanted to say something after giving me the verses.\nI had a presentiment of it; but Pyotr Ilyitch came in. I showed Pyotr\nIlyitch the verses and didn't say who was the author. But I am convinced\nthat he guessed, though he won't own it to this day, and declares he had\nno idea. But he says that on purpose. Pyotr Ilyitch began to laugh at\nonce, and fell to criticizing it. 'Wretched doggerel,' he said they were,\n'some divinity student must have written them,' and with such vehemence,\nsuch vehemence! Then, instead of laughing, your friend flew into a rage.\n'Good gracious!' I thought, 'they'll fly at each other.' 'It was I who\nwrote them,' said he. 'I wrote them as a joke,' he said, 'for I think it\ndegrading to write verses.... But they are good poetry. They want to put a\nmonument to your Pushkin for writing about women's feet, while I wrote\nwith a moral purpose, and you,' said he, 'are an advocate of serfdom.\nYou've no humane ideas,' said he. 'You have no modern enlightened\nfeelings, you are uninfluenced by progress, you are a mere official,' he\nsaid, 'and you take bribes.' Then I began screaming and imploring them.\nAnd, you know, Pyotr Ilyitch is anything but a coward. He at once took up\nthe most gentlemanly tone, looked at him sarcastically, listened, and\napologized. 'I'd no idea,' said he. 'I shouldn't have said it, if I had\nknown. I should have praised it. Poets are all so irritable,' he said. In\nshort, he laughed at him under cover of the most gentlemanly tone. He\nexplained to me afterwards that it was all sarcastic. I thought he was in\nearnest. Only as I lay there, just as before you now, I thought, 'Would\nit, or would it not, be the proper thing for me to turn Rakitin out for\nshouting so rudely at a visitor in my house?' And, would you believe it, I\nlay here, shut my eyes, and wondered, would it be the proper thing or not.\nI kept worrying and worrying, and my heart began to beat, and I couldn't\nmake up my mind whether to make an outcry or not. One voice seemed to be\ntelling me, 'Speak,' and the other 'No, don't speak.' And no sooner had\nthe second voice said that than I cried out, and fainted. Of course, there\nwas a fuss. I got up suddenly and said to Rakitin, 'It's painful for me to\nsay it, but I don't wish to see you in my house again.' So I turned him\nout. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I know myself I did wrong. I was putting it\non. I wasn't angry with him at all, really; but I suddenly fancied--that\nwas what did it--that it would be such a fine scene.... And yet, believe\nme, it was quite natural, for I really shed tears and cried for several\ndays afterwards, and then suddenly, one afternoon, I forgot all about it.\nSo it's a fortnight since he's been here, and I kept wondering whether he\nwould come again. I wondered even yesterday, then suddenly last night came\nthis _Gossip_. I read it and gasped. Who could have written it? He must\nhave written it. He went home, sat down, wrote it on the spot, sent it,\nand they put it in. It was a fortnight ago, you see. But, Alyosha, it's\nawful how I keep talking and don't say what I want to say. Ah! the words\ncome of themselves!\"\n\n\"It's very important for me to be in time to see my brother to-day,\"\nAlyosha faltered.\n\n\"To be sure, to be sure! You bring it all back to me. Listen, what is an\naberration?\"\n\n\"What aberration?\" asked Alyosha, wondering.\n\n\"In the legal sense. An aberration in which everything is pardonable.\nWhatever you do, you will be acquitted at once.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you. This Katya ... Ah! she is a charming, charming creature,\nonly I never can make out who it is she is in love with. She was with me\nsome time ago and I couldn't get anything out of her. Especially as she\nwon't talk to me except on the surface now. She is always talking about my\nhealth and nothing else, and she takes up such a tone with me, too. I\nsimply said to myself, 'Well, so be it. I don't care'... Oh, yes. I was\ntalking of aberration. This doctor has come. You know a doctor has come?\nOf course, you know it--the one who discovers madmen. You wrote for him.\nNo, it wasn't you, but Katya. It's all Katya's doing. Well, you see, a man\nmay be sitting perfectly sane and suddenly have an aberration. He may be\nconscious and know what he is doing and yet be in a state of aberration.\nAnd there's no doubt that Dmitri Fyodorovitch was suffering from\naberration. They found out about aberration as soon as the law courts were\nreformed. It's all the good effect of the reformed law courts. The doctor\nhas been here and questioned me about that evening, about the gold mines.\n'How did he seem then?' he asked me. He must have been in a state of\naberration. He came in shouting, 'Money, money, three thousand! Give me\nthree thousand!' and then went away and immediately did the murder. 'I\ndon't want to murder him,' he said, and he suddenly went and murdered him.\nThat's why they'll acquit him, because he struggled against it and yet he\nmurdered him.\"\n\n\"But he didn't murder him,\" Alyosha interrupted rather sharply. He felt\nmore and more sick with anxiety and impatience.\n\n\"Yes, I know it was that old man Grigory murdered him.\"\n\n\"Grigory?\" cried Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes, yes; it was Grigory. He lay as Dmitri Fyodorovitch struck him down,\nand then got up, saw the door open, went in and killed Fyodor Pavlovitch.\"\n\n\"But why, why?\"\n\n\"Suffering from aberration. When he recovered from the blow Dmitri\nFyodorovitch gave him on the head, he was suffering from aberration; he\nwent and committed the murder. As for his saying he didn't, he very likely\ndoesn't remember. Only, you know, it'll be better, ever so much better, if\nDmitri Fyodorovitch murdered him. And that's how it must have been, though\nI say it was Grigory. It certainly was Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that's\nbetter, ever so much better! Oh! not better that a son should have killed\nhis father, I don't defend that. Children ought to honor their parents,\nand yet it would be better if it were he, as you'd have nothing to cry\nover then, for he did it when he was unconscious or rather when he was\nconscious, but did not know what he was doing. Let them acquit him--that's\nso humane, and would show what a blessing reformed law courts are. I knew\nnothing about it, but they say they have been so a long time. And when I\nheard it yesterday, I was so struck by it that I wanted to send for you at\nonce. And if he is acquitted, make him come straight from the law courts\nto dinner with me, and I'll have a party of friends, and we'll drink to\nthe reformed law courts. I don't believe he'd be dangerous; besides, I'll\ninvite a great many friends, so that he could always be led out if he did\nanything. And then he might be made a justice of the peace or something in\nanother town, for those who have been in trouble themselves make the best\njudges. And, besides, who isn't suffering from aberration nowadays?--you,\nI, all of us are in a state of aberration, and there are ever so many\nexamples of it: a man sits singing a song, suddenly something annoys him,\nhe takes a pistol and shoots the first person he comes across, and no one\nblames him for it. I read that lately, and all the doctors confirm it. The\ndoctors are always confirming; they confirm anything. Why, my Lise is in a\nstate of aberration. She made me cry again yesterday, and the day before,\ntoo, and to-day I suddenly realized that it's all due to aberration. Oh,\nLise grieves me so! I believe she's quite mad. Why did she send for you?\nDid she send for you or did you come of yourself?\"\n\n\"Yes, she sent for me, and I am just going to her.\" Alyosha got up\nresolutely.\n\n\"Oh, my dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, perhaps that's what's most\nimportant,\" Madame Hohlakov cried, suddenly bursting into tears. \"God\nknows I trust Lise to you with all my heart, and it's no matter her\nsending for you on the sly, without telling her mother. But forgive me, I\ncan't trust my daughter so easily to your brother Ivan Fyodorovitch,\nthough I still consider him the most chivalrous young man. But only fancy,\nhe's been to see Lise and I knew nothing about it!\"\n\n\"How? What? When?\" Alyosha was exceedingly surprised. He had not sat down\nagain and listened standing.\n\n\"I will tell you; that's perhaps why I asked you to come, for I don't know\nnow why I did ask you to come. Well, Ivan Fyodorovitch has been to see me\ntwice, since he came back from Moscow. First time he came as a friend to\ncall on me, and the second time Katya was here and he came because he\nheard she was here. I didn't, of course, expect him to come often, knowing\nwhat a lot he has to do as it is, _vous comprenez, cette affaire et la\nmort terrible de votre papa_. But I suddenly heard he'd been here again,\nnot to see me but to see Lise. That's six days ago now. He came, stayed\nfive minutes, and went away. And I didn't hear of it till three days\nafterwards, from Glafira, so it was a great shock to me. I sent for Lise\ndirectly. She laughed. 'He thought you were asleep,' she said, 'and came\nin to me to ask after your health.' Of course, that's how it happened. But\nLise, Lise, mercy on us, how she distresses me! Would you believe it, one\nnight, four days ago, just after you saw her last time, and had gone away,\nshe suddenly had a fit, screaming, shrieking, hysterics! Why is it I never\nhave hysterics? Then, next day another fit, and the same thing on the\nthird, and yesterday too, and then yesterday that aberration. She suddenly\nscreamed out, 'I hate Ivan Fyodorovitch. I insist on your never letting\nhim come to the house again.' I was struck dumb at these amazing words,\nand answered, 'On what grounds could I refuse to see such an excellent\nyoung man, a young man of such learning too, and so unfortunate?'--for all\nthis business is a misfortune, isn't it? She suddenly burst out laughing\nat my words, and so rudely, you know. Well, I was pleased; I thought I had\namused her and the fits would pass off, especially as I wanted to refuse\nto see Ivan Fyodorovitch anyway on account of his strange visits without\nmy knowledge, and meant to ask him for an explanation. But early this\nmorning Lise waked up and flew into a passion with Yulia and, would you\nbelieve it, slapped her in the face. That's monstrous; I am always polite\nto my servants. And an hour later she was hugging Yulia's feet and kissing\nthem. She sent a message to me that she wasn't coming to me at all, and\nwould never come and see me again, and when I dragged myself down to her,\nshe rushed to kiss me, crying, and as she kissed me, she pushed me out of\nthe room without saying a word, so I couldn't find out what was the\nmatter. Now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I rest all my hopes on you, and, of\ncourse, my whole life is in your hands. I simply beg you to go to Lise and\nfind out everything from her, as you alone can, and come back and tell\nme--me, her mother, for you understand it will be the death of me, simply\nthe death of me, if this goes on, or else I shall run away. I can stand no\nmore. I have patience; but I may lose patience, and then ... then\nsomething awful will happen. Ah, dear me! At last, Pyotr Ilyitch!\" cried\nMadame Hohlakov, beaming all over as she saw Perhotin enter the room. \"You\nare late, you are late! Well, sit down, speak, put us out of suspense.\nWhat does the counsel say. Where are you off to, Alexey Fyodorovitch?\"\n\n\"To Lise.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. You won't forget, you won't forget what I asked you? It's a\nquestion of life and death!\"\n\n\"Of course, I won't forget, if I can ... but I am so late,\" muttered\nAlyosha, beating a hasty retreat.\n\n\"No, be sure, be sure to come in; don't say 'If you can.' I shall die if\nyou don't,\" Madame Hohlakov called after him, but Alyosha had already left\nthe room.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. A Little Demon\n\n\nGoing in to Lise, he found her half reclining in the invalid-chair, in\nwhich she had been wheeled when she was unable to walk. She did not move\nto meet him, but her sharp, keen eyes were simply riveted on his face.\nThere was a feverish look in her eyes, her face was pale and yellow.\nAlyosha was amazed at the change that had taken place in her in three\ndays. She was positively thinner. She did not hold out her hand to him. He\ntouched the thin, long fingers which lay motionless on her dress, then he\nsat down facing her, without a word.\n\n\"I know you are in a hurry to get to the prison,\" Lise said curtly, \"and\nmamma's kept you there for hours; she's just been telling you about me and\nYulia.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"I've been listening. Why do you stare at me? I want to listen and I do\nlisten, there's no harm in that. I don't apologize.\"\n\n\"You are upset about something?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I am very happy. I've only just been reflecting for the\nthirtieth time what a good thing it is I refused you and shall not be your\nwife. You are not fit to be a husband. If I were to marry you and give you\na note to take to the man I loved after you, you'd take it and be sure to\ngive it to him and bring an answer back, too. If you were forty, you would\nstill go on taking my love-letters for me.\"\n\nShe suddenly laughed.\n\n\"There is something spiteful and yet open-hearted about you,\" Alyosha\nsmiled to her.\n\n\"The open-heartedness consists in my not being ashamed of myself with you.\nWhat's more, I don't want to feel ashamed with you, just with you.\nAlyosha, why is it I don't respect you? I am very fond of you, but I don't\nrespect you. If I respected you, I shouldn't talk to you without shame,\nshould I?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But do you believe that I am not ashamed with you?\"\n\n\"No, I don't believe it.\"\n\nLise laughed nervously again; she spoke rapidly.\n\n\"I sent your brother, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, some sweets in prison. Alyosha,\nyou know, you are quite pretty! I shall love you awfully for having so\nquickly allowed me not to love you.\"\n\n\"Why did you send for me to-day, Lise?\"\n\n\"I wanted to tell you of a longing I have. I should like some one to\ntorture me, marry me and then torture me, deceive me and go away. I don't\nwant to be happy.\"\n\n\"You are in love with disorder?\"\n\n\"Yes, I want disorder. I keep wanting to set fire to the house. I keep\nimagining how I'll creep up and set fire to the house on the sly; it must\nbe on the sly. They'll try to put it out, but it'll go on burning. And I\nshall know and say nothing. Ah, what silliness! And how bored I am!\"\n\nShe waved her hand with a look of repulsion.\n\n\"It's your luxurious life,\" said Alyosha, softly.\n\n\"Is it better, then, to be poor?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is better.\"\n\n\"That's what your monk taught you. That's not true. Let me be rich and all\nthe rest poor, I'll eat sweets and drink cream and not give any to any one\nelse. Ach, don't speak, don't say anything,\" she shook her hand at him,\nthough Alyosha had not opened his mouth. \"You've told me all that before,\nI know it all by heart. It bores me. If I am ever poor, I shall murder\nsomebody, and even if I am rich, I may murder some one, perhaps--why do\nnothing! But do you know, I should like to reap, cut the rye? I'll marry\nyou, and you shall become a peasant, a real peasant; we'll keep a colt,\nshall we? Do you know Kalganov?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He is always wandering about, dreaming. He says, 'Why live in real life?\nIt's better to dream. One can dream the most delightful things, but real\nlife is a bore.' But he'll be married soon for all that; he's been making\nlove to me already. Can you spin tops?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, he's just like a top: he wants to be wound up and set spinning and\nthen to be lashed, lashed, lashed with a whip. If I marry him, I'll keep\nhim spinning all his life. You are not ashamed to be with me?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You are awfully cross, because I don't talk about holy things. I don't\nwant to be holy. What will they do to one in the next world for the\ngreatest sin? You must know all about that.\"\n\n\"God will censure you.\" Alyosha was watching her steadily.\n\n\"That's just what I should like. I would go up and they would censure me,\nand I would burst out laughing in their faces. I should dreadfully like to\nset fire to the house, Alyosha, to our house; you still don't believe me?\"\n\n\"Why? There are children of twelve years old, who have a longing to set\nfire to something and they do set things on fire, too. It's a sort of\ndisease.\"\n\n\"That's not true, that's not true; there may be children, but that's not\nwhat I mean.\"\n\n\"You take evil for good; it's a passing crisis, it's the result of your\nillness, perhaps.\"\n\n\"You do despise me, though! It's simply that I don't want to do good, I\nwant to do evil, and it has nothing to do with illness.\"\n\n\"Why do evil?\"\n\n\"So that everything might be destroyed. Ah, how nice it would be if\neverything were destroyed! You know, Alyosha, I sometimes think of doing a\nfearful lot of harm and everything bad, and I should do it for a long\nwhile on the sly and suddenly every one would find it out. Every one will\nstand round and point their fingers at me and I would look at them all.\nThat would be awfully nice. Why would it be so nice, Alyosha?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It's a craving to destroy something good or, as you say, to\nset fire to something. It happens sometimes.\"\n\n\"I not only say it, I shall do it.\"\n\n\"I believe you.\"\n\n\"Ah, how I love you for saying you believe me. And you are not lying one\nlittle bit. But perhaps you think that I am saying all this on purpose to\nannoy you?\"\n\n\"No, I don't think that ... though perhaps there is a little desire to do\nthat in it, too.\"\n\n\"There is a little. I never can tell lies to you,\" she declared, with a\nstrange fire in her eyes.\n\nWhat struck Alyosha above everything was her earnestness. There was not a\ntrace of humor or jesting in her face now, though, in old days, fun and\ngayety never deserted her even at her most \"earnest\" moments.\n\n\"There are moments when people love crime,\" said Alyosha thoughtfully.\n\n\"Yes, yes! You have uttered my thought; they love crime, every one loves\ncrime, they love it always, not at some 'moments.' You know, it's as\nthough people have made an agreement to lie about it and have lied about\nit ever since. They all declare that they hate evil, but secretly they all\nlove it.\"\n\n\"And are you still reading nasty books?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am. Mamma reads them and hides them under her pillow and I steal\nthem.\"\n\n\"Aren't you ashamed to destroy yourself?\"\n\n\"I want to destroy myself. There's a boy here, who lay down between the\nrailway lines when the train was passing. Lucky fellow! Listen, your\nbrother is being tried now for murdering his father and every one loves\nhis having killed his father.\"\n\n\"Loves his having killed his father?\"\n\n\"Yes, loves it; every one loves it! Everybody says it's so awful, but\nsecretly they simply love it. I for one love it.\"\n\n\"There is some truth in what you say about every one,\" said Alyosha\nsoftly.\n\n\"Oh, what ideas you have!\" Lise shrieked in delight. \"And you a monk, too!\nYou wouldn't believe how I respect you, Alyosha, for never telling lies.\nOh, I must tell you a funny dream of mine. I sometimes dream of devils.\nIt's night; I am in my room with a candle and suddenly there are devils\nall over the place, in all the corners, under the table, and they open the\ndoors; there's a crowd of them behind the doors and they want to come and\nseize me. And they are just coming, just seizing me. But I suddenly cross\nmyself and they all draw back, though they don't go away altogether, they\nstand at the doors and in the corners, waiting. And suddenly I have a\nfrightful longing to revile God aloud, and so I begin, and then they come\ncrowding back to me, delighted, and seize me again and I cross myself\nagain and they all draw back. It's awful fun. it takes one's breath away.\"\n\n\"I've had the same dream, too,\" said Alyosha suddenly.\n\n\"Really?\" cried Lise, surprised. \"I say, Alyosha, don't laugh, that's\nawfully important. Could two different people have the same dream?\"\n\n\"It seems they can.\"\n\n\"Alyosha, I tell you, it's awfully important,\" Lise went on, with really\nexcessive amazement. \"It's not the dream that's important, but your having\nthe same dream as me. You never lie to me, don't lie now: is it true? You\nare not laughing?\"\n\n\"It's true.\"\n\nLise seemed extraordinarily impressed and for half a minute she was\nsilent.\n\n\"Alyosha, come and see me, come and see me more often,\" she said suddenly,\nin a supplicating voice.\n\n\"I'll always come to see you, all my life,\" answered Alyosha firmly.\n\n\"You are the only person I can talk to, you know,\" Lise began again. \"I\ntalk to no one but myself and you. Only you in the whole world. And to you\nmore readily than to myself. And I am not a bit ashamed with you, not a\nbit. Alyosha, why am I not ashamed with you, not a bit? Alyosha, is it\ntrue that at Easter the Jews steal a child and kill it?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"There's a book here in which I read about the trial of a Jew, who took a\nchild of four years old and cut off the fingers from both hands, and then\ncrucified him on the wall, hammered nails into him and crucified him, and\nafterwards, when he was tried, he said that the child died soon, within\nfour hours. That was 'soon'! He said the child moaned, kept on moaning and\nhe stood admiring it. That's nice!\"\n\n\"Nice?\"\n\n\"Nice; I sometimes imagine that it was I who crucified him. He would hang\nthere moaning and I would sit opposite him eating pineapple _compote_. I\nam awfully fond of pineapple _compote_. Do you like it?\"\n\nAlyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was suddenly\ncontorted, her eyes burned.\n\n\"You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs all night. I kept\nfancying how the little thing cried and moaned (a child of four years old\nunderstands, you know), and all the while the thought of pineapple\n_compote_ haunted me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a certain person,\nbegging him _particularly_ to come and see me. He came and I suddenly told\nhim all about the child and the pineapple _compote_. _All_ about it,\n_all_, and said that it was nice. He laughed and said it really was nice.\nThen he got up and went away. He was only here five minutes. Did he\ndespise me? Did he despise me? Tell me, tell me, Alyosha, did he despise\nme or not?\" She sat up on the couch, with flashing eyes.\n\n\"Tell me,\" Alyosha asked anxiously, \"did you send for that person?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"Did you send him a letter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Simply to ask about that, about that child?\"\n\n\"No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him about that at\nonce. He answered, laughed, got up and went away.\"\n\n\"That person behaved honorably,\" Alyosha murmured.\n\n\"And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?\"\n\n\"No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple _compote_ himself. He is\nvery ill now, too, Lise.\"\n\n\"Yes, he does believe in it,\" said Lise, with flashing eyes.\n\n\"He doesn't despise any one,\" Alyosha went on. \"Only he does not believe\nany one. If he doesn't believe in people, of course, he does despise\nthem.\"\n\n\"Then he despises me, me?\"\n\n\"You, too.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Lise seemed to grind her teeth. \"When he went out laughing, I felt\nthat it was nice to be despised. The child with fingers cut off is nice,\nand to be despised is nice....\"\n\nAnd she laughed in Alyosha's face, a feverish malicious laugh.\n\n\"Do you know, Alyosha, do you know, I should like--Alyosha, save me!\" She\nsuddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him and seized him with both\nhands. \"Save me!\" she almost groaned. \"Is there any one in the world I\ncould tell what I've told you? I've told you the truth, the truth. I shall\nkill myself, because I loathe everything! I don't want to live, because I\nloathe everything! I loathe everything, everything. Alyosha, why don't you\nlove me in the least?\" she finished in a frenzy.\n\n\"But I do love you!\" answered Alyosha warmly.\n\n\"And will you weep over me, will you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Not because I won't be your wife, but simply weep for me?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Thank you! It's only your tears I want. Every one else may punish me and\ntrample me under foot, every one, every one, not excepting _any one_. For\nI don't love any one. Do you hear, not any one! On the contrary, I hate\nhim! Go, Alyosha; it's time you went to your brother\"; she tore herself\naway from him suddenly.\n\n\"How can I leave you like this?\" said Alyosha, almost in alarm.\n\n\"Go to your brother, the prison will be shut; go, here's your hat. Give my\nlove to Mitya, go, go!\"\n\nAnd she almost forcibly pushed Alyosha out of the door. He looked at her\nwith pained surprise, when he was suddenly aware of a letter in his right\nhand, a tiny letter folded up tight and sealed. He glanced at it and\ninstantly read the address, \"To Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov.\" He looked\nquickly at Lise. Her face had become almost menacing.\n\n\"Give it to him, you must give it to him!\" she ordered him, trembling and\nbeside herself. \"To-day, at once, or I'll poison myself! That's why I sent\nfor you.\"\n\nAnd she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alyosha put the note\nin his pocket and went straight downstairs, without going back to Madame\nHohlakov; forgetting her, in fact. As soon as Alyosha had gone, Lise\nunbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack and\nslammed the door with all her might, pinching her finger. Ten seconds\nafter, releasing her finger, she walked softly, slowly to her chair, sat\nup straight in it and looked intently at her blackened finger and at the\nblood that oozed from under the nail. Her lips were quivering and she kept\nwhispering rapidly to herself:\n\n\"I am a wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. A Hymn And A Secret\n\n\nIt was quite late (days are short in November) when Alyosha rang at the\nprison gate. It was beginning to get dusk. But Alyosha knew that he would\nbe admitted without difficulty. Things were managed in our little town, as\neverywhere else. At first, of course, on the conclusion of the preliminary\ninquiry, relations and a few other persons could only obtain interviews\nwith Mitya by going through certain inevitable formalities. But later,\nthough the formalities were not relaxed, exceptions were made for some, at\nleast, of Mitya's visitors. So much so, that sometimes the interviews with\nthe prisoner in the room set aside for the purpose were practically\n_tete-a-tete_.\n\nThese exceptions, however, were few in number; only Grushenka, Alyosha and\nRakitin were treated like this. But the captain of the police, Mihail\nMihailovitch, was very favorably disposed to Grushenka. His abuse of her\nat Mokroe weighed on the old man's conscience, and when he learned the\nwhole story, he completely changed his view of her. And strange to say,\nthough he was firmly persuaded of his guilt, yet after Mitya was once in\nprison, the old man came to take a more and more lenient view of him. \"He\nwas a man of good heart, perhaps,\" he thought, \"who had come to grief from\ndrinking and dissipation.\" His first horror had been succeeded by pity. As\nfor Alyosha, the police captain was very fond of him and had known him for\na long time. Rakitin, who had of late taken to coming very often to see\nthe prisoner, was one of the most intimate acquaintances of the \"police\ncaptain's young ladies,\" as he called them, and was always hanging about\ntheir house. He gave lessons in the house of the prison superintendent,\ntoo, who, though scrupulous in the performance of his duties, was a kind-\nhearted old man. Alyosha, again, had an intimate acquaintance of long\nstanding with the superintendent, who was fond of talking to him,\ngenerally on sacred subjects. He respected Ivan Fyodorovitch, and stood in\nawe of his opinion, though he was a great philosopher himself; \"self-\ntaught,\" of course. But Alyosha had an irresistible attraction for him.\nDuring the last year the old man had taken to studying the Apocryphal\nGospels, and constantly talked over his impressions with his young friend.\nHe used to come and see him in the monastery and discussed for hours\ntogether with him and with the monks. So even if Alyosha were late at the\nprison, he had only to go to the superintendent and everything was made\neasy. Besides, every one in the prison, down to the humblest warder, had\ngrown used to Alyosha. The sentry, of course, did not trouble him so long\nas the authorities were satisfied.\n\nWhen Mitya was summoned from his cell, he always went downstairs, to the\nplace set aside for interviews. As Alyosha entered the room he came upon\nRakitin, who was just taking leave of Mitya. They were both talking\nloudly. Mitya was laughing heartily as he saw him out, while Rakitin\nseemed grumbling. Rakitin did not like meeting Alyosha, especially of\nlate. He scarcely spoke to him, and bowed to him stiffly. Seeing Alyosha\nenter now, he frowned and looked away, as though he were entirely absorbed\nin buttoning his big, warm, fur-trimmed overcoat. Then he began looking at\nonce for his umbrella.\n\n\"I must mind not to forget my belongings,\" he muttered, simply to say\nsomething.\n\n\"Mind you don't forget other people's belongings,\" said Mitya, as a joke,\nand laughed at once at his own wit. Rakitin fired up instantly.\n\n\"You'd better give that advice to your own family, who've always been a\nslave-driving lot, and not to Rakitin,\" he cried, suddenly trembling with\nanger.\n\n\"What's the matter? I was joking,\" cried Mitya. \"Damn it all! They are all\nlike that,\" he turned to Alyosha, nodding towards Rakitin's hurriedly\nretreating figure. \"He was sitting here, laughing and cheerful, and all at\nonce he boils up like that. He didn't even nod to you. Have you broken\nwith him completely? Why are you so late? I've not been simply waiting,\nbut thirsting for you the whole morning. But never mind. We'll make up for\nit now.\"\n\n\"Why does he come here so often? Surely you are not such great friends?\"\nasked Alyosha. He, too, nodded at the door through which Rakitin had\ndisappeared.\n\n\"Great friends with Rakitin? No, not as much as that. Is it likely--a pig\nlike that? He considers I am ... a blackguard. They can't understand a\njoke either, that's the worst of such people. They never understand a\njoke, and their souls are dry, dry and flat; they remind me of prison\nwalls when I was first brought here. But he is a clever fellow, very\nclever. Well, Alexey, it's all over with me now.\"\n\nHe sat down on the bench and made Alyosha sit down beside him.\n\n\"Yes, the trial's to-morrow. Are you so hopeless, brother?\" Alyosha said,\nwith an apprehensive feeling.\n\n\"What are you talking about?\" said Mitya, looking at him rather\nuncertainly. \"Oh, you mean the trial! Damn it all! Till now we've been\ntalking of things that don't matter, about this trial, but I haven't said\na word to you about the chief thing. Yes, the trial is to-morrow; but it\nwasn't the trial I meant, when I said it was all over with me. Why do you\nlook at me so critically?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Mitya?\"\n\n\"Ideas, ideas, that's all! Ethics! What is ethics?\"\n\n\"Ethics?\" asked Alyosha, wondering.\n\n\"Yes; is it a science?\"\n\n\"Yes, there is such a science ... but ... I confess I can't explain to you\nwhat sort of science it is.\"\n\n\"Rakitin knows. Rakitin knows a lot, damn him! He's not going to be a\nmonk. He means to go to Petersburg. There he'll go in for criticism of an\nelevating tendency. Who knows, he may be of use and make his own career,\ntoo. Ough! they are first-rate, these people, at making a career! Damn\nethics, I am done for, Alexey, I am, you man of God! I love you more than\nany one. It makes my heart yearn to look at you. Who was Karl Bernard?\"\n\n\"Karl Bernard?\" Alyosha was surprised again.\n\n\"No, not Karl. Stay, I made a mistake. Claude Bernard. What was he?\nChemist or what?\"\n\n\"He must be a savant,\" answered Alyosha; \"but I confess I can't tell you\nmuch about him, either. I've heard of him as a savant, but what sort I\ndon't know.\"\n\n\"Well, damn him, then! I don't know either,\" swore Mitya. \"A scoundrel of\nsome sort, most likely. They are all scoundrels. And Rakitin will make his\nway. Rakitin will get on anywhere; he is another Bernard. Ugh, these\nBernards! They are all over the place.\"\n\n\"But what is the matter?\" Alyosha asked insistently.\n\n\"He wants to write an article about me, about my case, and so begin his\nliterary career. That's what he comes for; he said so himself. He wants to\nprove some theory. He wants to say 'he couldn't help murdering his father,\nhe was corrupted by his environment,' and so on. He explained it all to\nme. He is going to put in a tinge of Socialism, he says. But there, damn\nthe fellow, he can put in a tinge if he likes, I don't care. He can't bear\nIvan, he hates him. He's not fond of you, either. But I don't turn him\nout, for he is a clever fellow. Awfully conceited, though. I said to him\njust now, 'The Karamazovs are not blackguards, but philosophers; for all\ntrue Russians are philosophers, and though you've studied, you are not a\nphilosopher--you are a low fellow.' He laughed, so maliciously. And I said\nto him, '_De ideabus non est disputandum_.' Isn't that rather good? I can\nset up for being a classic, you see!\" Mitya laughed suddenly.\n\n\"Why is it all over with you? You said so just now,\" Alyosha interposed.\n\n\"Why is it all over with me? H'm!... The fact of it is ... if you take it\nas a whole, I am sorry to lose God--that's why it is.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'sorry to lose God'?\"\n\n\"Imagine: inside, in the nerves, in the head--that is, these nerves are\nthere in the brain ... (damn them!) there are sort of little tails, the\nlittle tails of those nerves, and as soon as they begin quivering ... that\nis, you see, I look at something with my eyes and then they begin\nquivering, those little tails ... and when they quiver, then an image\nappears ... it doesn't appear at once, but an instant, a second, passes\n... and then something like a moment appears; that is, not a moment--devil\ntake the moment!--but an image; that is, an object, or an action, damn it!\nThat's why I see and then think, because of those tails, not at all\nbecause I've got a soul, and that I am some sort of image and likeness.\nAll that is nonsense! Rakitin explained it all to me yesterday, brother,\nand it simply bowled me over. It's magnificent, Alyosha, this science! A\nnew man's arising--that I understand.... And yet I am sorry to lose God!\"\n\n\"Well, that's a good thing, anyway,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"That I am sorry to lose God? It's chemistry, brother, chemistry! There's\nno help for it, your reverence, you must make way for chemistry. And\nRakitin does dislike God. Ough! doesn't he dislike Him! That's the sore\npoint with all of them. But they conceal it. They tell lies. They pretend.\n'Will you preach this in your reviews?' I asked him. 'Oh, well, if I did\nit openly, they won't let it through,' he said. He laughed. 'But what will\nbecome of men then?' I asked him, 'without God and immortal life? All\nthings are lawful then, they can do what they like?' 'Didn't you know?' he\nsaid laughing, 'a clever man can do what he likes,' he said. 'A clever man\nknows his way about, but you've put your foot in it, committing a murder,\nand now you are rotting in prison.' He says that to my face! A regular\npig! I used to kick such people out, but now I listen to them. He talks a\nlot of sense, too. Writes well. He began reading me an article last week.\nI copied out three lines of it. Wait a minute. Here it is.\"\n\nMitya hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read:\n\n\" 'In order to determine this question, it is above all essential to put\none's personality in contradiction to one's reality.' Do you understand\nthat?\"\n\n\"No, I don't,\" said Alyosha. He looked at Mitya and listened to him with\ncuriosity.\n\n\"I don't understand either. It's dark and obscure, but intellectual.\n'Every one writes like that now,' he says, 'it's the effect of their\nenvironment.' They are afraid of the environment. He writes poetry, too,\nthe rascal. He's written in honor of Madame Hohlakov's foot. Ha ha ha!\"\n\n\"I've heard about it,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Have you? And have you heard the poem?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I've got it. Here it is. I'll read it to you. You don't know--I haven't\ntold you--there's quite a story about it. He's a rascal! Three weeks ago he\nbegan to tease me. 'You've got yourself into a mess, like a fool, for the\nsake of three thousand, but I'm going to collar a hundred and fifty\nthousand. I am going to marry a widow and buy a house in Petersburg.' And\nhe told me he was courting Madame Hohlakov. She hadn't much brains in her\nyouth, and now at forty she has lost what she had. 'But she's awfully\nsentimental,' he says; 'that's how I shall get hold of her. When I marry\nher, I shall take her to Petersburg and there I shall start a newspaper.'\nAnd his mouth was simply watering, the beast, not for the widow, but for\nthe hundred and fifty thousand. And he made me believe it. He came to see\nme every day. 'She is coming round,' he declared. He was beaming with\ndelight. And then, all of a sudden, he was turned out of the house.\nPerhotin's carrying everything before him, bravo! I could kiss the silly\nold noodle for turning him out of the house. And he had written this\ndoggerel. 'It's the first time I've soiled my hands with writing poetry,'\nhe said. 'It's to win her heart, so it's in a good cause. When I get hold\nof the silly woman's fortune, I can be of great social utility.' They have\nthis social justification for every nasty thing they do! 'Anyway it's\nbetter than your Pushkin's poetry,' he said, 'for I've managed to advocate\nenlightenment even in that.' I understand what he means about Pushkin, I\nquite see that, if he really was a man of talent and only wrote about\nwomen's feet. But wasn't Rakitin stuck up about his doggerel! The vanity\nof these fellows! 'On the convalescence of the swollen foot of the object\nof my affections'--he thought of that for a title. He's a waggish fellow.\n\n\n    A captivating little foot,\n    Though swollen and red and tender!\n    The doctors come and plasters put,\n    But still they cannot mend her.\n\n    Yet, 'tis not for her foot I dread--\n    A theme for Pushkin's muse more fit--\n    It's not her foot, it is her head:\n    I tremble for her loss of wit!\n\n    For as her foot swells, strange to say,\n    Her intellect is on the wane--\n    Oh, for some remedy I pray\n    That may restore both foot and brain!\n\n\nHe is a pig, a regular pig, but he's very arch, the rascal! And he really\nhas put in a progressive idea. And wasn't he angry when she kicked him\nout! He was gnashing his teeth!\"\n\n\"He's taken his revenge already,\" said Alyosha. \"He's written a paragraph\nabout Madame Hohlakov.\"\n\nAnd Alyosha told him briefly about the paragraph in _Gossip_.\n\n\"That's his doing, that's his doing!\" Mitya assented, frowning. \"That's\nhim! These paragraphs ... I know ... the insulting things that have been\nwritten about Grushenka, for instance.... And about Katya, too.... H'm!\"\n\nHe walked across the room with a harassed air.\n\n\"Brother, I cannot stay long,\" Alyosha said, after a pause. \"To-morrow\nwill be a great and awful day for you, the judgment of God will be\naccomplished ... I am amazed at you, you walk about here, talking of I\ndon't know what ...\"\n\n\"No, don't be amazed at me,\" Mitya broke in warmly. \"Am I to talk of that\nstinking dog? Of the murderer? We've talked enough of him. I don't want to\nsay more of the stinking son of Stinking Lizaveta! God will kill him, you\nwill see. Hush!\"\n\nHe went up to Alyosha excitedly and kissed him. His eyes glowed.\n\n\"Rakitin wouldn't understand it,\" he began in a sort of exaltation; \"but\nyou, you'll understand it all. That's why I was thirsting for you. You\nsee, there's so much I've been wanting to tell you for ever so long, here,\nwithin these peeling walls, but I haven't said a word about what matters\nmost; the moment never seems to have come. Now I can wait no longer. I\nmust pour out my heart to you. Brother, these last two months I've found\nin myself a new man. A new man has risen up in me. He was hidden in me,\nbut would never have come to the surface, if it hadn't been for this blow\nfrom heaven. I am afraid! And what do I care if I spend twenty years in\nthe mines, breaking ore with a hammer? I am not a bit afraid of that--it's\nsomething else I am afraid of now: that that new man may leave me. Even\nthere, in the mines, under-ground, I may find a human heart in another\nconvict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even\nthere one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and revive a frozen\nheart in that convict, one may wait upon him for years, and at last bring\nup from the dark depths a lofty soul, a feeling, suffering creature; one\nmay bring forth an angel, create a hero! There are so many of them,\nhundreds of them, and we are all to blame for them. Why was it I dreamed\nof that 'babe' at such a moment? 'Why is the babe so poor?' That was a\nsign to me at that moment. It's for the babe I'm going. Because we are all\nresponsible for all. For all the 'babes,' for there are big children as\nwell as little children. All are 'babes.' I go for all, because some one\nmust go for all. I didn't kill father, but I've got to go. I accept it.\nIt's all come to me here, here, within these peeling walls. There are\nnumbers of them there, hundreds of them underground, with hammers in their\nhands. Oh, yes, we shall be in chains and there will be no freedom, but\nthen, in our great sorrow, we shall rise again to joy, without which man\ncannot live nor God exist, for God gives joy: it's His privilege--a grand\none. Ah, man should be dissolved in prayer! What should I be underground\nthere without God? Rakitin's laughing! If they drive God from the earth,\nwe shall shelter Him underground. One cannot exist in prison without God;\nit's even more impossible than out of prison. And then we men underground\nwill sing from the bowels of the earth a glorious hymn to God, with Whom\nis joy. Hail to God and His joy! I love Him!\"\n\nMitya was almost gasping for breath as he uttered his wild speech. He\nturned pale, his lips quivered, and tears rolled down his cheeks.\n\n\"Yes, life is full, there is life even underground,\" he began again. \"You\nwouldn't believe, Alexey, how I want to live now, what a thirst for\nexistence and consciousness has sprung up in me within these peeling\nwalls. Rakitin doesn't understand that; all he cares about is building a\nhouse and letting flats. But I've been longing for you. And what is\nsuffering? I am not afraid of it, even if it were beyond reckoning. I am\nnot afraid of it now. I was afraid of it before. Do you know, perhaps I\nwon't answer at the trial at all.... And I seem to have such strength in\nme now, that I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be\nable to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' In thousands\nof agonies--I exist. I'm tormented on the rack--but I exist! Though I sit\nalone on a pillar--I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I\nknow it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun\nis there. Alyosha, my angel, all these philosophies are the death of me.\nDamn them! Brother Ivan--\"\n\n\"What of brother Ivan?\" interrupted Alyosha, but Mitya did not hear.\n\n\"You see, I never had any of these doubts before, but it was all hidden\naway in me. It was perhaps just because ideas I did not understand were\nsurging up in me, that I used to drink and fight and rage. It was to\nstifle them in myself, to still them, to smother them. Ivan is not\nRakitin, there is an idea in him. Ivan is a sphinx and is silent; he is\nalways silent. It's God that's worrying me. That's the only thing that's\nworrying me. What if He doesn't exist? What if Rakitin's right--that it's\nan idea made up by men? Then if He doesn't exist, man is the chief of the\nearth, of the universe. Magnificent! Only how is he going to be good\nwithout God? That's the question. I always come back to that. For whom is\nman going to love then? To whom will he be thankful? To whom will he sing\nthe hymn? Rakitin laughs. Rakitin says that one can love humanity without\nGod. Well, only a sniveling idiot can maintain that. I can't understand\nit. Life's easy for Rakitin. 'You'd better think about the extension of\ncivic rights, or even of keeping down the price of meat. You will show\nyour love for humanity more simply and directly by that, than by\nphilosophy.' I answered him, 'Well, but you, without a God, are more\nlikely to raise the price of meat, if it suits you, and make a rouble on\nevery copeck.' He lost his temper. But after all, what is goodness? Answer\nme that, Alexey. Goodness is one thing with me and another with a\nChinaman, so it's a relative thing. Or isn't it? Is it not relative? A\ntreacherous question! You won't laugh if I tell you it's kept me awake two\nnights. I only wonder now how people can live and think nothing about it.\nVanity! Ivan has no God. He has an idea. It's beyond me. But he is silent.\nI believe he is a free-mason. I asked him, but he is silent. I wanted to\ndrink from the springs of his soul--he was silent. But once he did drop a\nword.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\" Alyosha took it up quickly.\n\n\"I said to him, 'Then everything is lawful, if it is so?' He frowned.\n'Fyodor Pavlovitch, our papa,' he said, 'was a pig, but his ideas were\nright enough.' That was what he dropped. That was all he said. That was\ngoing one better than Rakitin.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Alyosha assented bitterly. \"When was he with you?\"\n\n\"Of that later; now I must speak of something else. I have said nothing\nabout Ivan to you before. I put it off to the last. When my business here\nis over and the verdict has been given, then I'll tell you something. I'll\ntell you everything. We've something tremendous on hand.... And you shall\nbe my judge in it. But don't begin about that now; be silent. You talk of\nto-morrow, of the trial; but, would you believe it, I know nothing about\nit.\"\n\n\"Have you talked to the counsel?\"\n\n\"What's the use of the counsel? I told him all about it. He's a soft,\ncity-bred rogue--a Bernard! But he doesn't believe me--not a bit of it. Only\nimagine, he believes I did it. I see it. 'In that case,' I asked him, 'why\nhave you come to defend me?' Hang them all! They've got a doctor down,\ntoo, want to prove I'm mad. I won't have that! Katerina Ivanovna wants to\ndo her 'duty' to the end, whatever the strain!\" Mitya smiled bitterly.\n\"The cat! Hard-hearted creature! She knows that I said of her at Mokroe\nthat she was a woman of 'great wrath.' They repeated it. Yes, the facts\nagainst me have grown numerous as the sands of the sea. Grigory sticks to\nhis point. Grigory's honest, but a fool. Many people are honest because\nthey are fools: that's Rakitin's idea. Grigory's my enemy. And there are\nsome people who are better as foes than friends. I mean Katerina Ivanovna.\nI am afraid, oh, I am afraid she will tell how she bowed to the ground\nafter that four thousand. She'll pay it back to the last farthing. I don't\nwant her sacrifice; they'll put me to shame at the trial. I wonder how I\ncan stand it. Go to her, Alyosha, ask her not to speak of that in the\ncourt, can't you? But damn it all, it doesn't matter! I shall get through\nsomehow. I don't pity her. It's her own doing. She deserves what she gets.\nI shall have my own story to tell, Alexey.\" He smiled bitterly again.\n\"Only ... only Grusha, Grusha! Good Lord! Why should she have such\nsuffering to bear?\" he exclaimed suddenly, with tears. \"Grusha's killing\nme; the thought of her's killing me, killing me. She was with me just\nnow....\"\n\n\"She told me she was very much grieved by you to-day.\"\n\n\"I know. Confound my temper! It was jealousy. I was sorry, I kissed her as\nshe was going. I didn't ask her forgiveness.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you?\" exclaimed Alyosha.\n\nSuddenly Mitya laughed almost mirthfully.\n\n\"God preserve you, my dear boy, from ever asking forgiveness for a fault\nfrom a woman you love. From one you love especially, however greatly you\nmay have been in fault. For a woman--devil only knows what to make of a\nwoman! I know something about them, anyway. But try acknowledging you are\nin fault to a woman. Say, 'I am sorry, forgive me,' and a shower of\nreproaches will follow! Nothing will make her forgive you simply and\ndirectly, she'll humble you to the dust, bring forward things that have\nnever happened, recall everything, forget nothing, add something of her\nown, and only then forgive you. And even the best, the best of them do it.\nShe'll scrape up all the scrapings and load them on your head. They are\nready to flay you alive, I tell you, every one of them, all these angels\nwithout whom we cannot live! I tell you plainly and openly, dear boy,\nevery decent man ought to be under some woman's thumb. That's my\nconviction--not conviction, but feeling. A man ought to be magnanimous, and\nit's no disgrace to a man! No disgrace to a hero, not even a Caesar! But\ndon't ever beg her pardon all the same for anything. Remember that rule\ngiven you by your brother Mitya, who's come to ruin through women. No, I'd\nbetter make it up to Grusha somehow, without begging pardon. I worship\nher, Alexey, worship her. Only she doesn't see it. No, she still thinks I\ndon't love her enough. And she tortures me, tortures me with her love. The\npast was nothing! In the past it was only those infernal curves of hers\nthat tortured me, but now I've taken all her soul into my soul and through\nher I've become a man myself. Will they marry us? If they don't, I shall\ndie of jealousy. I imagine something every day.... What did she say to you\nabout me?\"\n\nAlyosha repeated all Grushenka had said to him that day. Mitya listened,\nmade him repeat things, and seemed pleased.\n\n\"Then she is not angry at my being jealous?\" he exclaimed. \"She is a\nregular woman! 'I've a fierce heart myself!' Ah, I love such fierce\nhearts, though I can't bear any one's being jealous of me. I can't endure\nit. We shall fight. But I shall love her, I shall love her infinitely.\nWill they marry us? Do they let convicts marry? That's the question. And\nwithout her I can't exist....\"\n\nMitya walked frowning across the room. It was almost dark. He suddenly\nseemed terribly worried.\n\n\"So there's a secret, she says, a secret? We have got up a plot against\nher, and Katya is mixed up in it, she thinks. No, my good Grushenka,\nthat's not it. You are very wide of the mark, in your foolish feminine\nway. Alyosha, darling, well, here goes! I'll tell you our secret!\"\n\nHe looked round, went close up quickly to Alyosha, who was standing before\nhim, and whispered to him with an air of mystery, though in reality no one\ncould hear them: the old warder was dozing in the corner, and not a word\ncould reach the ears of the soldiers on guard.\n\n\"I will tell you all our secret,\" Mitya whispered hurriedly. \"I meant to\ntell you later, for how could I decide on anything without you? You are\neverything to me. Though I say that Ivan is superior to us, you are my\nangel. It's your decision will decide it. Perhaps it's you that is\nsuperior and not Ivan. You see, it's a question of conscience, question of\nthe higher conscience--the secret is so important that I can't settle it\nmyself, and I've put it off till I could speak to you. But anyway it's too\nearly to decide now, for we must wait for the verdict. As soon as the\nverdict is given, you shall decide my fate. Don't decide it now. I'll tell\nyou now. You listen, but don't decide. Stand and keep quiet. I won't tell\nyou everything. I'll only tell you the idea, without details, and you keep\nquiet. Not a question, not a movement. You agree? But, goodness, what\nshall I do with your eyes? I'm afraid your eyes will tell me your\ndecision, even if you don't speak. Oo! I'm afraid! Alyosha, listen! Ivan\nsuggests my _escaping_. I won't tell you the details: it's all been\nthought out: it can all be arranged. Hush, don't decide. I should go to\nAmerica with Grusha. You know I can't live without Grusha! What if they\nwon't let her follow me to Siberia? Do they let convicts get married? Ivan\nthinks not. And without Grusha what should I do there underground with a\nhammer? I should only smash my skull with the hammer! But, on the other\nhand, my conscience? I should have run away from suffering. A sign has\ncome, I reject the sign. I have a way of salvation and I turn my back on\nit. Ivan says that in America, 'with the good-will,' I can be of more use\nthan underground. But what becomes of our hymn from underground? What's\nAmerica? America is vanity again! And there's a lot of swindling in\nAmerica, too, I expect. I should have run away from crucifixion! I tell\nyou, you know, Alexey, because you are the only person who can understand\nthis. There's no one else. It's folly, madness to others, all I've told\nyou of the hymn. They'll say I'm out of my mind or a fool. I am not out of\nmy mind and I am not a fool. Ivan understands about the hymn, too. He\nunderstands, only he doesn't answer--he doesn't speak. He doesn't believe\nin the hymn. Don't speak, don't speak. I see how you look! You have\nalready decided. Don't decide, spare me! I can't live without Grusha. Wait\ntill after the trial!\"\n\nMitya ended beside himself. He held Alyosha with both hands on his\nshoulders, and his yearning, feverish eyes were fixed on his brother's.\n\n\"They don't let convicts marry, do they?\" he repeated for the third time\nin a supplicating voice.\n\nAlyosha listened with extreme surprise and was deeply moved.\n\n\"Tell me one thing,\" he said. \"Is Ivan very keen on it, and whose idea was\nit?\"\n\n\"His, his, and he is very keen on it. He didn't come to see me at first,\nthen he suddenly came a week ago and he began about it straight away. He\nis awfully keen on it. He doesn't ask me, but orders me to escape. He\ndoesn't doubt of my obeying him, though I showed him all my heart as I\nhave to you, and told him about the hymn, too. He told me he'd arrange it;\nhe's found out about everything. But of that later. He's simply set on it.\nIt's all a matter of money: he'll pay ten thousand for escape and give me\ntwenty thousand for America. And he says we can arrange a magnificent\nescape for ten thousand.\"\n\n\"And he told you on no account to tell me?\" Alyosha asked again.\n\n\"To tell no one, and especially not you; on no account to tell you. He is\nafraid, no doubt, that you'll stand before me as my conscience. Don't tell\nhim I told you. Don't tell him, for anything.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" Alyosha pronounced; \"it's impossible to decide anything\nbefore the trial is over. After the trial you'll decide of yourself. Then\nyou'll find that new man in yourself and he will decide.\"\n\n\"A new man, or a Bernard who'll decide _a la_ Bernard, for I believe I'm a\ncontemptible Bernard myself,\" said Mitya, with a bitter grin.\n\n\"But, brother, have you no hope then of being acquitted?\"\n\nMitya shrugged his shoulders nervously and shook his head. \"Alyosha,\ndarling, it's time you were going,\" he said, with a sudden haste. \"There's\nthe superintendent shouting in the yard. He'll be here directly. We are\nlate; it's irregular. Embrace me quickly. Kiss me! Sign me with the cross,\ndarling, for the cross I have to bear to-morrow.\"\n\nThey embraced and kissed.\n\n\"Ivan,\" said Mitya suddenly, \"suggests my escaping; but, of course, he\nbelieves I did it.\"\n\nA mournful smile came on to his lips.\n\n\"Have you asked him whether he believes it?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"No, I haven't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I hadn't the courage. But I\nsaw it from his eyes. Well, good-by!\"\n\nOnce more they kissed hurriedly, and Alyosha was just going out, when\nMitya suddenly called him back.\n\n\"Stand facing me! That's right!\" And again he seized Alyosha, putting both\nhands on his shoulders. His face became suddenly quite pale, so that it\nwas dreadfully apparent, even through the gathering darkness. His lips\ntwitched, his eyes fastened upon Alyosha.\n\n\"Alyosha, tell me the whole truth, as you would before God. Do you believe\nI did it? Do you, do you in yourself, believe it? The whole truth, don't\nlie!\" he cried desperately.\n\nEverything seemed heaving before Alyosha, and he felt something like a\nstab at his heart.\n\n\"Hush! What do you mean?\" he faltered helplessly.\n\n\"The whole truth, the whole, don't lie!\" repeated Mitya.\n\n\"I've never for one instant believed that you were the murderer!\" broke in\na shaking voice from Alyosha's breast, and he raised his right hand in the\nair, as though calling God to witness his words.\n\nMitya's whole face was lighted up with bliss.\n\n\"Thank you!\" he articulated slowly, as though letting a sigh escape him\nafter fainting. \"Now you have given me new life. Would you believe it,\ntill this moment I've been afraid to ask you, you, even you. Well, go!\nYou've given me strength for to-morrow. God bless you! Come, go along!\nLove Ivan!\" was Mitya's last word.\n\nAlyosha went out in tears. Such distrustfulness in Mitya, such lack of\nconfidence even to him, to Alyosha--all this suddenly opened before Alyosha\nan unsuspected depth of hopeless grief and despair in the soul of his\nunhappy brother. Intense, infinite compassion overwhelmed him instantly.\nThere was a poignant ache in his torn heart. \"Love Ivan!\"--he suddenly\nrecalled Mitya's words. And he was going to Ivan. He badly wanted to see\nIvan all day. He was as much worried about Ivan as about Mitya, and more\nthan ever now.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. Not You, Not You!\n\n\nOn the way to Ivan he had to pass the house where Katerina Ivanovna was\nliving. There was light in the windows. He suddenly stopped and resolved\nto go in. He had not seen Katerina Ivanovna for more than a week. But now\nit struck him that Ivan might be with her, especially on the eve of the\nterrible day. Ringing, and mounting the staircase, which was dimly lighted\nby a Chinese lantern, he saw a man coming down, and as they met, he\nrecognized him as his brother. So he was just coming from Katerina\nIvanovna.\n\n\"Ah, it's only you,\" said Ivan dryly. \"Well, good-by! You are going to\nher?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I don't advise you to; she's upset and you'll upset her more.\"\n\nA door was instantly flung open above, and a voice cried suddenly:\n\n\"No, no! Alexey Fyodorovitch, have you come from him?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have been with him.\"\n\n\"Has he sent me any message? Come up, Alyosha, and you, Ivan Fyodorovitch,\nyou must come back, you must. Do you hear?\"\n\nThere was such a peremptory note in Katya's voice that Ivan, after a\nmoment's hesitation, made up his mind to go back with Alyosha.\n\n\"She was listening,\" he murmured angrily to himself, but Alyosha heard it.\n\n\"Excuse my keeping my greatcoat on,\" said Ivan, going into the drawing-\nroom. \"I won't sit down. I won't stay more than a minute.\"\n\n\"Sit down, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" said Katerina Ivanovna, though she\nremained standing. She had changed very little during this time, but there\nwas an ominous gleam in her dark eyes. Alyosha remembered afterwards that\nshe had struck him as particularly handsome at that moment.\n\n\"What did he ask you to tell me?\"\n\n\"Only one thing,\" said Alyosha, looking her straight in the face, \"that\nyou would spare yourself and say nothing at the trial of what\" (he was a\nlittle confused) \"... passed between you ... at the time of your first\nacquaintance ... in that town.\"\n\n\"Ah! that I bowed down to the ground for that money!\" She broke into a\nbitter laugh. \"Why, is he afraid for me or for himself? He asks me to\nspare--whom? Him or myself? Tell me, Alexey Fyodorovitch!\"\n\nAlyosha watched her intently, trying to understand her.\n\n\"Both yourself and him,\" he answered softly.\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" she snapped out maliciously, and she suddenly\nblushed.\n\n\"You don't know me yet, Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" she said menacingly. \"And I\ndon't know myself yet. Perhaps you'll want to trample me under foot after\nmy examination to-morrow.\"\n\n\"You will give your evidence honorably,\" said Alyosha; \"that's all that's\nwanted.\"\n\n\"Women are often dishonorable,\" she snarled. \"Only an hour ago I was\nthinking I felt afraid to touch that monster ... as though he were a\nreptile ... but no, he is still a human being to me! But did he do it? Is\nhe the murderer?\" she cried, all of a sudden, hysterically, turning\nquickly to Ivan. Alyosha saw at once that she had asked Ivan that question\nbefore, perhaps only a moment before he came in, and not for the first\ntime, but for the hundredth, and that they had ended by quarreling.\n\n\"I've been to see Smerdyakov.... It was you, you who persuaded me that he\nmurdered his father. It's only you I believed!\" she continued, still\naddressing Ivan. He gave her a sort of strained smile. Alyosha started at\nher tone. He had not suspected such familiar intimacy between them.\n\n\"Well, that's enough, anyway,\" Ivan cut short the conversation. \"I am\ngoing. I'll come to-morrow.\" And turning at once, he walked out of the\nroom and went straight downstairs.\n\nWith an imperious gesture, Katerina Ivanovna seized Alyosha by both hands.\n\n\"Follow him! Overtake him! Don't leave him alone for a minute!\" she said,\nin a hurried whisper. \"He's mad! Don't you know that he's mad? He is in a\nfever, nervous fever. The doctor told me so. Go, run after him....\"\n\nAlyosha jumped up and ran after Ivan, who was not fifty paces ahead of\nhim.\n\n\"What do you want?\" He turned quickly on Alyosha, seeing that he was\nrunning after him. \"She told you to catch me up, because I'm mad. I know\nit all by heart,\" he added irritably.\n\n\"She is mistaken, of course; but she is right that you are ill,\" said\nAlyosha. \"I was looking at your face just now. You look very ill, Ivan.\"\n\nIvan walked on without stopping. Alyosha followed him.\n\n\"And do you know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, how people do go out of their\nmind?\" Ivan asked in a voice suddenly quiet, without a trace of\nirritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity.\n\n\"No, I don't. I suppose there are all kinds of insanity.\"\n\n\"And can one observe that one's going mad oneself?\"\n\n\"I imagine one can't see oneself clearly in such circumstances,\" Alyosha\nanswered with surprise.\n\nIvan paused for half a minute.\n\n\"If you want to talk to me, please change the subject,\" he said suddenly.\n\n\"Oh, while I think of it, I have a letter for you,\" said Alyosha timidly,\nand he took Lise's note from his pocket and held it out to Ivan. They were\njust under a lamp-post. Ivan recognized the handwriting at once.\n\n\"Ah, from that little demon!\" he laughed maliciously, and, without opening\nthe envelope, he tore it into bits and threw it in the air. The bits were\nscattered by the wind.\n\n\"She's not sixteen yet, I believe, and already offering herself,\" he said\ncontemptuously, striding along the street again.\n\n\"How do you mean, offering herself?\" exclaimed Alyosha.\n\n\"As wanton women offer themselves, to be sure.\"\n\n\"How can you, Ivan, how can you?\" Alyosha cried warmly, in a grieved\nvoice. \"She is a child; you are insulting a child! She is ill; she is very\nill, too. She is on the verge of insanity, too, perhaps.... I had hoped to\nhear something from you ... that would save her.\"\n\n\"You'll hear nothing from me. If she is a child I am not her nurse. Be\nquiet, Alexey. Don't go on about her. I am not even thinking about it.\"\n\nThey were silent again for a moment.\n\n\"She will be praying all night now to the Mother of God to show her how to\nact to-morrow at the trial,\" he said sharply and angrily again.\n\n\"You ... you mean Katerina Ivanovna?\"\n\n\"Yes. Whether she's to save Mitya or ruin him. She'll pray for light from\nabove. She can't make up her mind for herself, you see. She has not had\ntime to decide yet. She takes me for her nurse, too. She wants me to sing\nlullabies to her.\"\n\n\"Katerina Ivanovna loves you, brother,\" said Alyosha sadly.\n\n\"Perhaps; but I am not very keen on her.\"\n\n\"She is suffering. Why do you ... sometimes say things to her that give\nher hope?\" Alyosha went on, with timid reproach. \"I know that you've given\nher hope. Forgive me for speaking to you like this,\" he added.\n\n\"I can't behave to her as I ought--break off altogether and tell her so\nstraight out,\" said Ivan, irritably. \"I must wait till sentence is passed\non the murderer. If I break off with her now, she will avenge herself on\nme by ruining that scoundrel to-morrow at the trial, for she hates him and\nknows she hates him. It's all a lie--lie upon lie! As long as I don't break\noff with her, she goes on hoping, and she won't ruin that monster, knowing\nhow I want to get him out of trouble. If only that damned verdict would\ncome!\"\n\nThe words \"murderer\" and \"monster\" echoed painfully in Alyosha's heart.\n\n\"But how can she ruin Mitya?\" he asked, pondering on Ivan's words. \"What\nevidence can she give that would ruin Mitya?\"\n\n\"You don't know that yet. She's got a document in her hands, in Mitya's\nown writing, that proves conclusively that he did murder Fyodor\nPavlovitch.\"\n\n\"That's impossible!\" cried Alyosha.\n\n\"Why is it impossible? I've read it myself.\"\n\n\"There can't be such a document!\" Alyosha repeated warmly. \"There can't\nbe, because he's not the murderer. It's not he murdered father, not he!\"\n\nIvan suddenly stopped.\n\n\"Who is the murderer then, according to you?\" he asked, with apparent\ncoldness. There was even a supercilious note in his voice.\n\n\"You know who,\" Alyosha pronounced in a low, penetrating voice.\n\n\"Who? You mean the myth about that crazy idiot, the epileptic,\nSmerdyakov?\"\n\nAlyosha suddenly felt himself trembling all over.\n\n\"You know who,\" broke helplessly from him. He could scarcely breathe.\n\n\"Who? Who?\" Ivan cried almost fiercely. All his restraint suddenly\nvanished.\n\n\"I only know one thing,\" Alyosha went on, still almost in a whisper, \"_it\nwasn't you_ killed father.\"\n\n\" 'Not you'! What do you mean by 'not you'?\" Ivan was thunderstruck.\n\n\"It was not you killed father, not you!\" Alyosha repeated firmly.\n\nThe silence lasted for half a minute.\n\n\"I know I didn't. Are you raving?\" said Ivan, with a pale, distorted\nsmile. His eyes were riveted on Alyosha. They were standing again under a\nlamp-post.\n\n\"No, Ivan. You've told yourself several times that you are the murderer.\"\n\n\"When did I say so? I was in Moscow.... When have I said so?\" Ivan\nfaltered helplessly.\n\n\"You've said so to yourself many times, when you've been alone during\nthese two dreadful months,\" Alyosha went on softly and distinctly as\nbefore. Yet he was speaking now, as it were, not of himself, not of his\nown will, but obeying some irresistible command. \"You have accused\nyourself and have confessed to yourself that you are the murderer and no\none else. But you didn't do it: you are mistaken: you are not the\nmurderer. Do you hear? It was not you! God has sent me to tell you so.\"\n\nThey were both silent. The silence lasted a whole long minute. They were\nboth standing still, gazing into each other's eyes. They were both pale.\nSuddenly Ivan began trembling all over, and clutched Alyosha's shoulder.\n\n\"You've been in my room!\" he whispered hoarsely. \"You've been there at\nnight, when he came.... Confess ... have you seen him, have you seen him?\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean--Mitya?\" Alyosha asked, bewildered.\n\n\"Not him, damn the monster!\" Ivan shouted, in a frenzy. \"Do you know that\nhe visits me? How did you find out? Speak!\"\n\n\"Who is _he_! I don't know whom you are talking about,\" Alyosha faltered,\nbeginning to be alarmed.\n\n\"Yes, you do know ... or how could you--? It's impossible that you don't\nknow.\"\n\nSuddenly he seemed to check himself. He stood still and seemed to reflect.\nA strange grin contorted his lips.\n\n\"Brother,\" Alyosha began again, in a shaking voice, \"I have said this to\nyou, because you'll believe my word, I know that. I tell you once and for\nall, it's not you. You hear, once for all! God has put it into my heart to\nsay this to you, even though it may make you hate me from this hour.\"\n\nBut by now Ivan had apparently regained his self-control.\n\n\"Alexey Fyodorovitch,\" he said, with a cold smile, \"I can't endure\nprophets and epileptics--messengers from God especially--and you know that\nonly too well. I break off all relations with you from this moment and\nprobably for ever. I beg you to leave me at this turning. It's the way to\nyour lodgings, too. You'd better be particularly careful not to come to me\nto-day! Do you hear?\"\n\nHe turned and walked on with a firm step, not looking back.\n\n\"Brother,\" Alyosha called after him, \"if anything happens to you to-day,\nturn to me before any one!\"\n\nBut Ivan made no reply. Alyosha stood under the lamp-post at the cross\nroads, till Ivan had vanished into the darkness. Then he turned and walked\nslowly homewards. Both Alyosha and Ivan were living in lodgings; neither\nof them was willing to live in Fyodor Pavlovitch's empty house. Alyosha\nhad a furnished room in the house of some working people. Ivan lived some\ndistance from him. He had taken a roomy and fairly comfortable lodge\nattached to a fine house that belonged to a well-to-do lady, the widow of\nan official. But his only attendant was a deaf and rheumatic old crone who\nwent to bed at six o'clock every evening and got up at six in the morning.\nIvan had become remarkably indifferent to his comforts of late, and very\nfond of being alone. He did everything for himself in the one room he\nlived in, and rarely entered any of the other rooms in his abode.\n\nHe reached the gate of the house and had his hand on the bell, when he\nsuddenly stopped. He felt that he was trembling all over with anger.\nSuddenly he let go of the bell, turned back with a curse, and walked with\nrapid steps in the opposite direction. He walked a mile and a half to a\ntiny, slanting, wooden house, almost a hut, where Marya Kondratyevna, the\nneighbor who used to come to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup and to\nwhom Smerdyakov had once sung his songs and played on the guitar, was now\nlodging. She had sold their little house, and was now living here with her\nmother. Smerdyakov, who was ill--almost dying--had been with them ever since\nFyodor Pavlovitch's death. It was to him Ivan was going now, drawn by a\nsudden and irresistible prompting.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. The First Interview With Smerdyakov\n\n\nThis was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdyakov since his\nreturn from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was\non the first day of his arrival, then he had visited him once more, a\nfortnight later. But his visits had ended with that second one, so that it\nwas now over a month since he had seen him. And he had scarcely heard\nanything of him.\n\nIvan had only returned five days after his father's death, so that he was\nnot present at the funeral, which took place the day before he came back.\nThe cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his Moscow address,\nhad to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him, and she, not\nknowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and aunt, reckoning\non Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did\nnot go to them till four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram,\nhe had, of course, set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him\nwas Alyosha, and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that, in opposition to\nthe general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion\nagainst Mitya, and spoke openly of Smerdyakov as the murderer. Later on,\nafter seeing the police captain and the prosecutor, and hearing the\ndetails of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at\nAlyosha, and ascribed his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly\nfeeling and sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very\nfond.\n\nBy the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother\nDmitri. He positively disliked him; at most, felt sometimes a compassion\nfor him, and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance.\nMitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive\nto him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katerina Ivanovna's love for his\nbrother. Yet he went to see Mitya on the first day of his arrival, and\nthat interview, far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt, positively\nstrengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya\nhad been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent\nlanguage, accused Smerdyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked\nprincipally about the three thousand roubles, which he said had been\n\"stolen\" from him by his father.\n\n\"The money was mine, it was my money,\" Mitya kept repeating. \"Even if I\nhad stolen it, I should have had the right.\"\n\nHe hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to turn a\nfact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly\nseemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or any one else. Quite the\ncontrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him; he\nwas continually firing up and abusing every one. He only laughed\ncontemptuously at Grigory's evidence about the open door, and declared\nthat it was \"the devil that opened it.\" But he could not bring forward any\ncoherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan\nduring their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for\npeople who declared that \"everything was lawful,\" to suspect and question\nhim. Altogether he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion.\nImmediately after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time\nto see Smerdyakov.\n\nIn the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of\nSmerdyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he\nwent away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. But when he\ngave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Ivan said nothing, for the\ntime, of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smerdyakov,\nwho was at that time in the hospital.\n\nDoctor Herzenstube and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital,\nconfidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions, that\nSmerdyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine, and were surprised\nindeed at Ivan asking whether he might not have been shamming on the day\nof the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an\nexceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times, so that\nthe patient's life was positively in danger, and it was only now, after\nthey had applied remedies, that they could assert with confidence that the\npatient would survive. \"Though it might well be,\" added Doctor\nHerzenstube, \"that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period,\nif not permanently.\" On Ivan's asking impatiently whether that meant that\nhe was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case, in the full\nsense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan\ndecided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were.\n\nAt the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smerdyakov was\nlying on a truckle-bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in\nthe room, and in it lay a tradesman of the town, swollen with dropsy, who\nwas obviously almost dying; he could be no hindrance to their\nconversation. Smerdyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan, and for the\nfirst instant seemed nervous. So at least Ivan fancied. But that was only\nmomentary. For the rest of the time he was struck, on the contrary, by\nSmerdyakov's composure. From the first glance Ivan had no doubt that he\nwas very ill. He was very weak; he spoke slowly, seeming to move his\ntongue with difficulty; he was much thinner and sallower. Throughout the\ninterview, which lasted twenty minutes, he kept complaining of headache\nand of pain in all his limbs. His thin emasculate face seemed to have\nbecome so tiny; his hair was ruffled, and his crest of curls in front\nstood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and\nseemed to be insinuating something, Smerdyakov showed himself unchanged.\n\"It's always worth while speaking to a clever man.\" Ivan was reminded of\nthat at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smerdyakov, with\npainful effort, shifted his position in bed, but he was not the first to\nspeak. He remained dumb, and did not even look much interested.\n\n\"Can you talk to me?\" asked Ivan. \"I won't tire you much.\"\n\n\"Certainly I can,\" mumbled Smerdyakov, in a faint voice. \"Has your honor\nbeen back long?\" he added patronizingly, as though encouraging a nervous\nvisitor.\n\n\"I only arrived to-day.... To see the mess you are in here.\" Smerdyakov\nsighed.\n\n\"Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along,\" Ivan blurted out.\n\nSmerdyakov was stolidly silent for a while.\n\n\"How could I help knowing? It was clear beforehand. But how could I tell\nit would turn out like that?\"\n\n\"What would turn out? Don't prevaricate! You've foretold you'd have a fit;\non the way down to the cellar, you know. You mentioned the very spot.\"\n\n\"Have you said so at the examination yet?\" Smerdyakov queried with\ncomposure.\n\nIvan felt suddenly angry.\n\n\"No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal\nto me, my man; and let me tell you, I am not going to let you play with\nme!\"\n\n\"Why should I play with you, when I put my whole trust in you, as in God\nAlmighty?\" said Smerdyakov, with the same composure, only for a moment\nclosing his eyes.\n\n\"In the first place,\" began Ivan, \"I know that epileptic fits can't be\ntold beforehand. I've inquired; don't try and take me in. You can't\nforetell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour\nbeforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell that you would\nfall down the cellar stairs in a fit, if you didn't sham a fit on\npurpose?\"\n\n\"I had to go to the cellar anyway, several times a day, indeed,\"\nSmerdyakov drawled deliberately. \"I fell from the garret just in the same\nway a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit\nbeforehand, but you can always have a presentiment of it.\"\n\n\"But you did foretell the day and the hour!\"\n\n\"In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors\nhere. You can ask them whether it was a real fit or a sham; it's no use my\nsaying any more about it.\"\n\n\"And the cellar? How could you know beforehand of the cellar?\"\n\n\"You don't seem able to get over that cellar! As I was going down to the\ncellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was\nlosing you and being left without defense in all the world. So I went down\ninto the cellar thinking, 'Here, it'll come on directly, it'll strike me\ndown directly, shall I fall?' And it was through this fear that I suddenly\nfelt the spasm that always comes ... and so I went flying. All that and\nall my previous conversation with you at the gate the evening before, when\nI told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that\nto Doctor Herzenstube and Nikolay Parfenovitch, the investigating lawyer,\nand it's all been written down in the protocol. And the doctor here, Mr.\nVarvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it\nbrought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that\nthe fit seized me. And so they've written it down, that it's just how it\nmust have happened, simply from my fear.\"\n\nAs he finished, Smerdyakov drew a deep breath, as though exhausted.\n\n\"Then you have said all that in your evidence?\" said Ivan, somewhat taken\naback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their\nconversation, and it appeared that Smerdyakov had already reported it all\nhimself.\n\n\"What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth,\"\nSmerdyakov pronounced firmly.\n\n\"And have you told them every word of our conversation at the gate?\"\n\n\"No, not to say every word.\"\n\n\"And did you tell them that you can sham fits, as you boasted then?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't tell them that either.\"\n\n\"Tell me now, why did you send me then to Tchermashnya?\"\n\n\"I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow; Tchermashnya is nearer, anyway.\"\n\n\"You are lying; you suggested my going away yourself; you told me to get\nout of the way of trouble.\"\n\n\"That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to you,\nforeseeing trouble in the house, to spare you. Only I wanted to spare\nmyself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harm's way, that you\nmight understand that there would be trouble in the house, and would\nremain at home to protect your father.\"\n\n\"You might have said it more directly, you blockhead!\" Ivan suddenly fired\nup.\n\n\"How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that\nmade me speak, and you might have been angry, too. I might well have been\napprehensive that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would make a scene and carry away\nthat money, for he considered it as good as his own; but who could tell\nthat it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only\ncarry off the three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the\nenvelope, and you see, he's murdered him. How could you guess it either,\nsir?\"\n\n\"But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have\nguessed and stayed at home? You contradict yourself!\" said Ivan,\npondering.\n\n\"You might have guessed from my sending you to Tchermashnya and not to\nMoscow.\"\n\n\"How could I guess it from that?\"\n\nSmerdyakov seemed much exhausted, and again he was silent for a minute.\n\n\"You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to\nMoscow, but to Tchermashnya, that I wanted to have you nearer, for\nMoscow's a long way off, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch, knowing you are not far\noff, would not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have\ncome to protect me, too, for I warned you of Grigory Vassilyevitch's\nillness, and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those\nknocks to you, by means of which one could go in to the deceased, and that\nDmitri Fyodorovitch knew them all through me, I thought that you would\nguess yourself that he would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go\nto Tchermashnya even, but would stay.\"\n\n\"He talks very coherently,\" thought Ivan, \"though he does mumble; what's\nthe derangement of his faculties that Herzenstube talked of?\"\n\n\"You are cunning with me, damn you!\" he exclaimed, getting angry.\n\n\"But I thought at the time that you quite guessed,\" Smerdyakov parried\nwith the simplest air.\n\n\"If I'd guessed, I should have stayed,\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"Why, I thought that it was because you guessed, that you went away in\nsuch a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save\nyourself in your fright.\"\n\n\"You think that every one is as great a coward as yourself?\"\n\n\"Forgive me, I thought you were like me.\"\n\n\"Of course, I ought to have guessed,\" Ivan said in agitation; \"and I did\nguess there was some mischief brewing on your part ... only you are lying,\nyou are lying again,\" he cried, suddenly recollecting. \"Do you remember\nhow you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's always worth while\nspeaking to a clever man'? So you were glad I went away, since you praised\nme?\"\n\nSmerdyakov sighed again and again. A trace of color came into his face.\n\n\"If I was pleased,\" he articulated rather breathlessly, \"it was simply\nbecause you agreed not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya. For it was\nnearer, anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of\npraise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it.\"\n\n\"What reproach?\"\n\n\"Why, that foreseeing such a calamity you deserted your own father, and\nwould not protect us, for I might have been taken up any time for stealing\nthat three thousand.\"\n\n\"Damn you!\" Ivan swore again. \"Stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the\ninvestigating lawyer about those knocks?\"\n\n\"I told them everything just as it was.\"\n\nIvan wondered inwardly again.\n\n\"If I thought of anything then,\" he began again, \"it was solely of some\nwickedness on your part. Dmitri might kill him, but that he would steal--I\ndid not believe that then.... But I was prepared for any wickedness from\nyou. You told me yourself you could sham a fit. What did you say that\nfor?\"\n\n\"It was just through my simplicity, and I never have shammed a fit on\npurpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you. It was just\nfoolishness. I liked you so much then, and was open-hearted with you.\"\n\n\"My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft.\"\n\n\"What else is left for him to do?\" said Smerdyakov, with a bitter grin.\n\"And who will believe him with all the proofs against him? Grigory\nVassilyevitch saw the door open. What can he say after that? But never\nmind him! He is trembling to save himself.\"\n\nHe slowly ceased speaking; then suddenly, as though on reflection, added:\n\n\"And look here again. He wants to throw it on me and make out that it is\nthe work of my hands--I've heard that already. But as to my being clever at\nshamming a fit: should I have told you beforehand that I could sham one,\nif I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been\nplanning such a murder could I have been such a fool as to give such\nevidence against myself beforehand? And to his son, too! Upon my word! Is\nthat likely? As if that could be, such a thing has never happened. No one\nhears this talk of ours now, except Providence itself, and if you were to\ntell of it to the prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch you might defend me\ncompletely by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal, if\nhe is so open-hearted beforehand? Any one can see that.\"\n\n\"Well,\" and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by\nSmerdyakov's last argument. \"I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's\nabsurd, indeed, to suspect you. On the contrary, I am grateful to you for\nsetting my mind at rest. Now I am going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile,\ngood-by. Get well. Is there anything you want?\"\n\n\"I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatyevna does not forget me,\nand provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people\nvisit me every day.\"\n\n\"Good-by. But I shan't say anything of your being able to sham a fit, and\nI don't advise you to, either,\" something made Ivan say suddenly.\n\n\"I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing\nof that conversation of ours at the gate.\"\n\nThen it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a dozen\nsteps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting\nsignificance in Smerdyakov's last words. He was almost on the point of\nturning back, but it was only a passing impulse, and muttering,\n\"Nonsense!\" he went out of the hospital.\n\nHis chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not\nSmerdyakov, but Mitya, who had committed the murder, though he might have\nbeen expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyze the reason\nfor this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his\nsensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something.\nIn the following days he became convinced of Mitya's guilt, as he got to\nknow all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people\nof no importance, Fenya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it\nwas almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern, and at\nPlotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Mokroe, their evidence\nseemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of\nthe knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigory's evidence as\nto the open door. Grigory's wife, Marfa, in answer to Ivan's questions,\ndeclared that Smerdyakov had been lying all night the other side of the\npartition wall. \"He was not three paces from our bed,\" and that although\nshe was a sound sleeper she waked several times and heard him moaning, \"He\nwas moaning the whole time, moaning continually.\"\n\nTalking to Herzenstube, and giving it as his opinion that Smerdyakov was\nnot mad, but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle\nsmile.\n\n\"Do you know how he spends his time now?\" he asked; \"learning lists of\nFrench words by heart. He has an exercise-book under his pillow with the\nFrench words written out in Russian letters for him by some one, he he\nhe!\"\n\nIvan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitri without\nrepulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that\nDmitri was not the murderer, and that \"in all probability\" Smerdyakov was.\nIvan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so\nhe was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that\nAlyosha did not make any attempt to talk about Mitya with Ivan, that he\nnever began on the subject and only answered his questions. This, too,\nstruck Ivan particularly.\n\nBut he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart\nfrom that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to\nhis mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the time\nto begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's, which left its mark on\nall the rest of his life: this would furnish the subject for another\nnovel, which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot omit to mention here\nthat when Ivan, on leaving Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related\nalready, told him, \"I am not keen on her,\" it was an absolute lie: he\nloved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have\nmurdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by\nwhat had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as\nher one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her feelings.\nAnd here the man had come back to her, who had loved her so ardently\nbefore (oh! she knew that very well), and whose heart and intellect she\nconsidered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not\nabandon herself altogether to the man she loved, in spite of the Karamazov\nviolence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was\ncontinually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted\nMitya, and in moments of discord and violent anger (and they were\nnumerous) she told Ivan so plainly. This was what he had called to Alyosha\n\"lies upon lies.\" There was, of course, much that was false in it, and\nthat angered Ivan more than anything.... But of all this later.\n\nHe did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smerdyakov's existence, and yet,\na fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the\nsame strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was\ncontinually asking himself, why was it that on that last night in Fyodor\nPavlovitch's house he had crept out on to the stairs like a thief and\nlistened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that\nafterwards with repulsion? Why next morning, had he been suddenly so\ndepressed on the journey? Why, as he reached Moscow, had he said to\nhimself, \"I am a scoundrel\"? And now he almost fancied that these\ntormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katerina Ivanovna, so\ncompletely did they take possession of him again. It was just after\nfancying this, that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once,\nand put a question to him:\n\n\"Do you remember when Dmitri burst in after dinner and beat father, and\nafterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved 'the right to\ndesire'?... Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or\nnot?\"\n\n\"I did think so,\" answered Alyosha, softly.\n\n\"It was so, too; it was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy\nthen that what I wished was just that 'one reptile should devour another';\nthat is, just that Dmitri should kill father, and as soon as possible ...\nand that I myself was even prepared to help to bring that about?\"\n\nAlyosha turned rather pale, and looked silently into his brother's face.\n\n\"Speak!\" cried Ivan, \"I want above everything to know what you thought\nthen. I want the truth, the truth!\"\n\nHe drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came.\n\n\"Forgive me, I did think that, too, at the time,\" whispered Alyosha, and\nhe did not add one softening phrase.\n\n\"Thanks,\" snapped Ivan, and, leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on his way.\nFrom that time Alyosha noticed that Ivan began obviously to avoid him and\nseemed even to have taken a dislike to him, so much so that Alyosha gave\nup going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Ivan had not\ngone home, but went straight to Smerdyakov again.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. The Second Visit To Smerdyakov\n\n\nBy that time Smerdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew\nhis new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a\npassage on one side of which lived Marya Kondratyevna and her mother, and\non the other, Smerdyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them,\nwhether as a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had\ncome to stay with them as Marya Kondratyevna's betrothed, and was living\nthere for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and\ndaughter had the greatest respect for him and looked upon him as greatly\nsuperior to themselves.\n\nIvan knocked, and, on the door being opened, went straight into the\npassage. By Marya Kondratyevna's directions he went straight to the better\nroom on the left, occupied by Smerdyakov. There was a tiled stove in the\nroom and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which\nwas a good deal used however, and in the cracks under it cockroaches\nswarmed in amazing numbers, so that there was a continual rustling from\nthem. The furniture was very scanty: two benches against each wall and two\nchairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with\npink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little\nwindows. In the corner there was a case of ikons. On the table stood a\nlittle copper samovar with many dents in it, and a tray with two cups. But\nSmerdyakov had finished tea and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the\ntable on a bench. He was looking at an exercise-book and slowly writing\nwith a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick,\nbut with a composite candle. Ivan saw at once from Smerdyakov's face that\nhe had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher,\nfuller, his hair stood up jauntily in front, and was plastered down at the\nsides. He was sitting in a parti-colored, wadded dressing-gown, rather\ndirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had\nnever seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly\nredoubled Ivan's anger: \"A creature like that and wearing spectacles!\"\n\nSmerdyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor\nthrough his spectacles; then he slowly took them off and rose from the\nbench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least\npossible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly; he\ntook it all in and noted it at once--most of all the look in Smerdyakov's\neyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. \"What do you want to\nintrude for?\" it seemed to say; \"we settled everything then; why have you\ncome again?\" Ivan could scarcely control himself.\n\n\"It's hot here,\" he said, still standing, and unbuttoned his overcoat.\n\n\"Take off your coat,\" Smerdyakov conceded.\n\nIvan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He\ntook a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Smerdyakov\nmanaged to sit down on his bench before him.\n\n\"To begin with, are we alone?\" Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. \"Can\nthey overhear us in there?\"\n\n\"No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself: there's a passage.\"\n\n\"Listen, my good fellow; what was that you babbled, as I was leaving the\nhospital, that if I said nothing about your faculty of shamming fits, you\nwouldn't tell the investigating lawyer all our conversation at the gate?\nWhat do you mean by _all_? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening\nme? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I am\nafraid of you?\"\n\nIvan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious\nintention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show\nhis cards. Smerdyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked, and\nhe at once gave his answer, with his habitual composure and deliberation.\n\"You want to have everything above-board; very well, you shall have it,\"\nhe seemed to say.\n\n\"This is what I meant then, and this is why I said that, that you, knowing\nbeforehand of this murder of your own parent, left him to his fate, and\nthat people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and\nperhaps of something else, too--that's what I promised not to tell the\nauthorities.\"\n\nThough Smerdyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself,\nyet there was something in his voice, determined and emphatic, resentful\nand insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan. A mist passed before\nIvan's eyes for the first moment.\n\n\"How? What? Are you out of your mind?\"\n\n\"I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose I _knew_ of the murder?\" Ivan cried at last, and he\nbrought his fist violently on the table. \"What do you mean by 'something\nelse, too'? Speak, scoundrel!\"\n\nSmerdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare.\n\n\"Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that 'something else, too'?\"\n\n\"The 'something else' I meant was that you probably, too, were very\ndesirous of your parent's death.\"\n\nIvan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder, so that\nhe fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears.\nSaying, \"It's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man,\" he dried his eyes with\na very dirty blue check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute\npassed.\n\n\"That's enough! Leave off,\" Ivan said peremptorily, sitting down again.\n\"Don't put me out of all patience.\"\n\nSmerdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face\nreflected the insult he had just received.\n\n\"So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dmitri I meant to\nkill my father?\"\n\n\"I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then,\" said Smerdyakov\nresentfully; \"and so I stopped you then at the gate to sound you on that\nvery point.\"\n\n\"To sound what, what?\"\n\n\"Why, that very circumstance, whether you wanted your father to be\nmurdered or not.\"\n\nWhat infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone\nto which Smerdyakov persistently adhered.\n\n\"It was you murdered him?\" he cried suddenly.\n\nSmerdyakov smiled contemptuously.\n\n\"You know of yourself, for a fact, that it wasn't I murdered him. And I\nshould have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of\nit again.\"\n\n\"But why, why had you such a suspicion about me at the time?\"\n\n\"As you know already, it was simply from fear. For I was in such a\nposition, shaking with fear, that I suspected every one. I resolved to\nsound you, too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then\nthe business was as good as settled and I should be crushed like a fly,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Look here, you didn't say that a fortnight ago.\"\n\n\"I meant the same when I talked to you in the hospital, only I thought\nyou'd understand without wasting words, and that being such a sensible man\nyou wouldn't care to talk of it openly.\"\n\n\"What next! Come answer, answer, I insist: what was it ... what could I\nhave done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul?\"\n\n\"As for the murder, you couldn't have done that and didn't want to, but as\nfor wanting some one else to do it, that was just what you did want.\"\n\n\"And how coolly, how coolly he speaks! But why should I have wanted it;\nwhat grounds had I for wanting it?\"\n\n\"What grounds had you? What about the inheritance?\" said Smerdyakov\nsarcastically, and, as it were, vindictively. \"Why, after your parent's\ndeath there was at least forty thousand to come to each of you, and very\nlikely more, but if Fyodor Pavlovitch got married then to that lady,\nAgrafena Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her\ndirectly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense, so that your parent\nwould not have left you two roubles between the three of you. And were\nthey far from a wedding, either? Not a hair's-breadth: that lady had only\nto lift her little finger and he would have run after her to church, with\nhis tongue out.\"\n\nIvan restrained himself with painful effort.\n\n\"Very good,\" he commented at last. \"You see, I haven't jumped up, I\nhaven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on. So, according to\nyou, I had fixed on Dmitri to do it; I was reckoning on him?\"\n\n\"How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him, then he would lose\nall the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property, and would go off to\nexile; so his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother\nAlexey Fyodorovitch in equal parts; so you'd each have not forty, but\nsixty thousand each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitri\nFyodorovitch.\"\n\n\"What I put up with from you! Listen, scoundrel, if I had reckoned on any\none then, it would have been on you, not on Dmitri, and I swear I did\nexpect some wickedness from you ... at the time.... I remember my\nimpression!\"\n\n\"I thought, too, for a minute, at the time, that you were reckoning on me\nas well,\" said Smerdyakov, with a sarcastic grin. \"So that it was just by\nthat more than anything you showed me what was in your mind. For if you\nhad a foreboding about me and yet went away, you as good as said to me,\n'You can murder my parent, I won't hinder you!' \"\n\n\"You scoundrel! So that's how you understood it!\"\n\n\"It was all that going to Tchermashnya. Why! You were meaning to go to\nMoscow and refused all your father's entreaties to go to Tchermashnya--and\nsimply at a foolish word from me you consented at once! What reason had\nyou to consent to Tchermashnya? Since you went to Tchermashnya with no\nreason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something\nfrom me.\"\n\n\"No, I swear I didn't!\" shouted Ivan, grinding his teeth.\n\n\"You didn't? Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to\nthe lock-up and thrashed at once for my words then ... or at least, to\nhave given me a punch in the face on the spot, but you were not a bit\nangry, if you please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish\nword and went away, which was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed\nto save your parent's life. How could I help drawing my conclusions?\"\n\nIvan sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees.\n\n\"Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face,\" he said with a bitter\nsmile. \"I couldn't have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have\nbelieved me and what charge could I bring against you? But the punch in\nthe face ... oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it. Though blows are\nforbidden, I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly.\"\n\nSmerdyakov looked at him almost with relish.\n\n\"In the ordinary occasions of life,\" he said in the same complacent and\nsententious tone in which he had taunted Grigory and argued with him about\nreligion at Fyodor Pavlovitch's table, \"in the ordinary occasions of life,\nblows on the face are forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given\nthem up, but in exceptional occasions of life people still fly to blows,\nnot only among us but all over the world, be it even the fullest Republic\nof France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve, and they never will leave\noff, but you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare.\"\n\n\"What are you learning French words for?\" Ivan nodded towards the\nexercise-book lying on the table.\n\n\"Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education, supposing that\nI may myself chance to go some day to those happy parts of Europe?\"\n\n\"Listen, monster.\" Ivan's eyes flashed and he trembled all over. \"I am not\nafraid of your accusations; you can say what you like about me, and if I\ndon't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime\nand I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you.\"\n\n\"To my thinking, you'd better keep quiet, for what can you accuse me of,\nconsidering my absolute innocence? and who would believe you? Only if you\nbegin, I shall tell everything, too, for I must defend myself.\"\n\n\"Do you think I am afraid of you now?\"\n\n\"If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public\nwill, and you will be ashamed.\"\n\n\"That's as much as to say, 'It's always worth while speaking to a sensible\nman,' eh?\" snarled Ivan.\n\n\"You hit the mark, indeed. And you'd better be sensible.\"\n\nIvan got up, shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat, and\nwithout replying further to Smerdyakov, without even looking at him,\nwalked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him.\nThere was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations\nfilled his soul. \"Shall I go at once and give information against\nSmerdyakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty, anyway. On\nthe contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for\nTchermashnya then? What for? What for?\" Ivan asked himself. \"Yes, of\ncourse, I was expecting something and he is right....\" And he remembered\nfor the hundredth time how, on the last night in his father's house, he\nhad listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish\nthat he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. \"Yes, I\nexpected it then, that's true! I wanted the murder, I did want the murder!\nDid I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smerdyakov! If I don't\ndare kill Smerdyakov now, life is not worth living!\"\n\nIvan did not go home, but went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and alarmed\nher by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his\nconversation with Smerdyakov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed,\nhowever much she tried to soothe him: he kept walking about the room,\nspeaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on\nthe table, leaned his head on his hands and pronounced this strange\nsentence: \"If it's not Dmitri, but Smerdyakov who's the murderer, I share\nhis guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if\nhe is the murderer, and not Dmitri, then, of course, I am the murderer,\ntoo.\"\n\nWhen Katerina Ivanovna heard that, she got up from her seat without a\nword, went to her writing-table, opened a box standing on it, took out a\nsheet of paper and laid it before Ivan. This was the document of which\nIvan spoke to Alyosha later on as a \"conclusive proof\" that Dmitri had\nkilled his father. It was the letter written by Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna\nwhen he was drunk, on the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on\nthe way to the monastery, after the scene at Katerina Ivanovna's, when\nGrushenka had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitya had rushed\nto Grushenka. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was\nat the \"Metropolis,\" where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen\nand paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was\na wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was\nlike the talk of a drunken man, who, on his return home, begins with\nextraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has\njust been insulted, what a rascal had just insulted him, what a fine\nfellow he is on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out;\nand all that at great length, with great excitement and incoherence, with\ndrunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty\npiece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the\ntavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was\nevidently not space enough for his drunken verbosity and Mitya not only\nfilled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest.\nThe letter ran as follows:\n\n\n    FATAL KATYA: To-morrow I will get the money and repay your three\n    thousand and farewell, woman of great wrath, but farewell, too, my\n    love! Let us make an end! To-morrow I shall try and get it from\n    every one, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor I\n    shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from\n    under the pillow, if only Ivan has gone. If I have to go to\n    Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand. And\n    farewell. I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a\n    scoundrel to you. Forgive me! No, better not forgive me, you'll be\n    happier and so shall I! Better Siberia than your love, for I love\n    another woman and you got to know her too well to-day, so how can\n    you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me! I'll leave you\n    all and go to the East so as to see no one again. Not _her_\n    either, for you are not my only tormentress; she is too. Farewell!\n\n    P.S.--I write my curse, but I adore you! I hear it in my heart. One\n    string is left, and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two! I\n    shall kill myself, but first of all that cur. I shall tear three\n    thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a\n    scoundrel to you, I am not a thief! You can expect three thousand.\n    The cur keeps it under his mattress, in pink ribbon. I am not a\n    thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful.\n    Dmitri is not a thief! but a murderer! He has murdered his father\n    and ruined himself to hold his ground, rather than endure your\n    pride. And he doesn't love you.\n\n    P.P.S.--I kiss your feet, farewell! P.P.P.S.--Katya, pray to God\n    that some one'll give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in\n    gore, and if no one does--I shall! Kill me!\n\n    Your slave and enemy,\n\n    D. KARAMAZOV.\n\n\nWhen Ivan read this \"document\" he was convinced. So then it was his\nbrother, not Smerdyakov. And if not Smerdyakov, then not he, Ivan. This\nletter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There\ncould be no longer the slightest doubt of Mitya's guilt. The suspicion\nnever occurred to Ivan, by the way, that Mitya might have committed the\nmurder in conjunction with Smerdyakov, and, indeed, such a theory did not\nfit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning he\nonly thought of Smerdyakov and his gibes with contempt. A few days later\nhe positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at\nhis suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him.\nSo passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Smerdyakov, but twice\nhe happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind.\n\n\"He'll end in madness,\" the young doctor Varvinsky observed about him, and\nIvan remembered this. During the last week of that month Ivan himself\nbegan to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been\nsent for by Katerina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time\nhis relations with Katerina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were\nlike two enemies in love with one another. Katerina Ivanovna's \"returns\"\nto Mitya, that is, her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his\nfavor, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene\ndescribed above, when Alyosha came from Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna, Ivan\nhad never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mitya's\nguilt, in spite of those \"returns\" that were so hateful to him. It is\nremarkable, too, that while he felt that he hated Mitya more and more\nevery day, he realized that it was not on account of Katya's \"returns\"\nthat he hated him, but just _because he was the murderer of his father_.\nHe was conscious of this and fully recognized it to himself.\n\nNevertheless, he went to see Mitya ten days before the trial and proposed\nto him a plan of escape--a plan he had obviously thought over a long time.\nHe was partly impelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart\nfrom a phrase of Smerdyakov's, that it was to his, Ivan's, advantage that\nhis brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance\nand Alyosha's from forty to sixty thousand roubles. He determined to\nsacrifice thirty thousand on arranging Mitya's escape. On his return from\nseeing him, he was very mournful and dispirited; he suddenly began to feel\nthat he was anxious for Mitya's escape, not only to heal that sore place\nby sacrificing thirty thousand, but for another reason. \"Is it because I\nam as much a murderer at heart?\" he asked himself. Something very deep\ndown seemed burning and rankling in his soul. His pride above all suffered\ncruelly all that month. But of that later....\n\nWhen, after his conversation with Alyosha, Ivan suddenly decided with his\nhand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smerdyakov, he obeyed a sudden\nand peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katerina\nIvanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence: \"It was\nyou, you, persuaded me of his\" (that is, Mitya's) \"guilt!\" Ivan was\nthunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her\nthat Mitya was the murderer; on the contrary, he had suspected himself in\nher presence, that time when he came back from Smerdyakov. It was _she_,\nshe, who had produced that \"document\" and proved his brother's guilt. And\nnow she suddenly exclaimed: \"I've been at Smerdyakov's myself!\" When had\nshe been there? Ivan had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so\nsure of Mitya's guilt! And what could Smerdyakov have told her? What,\nwhat, had he said to her? His heart burned with violent anger. He could\nnot understand how he could, half an hour before, have let those words\npass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and\nrushed off to Smerdyakov. \"I shall kill him, perhaps, this time,\" he\nthought on the way.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. The Third And Last Interview With Smerdyakov\n\n\nWhen he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early\nthat morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did\nnot lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there\nwas a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of\nthe town where Smerdyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness,\nunconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head\nached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his\nhands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's\ncottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was\nwearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags, grumbling\nand swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky\ndrunken voice:\n\n\n    \"Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;\n    I won't wait till he comes back.\"\n\n\nBut he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again;\nthen he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for\nhim before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his\npresence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that\nmoment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt\nagainst Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying\nbackwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one\nplaintive \"O--oh!\" and then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was\nlying on his back, without movement or consciousness. \"He will be frozen,\"\nthought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdyakov's.\n\nIn the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door with a\ncandle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill, \"It's not that\nhe's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the\ntea away; he wouldn't have any.\"\n\n\"Why, does he make a row?\" asked Ivan coarsely.\n\n\"Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please don't talk\nto him too long,\" Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan opened the door and\nstepped into the room.\n\nIt was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of\nthe benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a\nlarge old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with\nfairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing\nthe same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the\nsofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book\nin yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be\nsitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow silent gaze, and was\napparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in\nhis face; he was much thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there\nwere blue marks under them.\n\n\"Why, you really are ill?\" Ivan stopped short. \"I won't keep you long, I\nwon't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?\"\n\nHe went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on\nit.\n\n\"Why do you look at me without speaking? I've only come with one question,\nand I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina\nIvanovna, been with you?\"\n\nSmerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before.\nSuddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'nothing'?\"\n\n\"Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone.\"\n\n\"No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?\"\n\n\"Why, I'd quite forgotten about her,\" said Smerdyakov, with a scornful\nsmile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of\nfrenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last\ninterview, a month before.\n\n\"You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look like\nyourself,\" he said to Ivan.\n\n\"Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you.\"\n\n\"But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so\nworried?\" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright.\n\n\"Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!\" Ivan cried,\nintensely irritated.\n\n\"Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?\" said Smerdyakov,\nwith a look of suffering.\n\n\"Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go\naway.\"\n\n\"I've no answer to give you,\" said Smerdyakov, looking down again.\n\n\"You may be sure I'll make you answer!\"\n\n\"Why are you so uneasy?\" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with\ncontempt, but almost with repulsion. \"Is this because the trial begins to-\nmorrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last? Go\nhome, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of to-morrow?\" Ivan\narticulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in\nfact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes.\n\n\"You don't understand?\" he drawled reproachfully. \"It's a strange thing a\nsensible man should care to play such a farce!\"\n\nIvan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone\nof this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He\nhad not taken such a tone even at their last interview.\n\n\"I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about\nyou; there's no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling!\nWhy are your fingers moving like that? Go home, _you_ did not murder him.\"\n\nIvan started. He remembered Alyosha.\n\n\"I know it was not I,\" he faltered.\n\n\"Do you?\" Smerdyakov caught him up again.\n\nIvan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder.\n\n\"Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!\"\n\nSmerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan\nwith insane hatred.\n\n\"Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it,\" he whispered furiously.\n\nIvan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed\nmalignantly.\n\n\"You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?\"\n\n\"You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand\nit now.\"\n\n\"All I understand is that you are mad.\"\n\n\"Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the use of going\non keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all\non me, to my face? _You_ murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was\nonly your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your\nwords I did it.\"\n\n\"_Did_ it? Why, did you murder him?\" Ivan turned cold.\n\nSomething seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with\na cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably\nthe genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him.\n\n\"You don't mean to say you really did not know?\" he faltered\nmistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed\nat him, and seemed unable to speak.\n\n\n    Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;\n    I won't wait till he comes back,\n\n\nsuddenly echoed in his head.\n\n\"Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before\nme,\" he muttered.\n\n\"There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No doubt he is\nhere, that third, between us.\"\n\n\"Who is he? Who is here? What third person?\" Ivan cried in alarm, looking\nabout him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner.\n\n\"That third is God Himself--Providence. He is the third beside us now. Only\ndon't look for Him, you won't find Him.\"\n\n\"It's a lie that you killed him!\" Ivan cried madly. \"You are mad, or\nteasing me again!\"\n\nSmerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He\ncould still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still fancied that Ivan\nknew everything and was trying to \"throw it all on him to his face.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up\nhis left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He\nwas wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his\ngarter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and\nsuddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror.\n\n\"He's mad!\" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so that he\nknocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and\nstraight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who, entirely\nunaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he\nwere making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull\nit out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that\nit was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it\nout and laid it on the table.\n\n\"Here,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Ivan, trembling.\n\n\"Kindly look at it,\" Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone.\n\nIvan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began\nunfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers, as though from\ncontact with a loathsome reptile.\n\n\"Your hands keep twitching,\" observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately\nunfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of\nhundred-rouble notes.\n\n\"They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count\nthem. Take them,\" Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan\nsank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief.\n\n\"You frightened me ... with your stocking,\" he said, with a strange grin.\n\n\"Can you really not have known till now?\" Smerdyakov asked once more.\n\n\"No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!\" He\nsuddenly clutched his head in both hands.\n\n\"Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or without?\"\n\n\"It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri\nFyodorovitch is quite innocent.\"\n\n\"All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I\ncan't speak properly.\"\n\n\"You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,' and how\nfrightened you are now,\" Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. \"Won't you have\nsome lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I\nmust hide this first.\"\n\nAnd again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call\nat the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring it them,\nbut, looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see\nthem, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very\ndirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on\nthe table, and put it over the notes. The book was _The Sayings of the\nHoly Father Isaac the Syrian_. Ivan read it mechanically.\n\n\"I won't have any lemonade,\" he said. \"Talk of me later. Sit down and tell\nme how you did it. Tell me all about it.\"\n\n\"You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot.\" Ivan, as\nthough he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and, without\ngetting up from his chair, threw it on the bench.\n\n\"Speak, please, speak.\"\n\nHe seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would tell him\n_all_ about it.\n\n\"How it was done?\" sighed Smerdyakov. \"It was done in a most natural way,\nfollowing your very words.\"\n\n\"Of my words later,\" Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self-\npossession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as before. \"Only\ntell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened. Don't forget\nanything. The details, above everything, the details, I beg you.\"\n\n\"You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar.\"\n\n\"In a fit or in a sham one?\"\n\n\"A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to\nthe very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream,\nand struggled, till they carried me out.\"\n\n\"Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the hospital?\"\n\n\"No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me to the\nhospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for\nyears. For two days I was quite unconscious.\"\n\n\"All right, all right. Go on.\"\n\n\"They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition,\nfor whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there, near them.\nShe's always been very kind to me, from my birth up. At night I moaned,\nbut quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch to come.\"\n\n\"Expecting him? To come to you?\"\n\n\"Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no doubt that\nhe'd come that night, for being without me and getting no news, he'd be\nsure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to, and do something.\"\n\n\"And if he hadn't come?\"\n\n\"Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to\nit without him.\"\n\n\"All right, all right ... speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above all,\ndon't leave anything out!\"\n\n\"I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was certain, for\nI had prepared him for it ... during the last few days.... He knew about\nthe knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury\nwhich had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the\nhouse by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting\nhim.\"\n\n\"Stay,\" Ivan interrupted; \"if he had killed him, he would have taken the\nmoney and carried it away; you must have considered that. What would you\nhave got by it afterwards? I don't see.\"\n\n\"But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him,\nthat the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been\nlying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovitch, as I was\nthe only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the\ncorner behind the ikons, for no one would have guessed that place,\nespecially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay, in\nthe corner behind the ikons. It would have been absurd to keep it under\nthe mattress; the box, anyway, could be locked. But all believe it was\nunder the mattress. A stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch\nhad committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away\nin a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he\nwould have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons\nand have taken away the money next morning or even that night, and it\nwould have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon upon\nthat.\"\n\n\"But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?\"\n\n\"If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the\nmoney, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would\nbeat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then, and then I'd\nmake out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but Dmitri Fyodorovitch\nwho had taken the money after beating him.\"\n\n\"Stop ... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who killed him;\nyou only took the money?\"\n\n\"No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he\nwas the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now, because ...\nbecause if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself,\nand are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my very face,\nyou are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and\ncharged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to\nprove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the\nwhole affair, and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You\nare the rightful murderer.\"\n\n\"Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!\" Ivan cried, unable to restrain\nhimself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself\ntill the end of the conversation. \"You still mean that Tchermashnya? Stay,\ntell me, why did you want my consent, if you really took Tchermashnya for\nconsent? How will you explain that now?\"\n\n\"Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made\nan outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if I'd been\nsuspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his accomplice; on the\ncontrary, you would have protected me from others.... And when you got\nyour inheritance you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the\nrest of your life. For you'd have received your inheritance through me,\nseeing that if he had married Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had\na farthing.\"\n\n\"Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards,\" snarled Ivan.\n\"And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed against you?\"\n\n\"What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to Tchermashnya?\nThat's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation you would either have\ngone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened.\nI should have known that you didn't want it done, and should have\nattempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you\nwouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial, and that you'd overlook\nmy having the three thousand. And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me\nafterwards, because then I should have told it all in the court; that is,\nnot that I had stolen the money or killed him--I shouldn't have said\nthat--but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't\nconsent to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have\ncornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could always\nhave cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death, and I\ntell you the public would have believed it all, and you would have been\nashamed for the rest of your life.\"\n\n\"Was I then so eager, was I?\" Ivan snarled again.\n\n\"To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing\nit.\" Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke\nslowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently\nhad some design. Ivan felt that.\n\n\"Go on,\" he said. \"Tell me what happened that night.\"\n\n\"What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the master\nshout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got up and came\nout, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness.\nI lay there waiting, my heart beating; I couldn't bear it. I got up at\nlast, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I\nstepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive, and I\nheard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I\nthought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he\nshouted to me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri\nFyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory!' 'Where?' I whispered.\n'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a bit,'\nI said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon\nGrigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So\nit's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, was the thought that\ncame into my head, and I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as\nGrigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as\nhe lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake\nup. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over\nme, till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master\nand said, 'She's here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants\nto be let in.' And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly\ngasped, but couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.'\nHe looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful,\nbut afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was\nfunny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd agreed\nupon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence, before his\neyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he heard the taps,\nhe ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but\nhe stood in the way to prevent me passing. 'Where is she? Where is she?'\nHe looked at me, all of a tremble. 'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so\nfrightened of me as all that, it's a bad look out!' And my legs went weak\nwith fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa\nIgnatyevna would run up, or something else might happen. I don't remember\nnow, but I must have stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why,\nshe's there, there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I\nsaid. 'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was\nfrightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to her\nyourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle in the\nwindow. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?' Though he cried\nthat, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he didn't want to move\naway from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn't\ndare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she is,' said I. I went up to the\nwindow and leaned right out of it. 'Here she is; she's in the bush,\nlaughing at you, don't you see her?' He suddenly believed it; he was all\nof a shake--he was awfully crazy about her--and he leaned right out of the\nwindow. I snatched up that iron paper-weight from his table; do you\nremember, weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top\nof the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank\ndown suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I\nknew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards,\ncovered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot.\nI wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the ikons, took the\nmoney out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor and the\npink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden all of a tremble,\nstraight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it--you know that hollow. I'd\nmarked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I\nwrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And\nthere it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out\nof the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory\nVassilyevitch has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if\nhe is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear\nwitness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have killed\nhim and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense and\nimpatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last\nshe got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vassilyevitch\nwas not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden. And that\nset it all going and set my mind at rest.\"\n\nHe stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without\nstirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov\nglanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes\naverted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was breathing\nhard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was impossible to\ntell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what.\n\n\"Stay,\" cried Ivan, pondering. \"What about the door? If he only opened the\ndoor to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw\nit before you went.\"\n\nIt was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different tone, not\nangry as before, so if any one had opened the door at that moment and\npeeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were\ntalking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject.\n\n\"As for that door and Grigory Vassilyevitch's having seen it open, that's\nonly his fancy,\" said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. \"He is not a man, I\nassure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had\nseen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that\nnotion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch\nafter that.\"\n\n\"Listen ...\" said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an\neffort to grasp something. \"Listen. There are a lot of questions I want to\nask you, but I forget them ... I keep forgetting and getting mixed up.\nYes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the envelope and leave it\nthere on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?... When\nyou were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it were the\nright thing to do ... but why, I can't understand....\"\n\n\"I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I\ndid for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put\nthem in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and\naddressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what\nshould have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such\ndesperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the\nenvelope? No, if the robber had been some one like me, he'd simply have\nput the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he\ncould. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew\nabout the envelope by hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it,\nfor instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as\npossible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the\nenvelope down, without having time to think that it would be evidence\nagainst him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly\nstolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring\nhimself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply taking what\nwas his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even\nbragged aloud before every one that he'd go and take his property from\nFyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was\nbeing examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as\nthough I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself\nand I hadn't prompted him; so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively\nwatered at my suggestion.\"\n\n\"But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?\" cried Ivan,\novercome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with alarm.\n\n\"Mercy on us! Could any one think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It\nwas all thought out beforehand.\"\n\n\"Well ... well, it was the devil helped you!\" Ivan cried again. \"No, you\nare not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought....\"\n\nHe got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible\ndistress. But as the table blocked his way, and there was hardly room to\npass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood\nand sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him, as\nhe suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before.\n\n\"Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that\nif I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am keeping you to answer\nto-morrow at the trial. God sees,\" Ivan raised his hand, \"perhaps I, too,\nwas guilty; perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's ...\ndeath, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think, and perhaps I didn't\nurge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on! But no matter, I will\ngive evidence against myself to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I\nshall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together.\nAnd whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you\ngive, I'll face it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself!\nBut you must confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's\nhow it shall be!\"\n\nIvan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it\ncould be seen that it would be so.\n\n\"You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow,\" Smerdyakov\ncommented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact.\n\n\"We'll go together,\" Ivan repeated. \"And if you won't go, no matter, I'll\ngo alone.\"\n\nSmerdyakov paused as though pondering.\n\n\"There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go,\" he concluded at last\npositively.\n\n\"You don't understand me,\" Ivan exclaimed reproachfully.\n\n\"You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's more, it\nwill be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said\nanything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks\nlike it, too), or that you're so sorry for your brother that you are\nsacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for\nyou've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And who will\nbelieve you, and what single proof have you got?\"\n\n\"Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me.\"\n\nSmerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side.\n\n\"Take that money away with you,\" Smerdyakov sighed.\n\n\"Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if you\ncommitted the murder for the sake of it?\" Ivan looked at him with great\nsurprise.\n\n\"I don't want it,\" Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a\ngesture of refusal. \"I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that\nmoney in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly\nbecause 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you taught me,\nfor you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God,\nthere's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right\nthere. So that's how I looked at it.\"\n\n\"Did you come to that of yourself?\" asked Ivan, with a wry smile.\n\n\"With your guidance.\"\n\n\"And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the\nmoney?\"\n\n\"No, I don't believe,\" whispered Smerdyakov.\n\n\"Then why are you giving it back?\"\n\n\"Leave off ... that's enough!\" Smerdyakov waved his hand again. \"You used\nto say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset,\ntoo? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself.... Only\nthere'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to give evidence,\"\nSmerdyakov decided with conviction.\n\n\"You'll see,\" said Ivan.\n\n\"It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know\nthat. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you are far\ntoo fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in\nundisturbed comfort, without having to depend on any one--that's what you\ncare most about. You won't want to spoil your life for ever by taking such\na disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like\nhim than any of his children; you've the same soul as he had.\"\n\n\"You are not a fool,\" said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his\nface. \"You are serious now!\" he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov\nwith a different expression.\n\n\"It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money.\"\n\nIvan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without\nwrapping them in anything.\n\n\"I shall show them at the court to-morrow,\" he said.\n\n\"Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own; you may\nsimply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court.\"\n\nIvan rose from his seat.\n\n\"I repeat,\" he said, \"the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need\nyou for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!\"\n\n\"Well, kill me. Kill me now,\" Smerdyakov said, all at once looking\nstrangely at Ivan. \"You won't dare do that even!\" he added, with a bitter\nsmile. \"You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!\"\n\n\"Till to-morrow,\" cried Ivan, and moved to go out.\n\n\"Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again.\"\n\nIvan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them\nfor ten seconds.\n\n\"Well, you can go,\" he said, with a wave of his hand. \"Ivan Fyodorovitch!\"\nhe called after him again.\n\n\"What do you want?\" Ivan turned without stopping.\n\n\"Good-by!\"\n\n\"Till to-morrow!\" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage.\n\nThe snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but\nsuddenly began staggering. \"It's something physical,\" he thought with a\ngrin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious\nof unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so\ntortured him of late. His determination was taken, \"and now it will not be\nchanged,\" he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against\nsomething and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet\nthe peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The\nsnow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his\narms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked\nat the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him\ncarry the peasant to the police-station, promising him three roubles. The\nman got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded\nin his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging\nfor a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the\nexpenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan\nwas well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly.\n\n\"If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow,\" he reflected\nwith satisfaction, \"I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after\nthe peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being\nfrozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way,\" he thought at\nthe same instant, with still greater satisfaction, \"although they have\ndecided that I am going out of my mind!\"\n\nJust as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly\nhadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He\ndecided the question by turning back to the house. \"Everything together\nto-morrow!\" he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his\ngladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant.\n\nAs he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his\nheart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something\nagonizing and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had\nbeen there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him\na samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt\ngiddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop\nasleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his\ndrowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness\nthat he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as\nthough searching for something. This happened several times. At last his\neyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush\nsuffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on\nboth arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that\nstood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some\nobject, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX. The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare\n\n\nI am not a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must\ninevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan's illness.\nAnticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at that moment on\nthe very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been\naffected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever which in the\nend gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I\nventure to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible\neffort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of\ncourse, to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed\nthe thought of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in\nhis life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he\nhad to say boldly and resolutely and \"to justify himself to himself.\"\n\nHe had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from\nMoscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna's to which I have\nreferred already. After listening to him and examining him the doctor came\nto the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the\nbrain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Ivan had\nreluctantly made him. \"Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition,\"\nthe doctor opined, \"though it would be better to verify them ... you must\ntake steps at once, without a moment's delay, or things will go badly with\nyou.\" But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not take to\nhis bed to be nursed. \"I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I\ndrop, it'll be different then, any one may nurse me who likes,\" he\ndecided, dismissing the subject.\n\nAnd so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium and, as I\nhave said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against\nthe opposite wall. Some one appeared to be sitting there, though goodness\nknows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan came\ninto it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a person or, more\naccurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer\nyoung, _qui faisait la cinquantaine_, as the French say, with rather long,\nstill thick, dark hair, slightly streaked with gray and a small pointed\nbeard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently\nmade by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old,\nthat had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two\nyears. His linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are\nworn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his\nlinen was not over-clean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The\nvisitor's check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in\ncolor and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was\nout of keeping with the season.\n\nIn brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means. It\nlooked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners\nwho used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been, at\nsome time, in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections,\nhad possibly preserved them indeed, but, after a gay youth, becoming\ngradually impoverished on the abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the\nposition of a poor relation of the best class, wandering from one good old\nfriend to another and received by them for his companionable and\naccommodating disposition and as being, after all, a gentleman who could\nbe asked to sit down with any one, though, of course, not in a place of\nhonor. Such gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position, who\ncan tell a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinct aversion\nfor any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary\ncreatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children, but\nif so, the children are always being brought up at a distance, at some\naunt's, to whom these gentlemen never allude in good society, seeming\nashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose sight of their children\naltogether, though at intervals they receive a birthday or Christmas\nletter from them and sometimes even answer it.\n\nThe countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much good-natured, as\naccommodating and ready to assume any amiable expression as occasion might\narise. He had no watch, but he had a tortoise-shell lorgnette on a black\nribbon. On the middle finger of his right hand was a massive gold ring\nwith a cheap opal stone in it.\n\nIvan was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation. The visitor\nwaited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come down from his\nroom to keep his host company at tea, and was discreetly silent, seeing\nthat his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he was ready for any\naffable conversation as soon as his host should begin it. All at once his\nface expressed a sudden solicitude.\n\n\"I say,\" he began to Ivan, \"excuse me, I only mention it to remind you.\nYou went to Smerdyakov's to find out about Katerina Ivanovna, but you came\naway without finding out anything about her, you probably forgot--\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" broke from Ivan and his face grew gloomy with uneasiness. \"Yes,\nI'd forgotten ... but it doesn't matter now, never mind, till to-morrow,\"\nhe muttered to himself, \"and you,\" he added, addressing his visitor, \"I\nshould have remembered that myself in a minute, for that was just what was\ntormenting me! Why do you interfere, as if I should believe that you\nprompted me, and that I didn't remember it of myself?\"\n\n\"Don't believe it then,\" said the gentleman, smiling amicably, \"what's the\ngood of believing against your will? Besides, proofs are no help to\nbelieving, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not because he saw\nChrist risen, but because he wanted to believe, before he saw. Look at the\nspiritualists, for instance.... I am very fond of them ... only fancy,\nthey imagine that they are serving the cause of religion, because the\ndevils show them their horns from the other world. That, they say, is a\nmaterial proof, so to speak, of the existence of another world. The other\nworld and material proofs, what next! And if you come to that, does\nproving there's a devil prove that there's a God? I want to join an\nidealist society, I'll lead the opposition in it, I'll say I am a realist,\nbut not a materialist, he he!\"\n\n\"Listen,\" Ivan suddenly got up from the table. \"I seem to be delirious....\nI am delirious, in fact, talk any nonsense you like, I don't care! You\nwon't drive me to fury, as you did last time. But I feel somehow\nashamed.... I want to walk about the room.... I sometimes don't see you\nand don't even hear your voice as I did last time, but I always guess what\nyou are prating, for it's I, _I myself speaking, not you_. Only I don't\nknow whether I was dreaming last time or whether I really saw you. I'll\nwet a towel and put it on my head and perhaps you'll vanish into air.\"\n\nIvan went into the corner, took a towel, and did as he said, and with a\nwet towel on his head began walking up and down the room.\n\n\"I am so glad you treat me so familiarly,\" the visitor began.\n\n\"Fool,\" laughed Ivan, \"do you suppose I should stand on ceremony with you?\nI am in good spirits now, though I've a pain in my forehead ... and in the\ntop of my head ... only please don't talk philosophy, as you did last\ntime. If you can't take yourself off, talk of something amusing. Talk\ngossip, you are a poor relation, you ought to talk gossip. What a\nnightmare to have! But I am not afraid of you. I'll get the better of you.\nI won't be taken to a mad-house!\"\n\n\"_C'est charmant_, poor relation. Yes, I am in my natural shape. For what\nam I on earth but a poor relation? By the way, I am listening to you and\nam rather surprised to find you are actually beginning to take me for\nsomething real, not simply your fancy, as you persisted in declaring last\ntime--\"\n\n\"Never for one minute have I taken you for reality,\" Ivan cried with a\nsort of fury. \"You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom. It's\nonly that I don't know how to destroy you and I see I must suffer for a\ntime. You are my hallucination. You are the incarnation of myself, but\nonly of one side of me ... of my thoughts and feelings, but only the\nnastiest and stupidest of them. From that point of view you might be of\ninterest to me, if only I had time to waste on you--\"\n\n\"Excuse me, excuse me, I'll catch you. When you flew out at Alyosha under\nthe lamp-post this evening and shouted to him, 'You learnt it from _him_!\nHow do you know that _he_ visits me?' you were thinking of me then. So for\none brief moment you did believe that I really exist,\" the gentleman\nlaughed blandly.\n\n\"Yes, that was a moment of weakness ... but I couldn't believe in you. I\ndon't know whether I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps I was only\ndreaming then and didn't see you really at all--\"\n\n\"And why were you so surly with Alyosha just now? He is a dear; I've\ntreated him badly over Father Zossima.\"\n\n\"Don't talk of Alyosha! How dare you, you flunkey!\" Ivan laughed again.\n\n\"You scold me, but you laugh--that's a good sign. But you are ever so much\nmore polite than you were last time and I know why: that great resolution\nof yours--\"\n\n\"Don't speak of my resolution,\" cried Ivan, savagely.\n\n\"I understand, I understand, _c'est noble, c'est charmant_, you are going\nto defend your brother and to sacrifice yourself ... _C'est\nchevaleresque_.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, I'll kick you!\"\n\n\"I shan't be altogether sorry, for then my object will be attained. If you\nkick me, you must believe in my reality, for people don't kick ghosts.\nJoking apart, it doesn't matter to me, scold if you like, though it's\nbetter to be a trifle more polite even to me. 'Fool, flunkey!' what\nwords!\"\n\n\"Scolding you, I scold myself,\" Ivan laughed again, \"you are myself,\nmyself, only with a different face. You just say what I am thinking ...\nand are incapable of saying anything new!\"\n\n\"If I am like you in my way of thinking, it's all to my credit,\" the\ngentleman declared, with delicacy and dignity.\n\n\"You choose out only my worst thoughts, and what's more, the stupid ones.\nYou are stupid and vulgar. You are awfully stupid. No, I can't put up with\nyou! What am I to do, what am I to do?\" Ivan said through his clenched\nteeth.\n\n\"My dear friend, above all things I want to behave like a gentleman and to\nbe recognized as such,\" the visitor began in an excess of deprecating and\nsimple-hearted pride, typical of a poor relation. \"I am poor, but ... I\nwon't say very honest, but ... it's an axiom generally accepted in society\nthat I am a fallen angel. I certainly can't conceive how I can ever have\nbeen an angel. If I ever was, it must have been so long ago that there's\nno harm in forgetting it. Now I only prize the reputation of being a\ngentlemanly person and live as I can, trying to make myself agreeable. I\nlove men genuinely, I've been greatly calumniated! Here when I stay with\nyou from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality and that's what I\nlike most of all. You see, like you, I suffer from the fantastic and so I\nlove the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed,\nhere all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but\nindeterminate equations! I wander about here dreaming. I like dreaming.\nBesides, on earth I become superstitious. Please don't laugh, that's just\nwhat I like, to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here: I've\ngrown fond of going to the public baths, would you believe it? and I go\nand steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming\nincarnate once for all and irrevocably in the form of some merchant's wife\nweighing eighteen stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to\ngo to church and offer a candle in simple-hearted faith, upon my word it\nis. Then there would be an end to my sufferings. I like being doctored\ntoo; in the spring there was an outbreak of smallpox and I went and was\nvaccinated in a foundling hospital--if only you knew how I enjoyed myself\nthat day. I subscribed ten roubles in the cause of the Slavs!... But you\nare not listening. Do you know, you are not at all well this evening? I\nknow you went yesterday to that doctor ... well, what about your health?\nWhat did the doctor say?\"\n\n\"Fool!\" Ivan snapped out.\n\n\"But you are clever, anyway. You are scolding again? I didn't ask out of\nsympathy. You needn't answer. Now rheumatism has come in again--\"\n\n\"Fool!\" repeated Ivan.\n\n\"You keep saying the same thing; but I had such an attack of rheumatism\nlast year that I remember it to this day.\"\n\n\"The devil have rheumatism!\"\n\n\"Why not, if I sometimes put on fleshly form? I put on fleshly form and I\ntake the consequences. Satan _sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto_.\"\n\n\"What, what, Satan _sum et nihil humanum_ ... that's not bad for the\ndevil!\"\n\n\"I am glad I've pleased you at last.\"\n\n\"But you didn't get that from me.\" Ivan stopped suddenly, seeming struck.\n\"That never entered my head, that's strange.\"\n\n\"_C'est du nouveau, n'est-ce pas?_ This time I'll act honestly and explain\nto you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion\nor anything, a man sees sometimes such artistic visions, such complex and\nreal actuality, such events, even a whole world of events, woven into such\na plot, with such unexpected details from the most exalted matters to the\nlast button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy has never invented. Yet such\ndreams are sometimes seen not by writers, but by the most ordinary people,\nofficials, journalists, priests.... The subject is a complete enigma. A\nstatesman confessed to me, indeed, that all his best ideas came to him\nwhen he was asleep. Well, that's how it is now, though I am your\nhallucination, yet just as in a nightmare, I say original things which had\nnot entered your head before. So I don't repeat your ideas, yet I am only\nyour nightmare, nothing more.\"\n\n\"You are lying, your aim is to convince me you exist apart and are not my\nnightmare, and now you are asserting you are a dream.\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I've adopted a special method to-day, I'll explain it to\nyou afterwards. Stay, where did I break off? Oh, yes! I caught cold then,\nonly not here but yonder.\"\n\n\"Where is yonder? Tell me, will you be here long? Can't you go away?\" Ivan\nexclaimed almost in despair. He ceased walking to and fro, sat down on the\nsofa, leaned his elbows on the table again and held his head tight in both\nhands. He pulled the wet towel off and flung it away in vexation. It was\nevidently of no use.\n\n\"Your nerves are out of order,\" observed the gentleman, with a carelessly\neasy, though perfectly polite, air. \"You are angry with me even for being\nable to catch cold, though it happened in a most natural way. I was\nhurrying then to a diplomatic _soiree_ at the house of a lady of high rank\nin Petersburg, who was aiming at influence in the Ministry. Well, an\nevening suit, white tie, gloves, though I was God knows where and had to\nfly through space to reach your earth.... Of course, it took only an\ninstant, but you know a ray of light from the sun takes full eight\nminutes, and fancy in an evening suit and open waistcoat. Spirits don't\nfreeze, but when one's in fleshly form, well ... in brief, I didn't think,\nand set off, and you know in those ethereal spaces, in the water that is\nabove the firmament, there's such a frost ... at least one can't call it\nfrost, you can fancy, 150 degrees below zero! You know the game the\nvillage girls play--they invite the unwary to lick an ax in thirty degrees\nof frost, the tongue instantly freezes to it and the dupe tears the skin\noff, so it bleeds. But that's only in 30 degrees, in 150 degrees I imagine\nit would be enough to put your finger on the ax and it would be the end of\nit ... if only there could be an ax there.\"\n\n\"And can there be an ax there?\" Ivan interrupted, carelessly and\ndisdainfully. He was exerting himself to the utmost not to believe in the\ndelusion and not to sink into complete insanity.\n\n\"An ax?\" the guest interrupted in surprise.\n\n\"Yes, what would become of an ax there?\" Ivan cried suddenly, with a sort\nof savage and insistent obstinacy.\n\n\"What would become of an ax in space? _Quelle idee!_ If it were to fall to\nany distance, it would begin, I think, flying round the earth without\nknowing why, like a satellite. The astronomers would calculate the rising\nand the setting of the ax, _Gatzuk_ would put it in his calendar, that's\nall.\"\n\n\"You are stupid, awfully stupid,\" said Ivan peevishly. \"Fib more cleverly\nor I won't listen. You want to get the better of me by realism, to\nconvince me that you exist, but I don't want to believe you exist! I won't\nbelieve it!\"\n\n\"But I am not fibbing, it's all the truth; the truth is unhappily hardly\never amusing. I see you persist in expecting something big of me, and\nperhaps something fine. That's a great pity, for I only give what I can--\"\n\n\"Don't talk philosophy, you ass!\"\n\n\"Philosophy, indeed, when all my right side is numb and I am moaning and\ngroaning. I've tried all the medical faculty: they can diagnose\nbeautifully, they have the whole of your disease at their finger-tips, but\nthey've no idea how to cure you. There was an enthusiastic little student\nhere, 'You may die,' said he, 'but you'll know perfectly what disease you\nare dying of!' And then what a way they have sending people to\nspecialists! 'We only diagnose,' they say, 'but go to such-and-such a\nspecialist, he'll cure you.' The old doctor who used to cure all sorts of\ndisease has completely disappeared, I assure you, now there are only\nspecialists and they all advertise in the newspapers. If anything is wrong\nwith your nose, they send you to Paris: there, they say, is a European\nspecialist who cures noses. If you go to Paris, he'll look at your nose; I\ncan only cure your right nostril, he'll tell you, for I don't cure the\nleft nostril, that's not my speciality, but go to Vienna, there there's a\nspecialist who will cure your left nostril. What are you to do? I fell\nback on popular remedies, a German doctor advised me to rub myself with\nhoney and salt in the bath-house. Solely to get an extra bath I went,\nsmeared myself all over and it did me no good at all. In despair I wrote\nto Count Mattei in Milan. He sent me a book and some drops, bless him,\nand, only fancy, Hoff's malt extract cured me! I bought it by accident,\ndrank a bottle and a half of it, and I was ready to dance, it took it away\ncompletely. I made up my mind to write to the papers to thank him, I was\nprompted by a feeling of gratitude, and only fancy, it led to no end of a\nbother: not a single paper would take my letter. 'It would be very\nreactionary,' they said, 'no one will believe it. _Le diable n'existe\npoint._ You'd better remain anonymous,' they advised me. What use is a\nletter of thanks if it's anonymous? I laughed with the men at the\nnewspaper office; 'It's reactionary to believe in God in our days,' I\nsaid, 'but I am the devil, so I may be believed in.' 'We quite understand\nthat,' they said. 'Who doesn't believe in the devil? Yet it won't do, it\nmight injure our reputation. As a joke, if you like.' But I thought as a\njoke it wouldn't be very witty. So it wasn't printed. And do you know, I\nhave felt sore about it to this day. My best feelings, gratitude, for\ninstance, are literally denied me simply from my social position.\"\n\n\"Philosophical reflections again?\" Ivan snarled malignantly.\n\n\"God preserve me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a\nslandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see\nyou are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing! I have\nnaturally a kind and merry heart. 'I also write vaudevilles of all sorts.'\nYou seem to take me for Hlestakov grown old, but my fate is a far more\nserious one. Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out,\nI was pre-destined 'to deny' and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not\nat all inclined to negation. 'No, you must go and deny, without denial\nthere's no criticism and what would a journal be without a column of\ncriticism?' Without criticism it would be nothing but one 'hosannah.' But\nnothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in\nthe crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in\nthat, I didn't create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen\ntheir scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life\nwas made possible. We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask\nfor annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you.\nIf everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There\nwould be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the\ngrain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am\ncommanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce\nas something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course\n... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for\nsuffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It\nwould be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but\ntedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don't live. I am x in\nan indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all\nbeginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are\nlaughing-- no, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are for ever\nangry, all you care about is intelligence, but I repeat again that I would\ngive away all this super-stellar life, all the ranks and honors, simply to\nbe transformed into the soul of a merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone\nand set candles at God's shrine.\"\n\n\"Then even you don't believe in God?\" said Ivan, with a smile of hatred.\n\n\"What can I say?--that is, if you are in earnest--\"\n\n\"Is there a God or not?\" Ivan cried with the same savage intensity.\n\n\"Ah, then you are in earnest! My dear fellow, upon my word I don't know.\nThere! I've said it now!\"\n\n\"You don't know, but you see God? No, you are not some one apart, you are\nmyself, you are I and nothing more! You are rubbish, you are my fancy!\"\n\n\"Well, if you like, I have the same philosophy as you, that would be true.\n_Je pense, donc je suis_, I know that for a fact; all the rest, all these\nworlds, God and even Satan--all that is not proved, to my mind. Does all\nthat exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical\ndevelopment of my ego which alone has existed for ever: but I make haste\nto stop, for I believe you will be jumping up to beat me directly.\"\n\n\"You'd better tell me some anecdote!\" said Ivan miserably.\n\n\"There is an anecdote precisely on our subject, or rather a legend, not an\nanecdote. You reproach me with unbelief, you see, you say, yet you don't\nbelieve. But, my dear fellow, I am not the only one like that. We are all\nin a muddle over there now and all through your science. Once there used\nto be atoms, five senses, four elements, and then everything hung together\nsomehow. There were atoms in the ancient world even, but since we've\nlearned that you've discovered the chemical molecule and protoplasm and\nthe devil knows what, we had to lower our crest. There's a regular muddle,\nand, above all, superstition, scandal; there's as much scandal among us as\namong you, you know; a little more in fact, and spying, indeed, for we\nhave our secret police department where private information is received.\nWell, this wild legend belongs to our middle ages--not yours, but ours--and\nno one believes it even among us, except the old ladies of eighteen stone,\nnot your old ladies I mean, but ours. We've everything you have, I am\nrevealing one of our secrets out of friendship for you; though it's\nforbidden. This legend is about Paradise. There was, they say, here on\nearth a thinker and philosopher. He rejected everything, 'laws,\nconscience, faith,' and, above all, the future life. He died; he expected\nto go straight to darkness and death and he found a future life before\nhim. He was astounded and indignant. 'This is against my principles!' he\nsaid. And he was punished for that ... that is, you must excuse me, I am\njust repeating what I heard myself, it's only a legend ... he was\nsentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers in the dark (we've adopted the\nmetric system, you know) and when he has finished that quadrillion, the\ngates of heaven would be opened to him and he'll be forgiven--\"\n\n\"And what tortures have you in the other world besides the quadrillion\nkilometers?\" asked Ivan, with a strange eagerness.\n\n\"What tortures? Ah, don't ask. In old days we had all sorts, but now they\nhave taken chiefly to moral punishments--'the stings of conscience' and all\nthat nonsense. We got that, too, from you, from the softening of your\nmanners. And who's the better for it? Only those who have got no\nconscience, for how can they be tortured by conscience when they have\nnone? But decent people who have conscience and a sense of honor suffer\nfor it. Reforms, when the ground has not been prepared for them,\nespecially if they are institutions copied from abroad, do nothing but\nmischief! The ancient fire was better. Well, this man, who was condemned\nto the quadrillion kilometers, stood still, looked round and lay down\nacross the road. 'I won't go, I refuse on principle!' Take the soul of an\nenlightened Russian atheist and mix it with the soul of the prophet Jonah,\nwho sulked for three days and nights in the belly of the whale, and you\nget the character of that thinker who lay across the road.\"\n\n\"What did he lie on there?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose there was something to lie on. You are not laughing?\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried Ivan, still with the same strange eagerness. Now he was\nlistening with an unexpected curiosity. \"Well, is he lying there now?\"\n\n\"That's the point, that he isn't. He lay there almost a thousand years and\nthen he got up and went on.\"\n\n\"What an ass!\" cried Ivan, laughing nervously and still seeming to be\npondering something intently. \"Does it make any difference whether he lies\nthere for ever or walks the quadrillion kilometers? It would take a\nbillion years to walk it?\"\n\n\"Much more than that. I haven't got a pencil and paper or I could work it\nout. But he got there long ago, and that's where the story begins.\"\n\n\"What, he got there? But how did he get the billion years to do it?\"\n\n\"Why, you keep thinking of our present earth! But our present earth may\nhave been repeated a billion times. Why, it's become extinct, been frozen;\ncracked, broken to bits, disintegrated into its elements, again 'the water\nabove the firmament,' then again a comet, again a sun, again from the sun\nit becomes earth--and the same sequence may have been repeated endlessly\nand exactly the same to every detail, most unseemly and insufferably\ntedious--\"\n\n\"Well, well, what happened when he arrived?\"\n\n\"Why, the moment the gates of Paradise were open and he walked in, before\nhe had been there two seconds, by his watch (though to my thinking his\nwatch must have long dissolved into its elements on the way), he cried out\nthat those two seconds were worth walking not a quadrillion kilometers but\na quadrillion of quadrillions, raised to the quadrillionth power! In fact,\nhe sang 'hosannah' and overdid it so, that some persons there of lofty\nideas wouldn't shake hands with him at first--he'd become too rapidly\nreactionary, they said. The Russian temperament. I repeat, it's a legend.\nI give it for what it's worth. So that's the sort of ideas we have on such\nsubjects even now.\"\n\n\"I've caught you!\" Ivan cried, with an almost childish delight, as though\nhe had succeeded in remembering something at last. \"That anecdote about\nthe quadrillion years, I made up myself! I was seventeen then, I was at\nthe high school. I made up that anecdote and told it to a schoolfellow\ncalled Korovkin, it was at Moscow.... The anecdote is so characteristic\nthat I couldn't have taken it from anywhere. I thought I'd forgotten it\n... but I've unconsciously recalled it--I recalled it myself--it was not you\ntelling it! Thousands of things are unconsciously remembered like that\neven when people are being taken to execution ... it's come back to me in\na dream. You are that dream! You are a dream, not a living creature!\"\n\n\"From the vehemence with which you deny my existence,\" laughed the\ngentleman, \"I am convinced that you believe in me.\"\n\n\"Not in the slightest! I haven't a hundredth part of a grain of faith in\nyou!\"\n\n\"But you have the thousandth of a grain. Homeopathic doses perhaps are the\nstrongest. Confess that you have faith even to the ten-thousandth of a\ngrain.\"\n\n\"Not for one minute,\" cried Ivan furiously. \"But I should like to believe\nin you,\" he added strangely.\n\n\"Aha! There's an admission! But I am good-natured. I'll come to your\nassistance again. Listen, it was I caught you, not you me. I told you your\nanecdote you'd forgotten, on purpose, so as to destroy your faith in me\ncompletely.\"\n\n\"You are lying. The object of your visit is to convince me of your\nexistence!\"\n\n\"Just so. But hesitation, suspense, conflict between belief and\ndisbelief--is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man, such as you\nare, that it's better to hang oneself at once. Knowing that you are\ninclined to believe in me, I administered some disbelief by telling you\nthat anecdote. I lead you to belief and disbelief by turns, and I have my\nmotive in it. It's the new method. As soon as you disbelieve in me\ncompletely, you'll begin assuring me to my face that I am not a dream but\na reality. I know you. Then I shall have attained my object, which is an\nhonorable one. I shall sow in you only a tiny grain of faith and it will\ngrow into an oak-tree--and such an oak-tree that, sitting on it, you will\nlong to enter the ranks of 'the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly\nwomen,' for that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on\nlocusts, you'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul!\"\n\n\"Then it's for the salvation of my soul you are working, is it, you\nscoundrel?\"\n\n\"One must do a good work sometimes. How ill-humored you are!\"\n\n\"Fool! did you ever tempt those holy men who ate locusts and prayed\nseventeen years in the wilderness till they were overgrown with moss?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I've done nothing else. One forgets the whole world and\nall the worlds, and sticks to one such saint, because he is a very\nprecious diamond. One such soul, you know, is sometimes worth a whole\nconstellation. We have our system of reckoning, you know. The conquest is\npriceless! And some of them, on my word, are not inferior to you in\nculture, though you won't believe it. They can contemplate such depths of\nbelief and disbelief at the same moment that sometimes it really seems\nthat they are within a hair's-breadth of being 'turned upside down,' as\nthe actor Gorbunov says.\"\n\n\"Well, did you get your nose pulled?\"(8)\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" observed the visitor sententiously, \"it's better to get\noff with your nose pulled than without a nose at all. As an afflicted\nmarquis observed not long ago (he must have been treated by a specialist)\nin confession to his spiritual father--a Jesuit. I was present, it was\nsimply charming. 'Give me back my nose!' he said, and he beat his breast.\n'My son,' said the priest evasively, 'all things are accomplished in\naccordance with the inscrutable decrees of Providence, and what seems a\nmisfortune sometimes leads to extraordinary, though unapparent, benefits.\nIf stern destiny has deprived you of your nose, it's to your advantage\nthat no one can ever pull you by your nose.' 'Holy father, that's no\ncomfort,' cried the despairing marquis. 'I'd be delighted to have my nose\npulled every day of my life, if it were only in its proper place.' 'My\nson,' sighs the priest, 'you can't expect every blessing at once. This is\nmurmuring against Providence, who even in this has not forgotten you, for\nif you repine as you repined just now, declaring you'd be glad to have\nyour nose pulled for the rest of your life, your desire has already been\nfulfilled indirectly, for when you lost your nose, you were led by the\nnose.' \"\n\n\"Fool, how stupid!\" cried Ivan.\n\n\"My dear friend, I only wanted to amuse you. But I swear that's the\ngenuine Jesuit casuistry and I swear that it all happened word for word as\nI've told you. It happened lately and gave me a great deal of trouble. The\nunhappy young man shot himself that very night when he got home. I was by\nhis side till the very last moment. Those Jesuit confessionals are really\nmy most delightful diversion at melancholy moments. Here's another\nincident that happened only the other day. A little blonde Norman girl of\ntwenty--a buxom, unsophisticated beauty that would make your mouth\nwater--comes to an old priest. She bends down and whispers her sin into the\ngrating. 'Why, my daughter, have you fallen again already?' cries the\npriest. 'O Sancta Maria, what do I hear! Not the same man this time, how\nlong is this going on? Aren't you ashamed!' '_Ah, mon pere_,' answers the\nsinner with tears of penitence, '_ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si\npeu de peine!_' Fancy, such an answer! I drew back. It was the cry of\nnature, better than innocence itself, if you like. I absolved her sin on\nthe spot and was turning to go, but I was forced to turn back. I heard the\npriest at the grating making an appointment with her for the\nevening--though he was an old man hard as flint, he fell in an instant! It\nwas nature, the truth of nature asserted its rights! What, you are turning\nup your nose again? Angry again? I don't know how to please you--\"\n\n\"Leave me alone, you are beating on my brain like a haunting nightmare,\"\nIvan moaned miserably, helpless before his apparition. \"I am bored with\nyou, agonizingly and insufferably. I would give anything to be able to\nshake you off!\"\n\n\"I repeat, moderate your expectations, don't demand of me 'everything\ngreat and noble' and you'll see how well we shall get on,\" said the\ngentleman impressively. \"You are really angry with me for not having\nappeared to you in a red glow, with thunder and lightning, with scorched\nwings, but have shown myself in such a modest form. You are wounded, in\nthe first place, in your esthetic feelings, and, secondly, in your pride.\nHow could such a vulgar devil visit such a great man as you! Yes, there is\nthat romantic strain in you, that was so derided by Byelinsky. I can't\nhelp it, young man, as I got ready to come to you I did think as a joke of\nappearing in the figure of a retired general who had served in the\nCaucasus, with a star of the Lion and the Sun on my coat. But I was\npositively afraid of doing it, for you'd have thrashed me for daring to\npin the Lion and the Sun on my coat, instead of, at least, the Polar Star\nor the Sirius. And you keep on saying I am stupid, but, mercy on us! I\nmake no claim to be equal to you in intelligence. Mephistopheles declared\nto Faust that he desired evil, but did only good. Well, he can say what he\nlikes, it's quite the opposite with me. I am perhaps the one man in all\ncreation who loves the truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when\nthe Word, Who died on the Cross, rose up into heaven bearing on His bosom\nthe soul of the penitent thief. I heard the glad shrieks of the cherubim\nsinging and shouting hosannah and the thunderous rapture of the seraphim\nwhich shook heaven and all creation, and I swear to you by all that's\nsacred, I longed to join the choir and shout hosannah with them all. The\nword had almost escaped me, had almost broken from my lips ... you know\nhow susceptible and esthetically impressionable I am. But common sense--oh,\na most unhappy trait in my character--kept me in due bounds and I let the\nmoment pass! For what would have happened, I reflected, what would have\nhappened after my hosannah? Everything on earth would have been\nextinguished at once and no events could have occurred. And so, solely\nfrom a sense of duty and my social position, I was forced to suppress the\ngood moment and to stick to my nasty task. Somebody takes all the credit\nof what's good for Himself, and nothing but nastiness is left for me. But\nI don't envy the honor of a life of idle imposture, I am not ambitious.\nWhy am I, of all creatures in the world, doomed to be cursed by all decent\npeople and even to be kicked, for if I put on mortal form I am bound to\ntake such consequences sometimes? I know, of course, there's a secret in\nit, but they won't tell me the secret for anything, for then perhaps,\nseeing the meaning of it, I might bawl hosannah, and the indispensable\nminus would disappear at once, and good sense would reign supreme\nthroughout the whole world. And that, of course, would mean the end of\neverything, even of magazines and newspapers, for who would take them in?\nI know that at the end of all things I shall be reconciled. I, too, shall\nwalk my quadrillion and learn the secret. But till that happens I am\nsulking and fulfill my destiny though it's against the grain--that is, to\nruin thousands for the sake of saving one. How many souls have had to be\nruined and how many honorable reputations destroyed for the sake of that\none righteous man, Job, over whom they made such a fool of me in old days!\nYes, till the secret is revealed, there are two sorts of truths for\nme--one, their truth, yonder, which I know nothing about so far, and the\nother my own. And there's no knowing which will turn out the better....\nAre you asleep?\"\n\n\"I might well be,\" Ivan groaned angrily. \"All my stupid ideas--outgrown,\nthrashed out long ago, and flung aside like a dead carcass--you present to\nme as something new!\"\n\n\"There's no pleasing you! And I thought I should fascinate you by my\nliterary style. That hosannah in the skies really wasn't bad, was it? And\nthen that ironical tone _a la_ Heine, eh?\"\n\n\"No, I was never such a flunkey! How then could my soul beget a flunkey\nlike you?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I know a most charming and attractive young Russian\ngentleman, a young thinker and a great lover of literature and art, the\nauthor of a promising poem entitled _The Grand Inquisitor_. I was only\nthinking of him!\"\n\n\"I forbid you to speak of _The Grand Inquisitor_,\" cried Ivan, crimson\nwith shame.\n\n\"And the _Geological Cataclysm_. Do you remember? That was a poem, now!\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, or I'll kill you!\"\n\n\"You'll kill me? No, excuse me, I will speak. I came to treat myself to\nthat pleasure. Oh, I love the dreams of my ardent young friends, quivering\nwith eagerness for life! 'There are new men,' you decided last spring,\nwhen you were meaning to come here, 'they propose to destroy everything\nand begin with cannibalism. Stupid fellows! they didn't ask my advice! I\nmaintain that nothing need be destroyed, that we only need to destroy the\nidea of God in man, that's how we have to set to work. It's that, that we\nmust begin with. Oh, blind race of men who have no understanding! As soon\nas men have all of them denied God--and I believe that period, analogous\nwith geological periods, will come to pass--the old conception of the\nuniverse will fall of itself without cannibalism, and, what's more, the\nold morality, and everything will begin anew. Men will unite to take from\nlife all it can give, but only for joy and happiness in the present world.\nMan will be lifted up with a spirit of divine Titanic pride and the man-\ngod will appear. From hour to hour extending his conquest of nature\ninfinitely by his will and his science, man will feel such lofty joy from\nhour to hour in doing it that it will make up for all his old dreams of\nthe joys of heaven. Every one will know that he is mortal and will accept\ndeath proudly and serenely like a god. His pride will teach him that it's\nuseless for him to repine at life's being a moment, and he will love his\nbrother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment\nof life, but the very consciousness of its momentariness will intensify\nits fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the\ngrave'... and so on and so on in the same style. Charming!\"\n\nIvan sat with his eyes on the floor, and his hands pressed to his ears,\nbut he began trembling all over. The voice continued.\n\n\"The question now is, my young thinker reflected, is it possible that such\na period will ever come? If it does, everything is determined and humanity\nis settled for ever. But as, owing to man's inveterate stupidity, this\ncannot come about for at least a thousand years, every one who recognizes\nthe truth even now may legitimately order his life as he pleases, on the\nnew principles. In that sense, 'all things are lawful' for him. What's\nmore, even if this period never comes to pass, since there is anyway no\nGod and no immortality, the new man may well become the man-god, even if\nhe is the only one in the whole world, and promoted to his new position,\nhe may lightheartedly overstep all the barriers of the old morality of the\nold slave-man, if necessary. There is no law for God. Where God stands,\nthe place is holy. Where I stand will be at once the foremost place ...\n'all things are lawful' and that's the end of it! That's all very\ncharming; but if you want to swindle why do you want a moral sanction for\ndoing it? But that's our modern Russian all over. He can't bring himself\nto swindle without a moral sanction. He is so in love with truth--\"\n\nThe visitor talked, obviously carried away by his own eloquence, speaking\nlouder and louder and looking ironically at his host. But he did not\nsucceed in finishing; Ivan suddenly snatched a glass from the table and\nflung it at the orator.\n\n\"_Ah, mais c'est bete enfin_,\" cried the latter, jumping up from the sofa\nand shaking the drops of tea off himself. \"He remembers Luther's inkstand!\nHe takes me for a dream and throws glasses at a dream! It's like a woman!\nI suspected you were only pretending to stop up your ears.\"\n\nA loud, persistent knocking was suddenly heard at the window. Ivan jumped\nup from the sofa.\n\n\"Do you hear? You'd better open,\" cried the visitor; \"it's your brother\nAlyosha with the most interesting and surprising news, I'll be bound!\"\n\n\"Be silent, deceiver, I knew it was Alyosha, I felt he was coming, and of\ncourse he has not come for nothing; of course he brings 'news,' \" Ivan\nexclaimed frantically.\n\n\"Open, open to him. There's a snowstorm and he is your brother. _Monsieur\nsait-il le temps qu'il fait? C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors_.\"\n\nThe knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window, but something\nseemed to fetter his arms and legs. He strained every effort to break his\nchains, but in vain. The knocking at the window grew louder and louder. At\nlast the chains were broken and Ivan leapt up from the sofa. He looked\nround him wildly. Both candles had almost burnt out, the glass he had just\nthrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one\non the sofa opposite. The knocking on the window frame went on\npersistently, but it was by no means so loud as it had seemed in his\ndream; on the contrary, it was quite subdued.\n\n\"It was not a dream! No, I swear it was not a dream, it all happened just\nnow!\" cried Ivan. He rushed to the window and opened the movable pane.\n\n\"Alyosha, I told you not to come,\" he cried fiercely to his brother. \"In\ntwo words, what do you want? In two words, do you hear?\"\n\n\"An hour ago Smerdyakov hanged himself,\" Alyosha answered from the yard.\n\n\"Come round to the steps, I'll open at once,\" said Ivan, going to open the\ndoor to Alyosha.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter X. \"It Was He Who Said That\"\n\n\nAlyosha coming in told Ivan that a little over an hour ago Marya\nKondratyevna had run to his rooms and informed him Smerdyakov had taken\nhis own life. \"I went in to clear away the samovar and he was hanging on a\nnail in the wall.\" On Alyosha's inquiring whether she had informed the\npolice, she answered that she had told no one, \"but I flew straight to\nyou, I've run all the way.\" She seemed perfectly crazy, Alyosha reported,\nand was shaking like a leaf. When Alyosha ran with her to the cottage, he\nfound Smerdyakov still hanging. On the table lay a note: \"I destroy my\nlife of my own will and desire, so as to throw no blame on any one.\"\nAlyosha left the note on the table and went straight to the police captain\nand told him all about it. \"And from him I've come straight to you,\" said\nAlyosha, in conclusion, looking intently into Ivan's face. He had not\ntaken his eyes off him while he told his story, as though struck by\nsomething in his expression.\n\n\"Brother,\" he cried suddenly, \"you must be terribly ill. You look and\ndon't seem to understand what I tell you.\"\n\n\"It's a good thing you came,\" said Ivan, as though brooding, and not\nhearing Alyosha's exclamation. \"I knew he had hanged himself.\"\n\n\"From whom?\"\n\n\"I don't know. But I knew. Did I know? Yes, he told me. He told me so just\nnow.\"\n\nIvan stood in the middle of the room, and still spoke in the same brooding\ntone, looking at the ground.\n\n\"Who is _he_?\" asked Alyosha, involuntarily looking round.\n\n\"He's slipped away.\"\n\nIvan raised his head and smiled softly.\n\n\"He was afraid of you, of a dove like you. You are a 'pure cherub.' Dmitri\ncalls you a cherub. Cherub!... the thunderous rapture of the seraphim.\nWhat are seraphim? Perhaps a whole constellation. But perhaps that\nconstellation is only a chemical molecule. There's a constellation of the\nLion and the Sun. Don't you know it?\"\n\n\"Brother, sit down,\" said Alyosha in alarm. \"For goodness' sake, sit down\non the sofa! You are delirious; put your head on the pillow, that's right.\nWould you like a wet towel on your head? Perhaps it will do you good.\"\n\n\"Give me the towel: it's here on the chair. I just threw it down there.\"\n\n\"It's not here. Don't worry yourself. I know where it is--here,\" said\nAlyosha, finding a clean towel, folded up and unused, by Ivan's dressing-\ntable in the other corner of the room. Ivan looked strangely at the towel:\nrecollection seemed to come back to him for an instant.\n\n\"Stay\"--he got up from the sofa--\"an hour ago I took that new towel from\nthere and wetted it. I wrapped it round my head and threw it down here ...\nHow is it it's dry? There was no other.\"\n\n\"You put that towel on your head?\" asked Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes, and walked up and down the room an hour ago ... Why have the candles\nburnt down so? What's the time?\"\n\n\"Nearly twelve.\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" Ivan cried suddenly. \"It was not a dream. He was here; he\nwas sitting here, on that sofa. When you knocked at the window, I threw a\nglass at him ... this one. Wait a minute. I was asleep last time, but this\ndream was not a dream. It has happened before. I have dreams now, Alyosha\n... yet they are not dreams, but reality. I walk about, talk and see ...\nthough I am asleep. But he was sitting here, on that sofa there.... He is\nfrightfully stupid, Alyosha, frightfully stupid.\" Ivan laughed suddenly\nand began pacing about the room.\n\n\"Who is stupid? Of whom are you talking, brother?\" Alyosha asked anxiously\nagain.\n\n\"The devil! He's taken to visiting me. He's been here twice, almost three\ntimes. He taunted me with being angry at his being a simple devil and not\nSatan, with scorched wings, in thunder and lightning. But he is not Satan:\nthat's a lie. He is an impostor. He is simply a devil--a paltry, trivial\ndevil. He goes to the baths. If you undressed him, you'd be sure to find\nhe had a tail, long and smooth like a Danish dog's, a yard long, dun\ncolor.... Alyosha, you are cold. You've been in the snow. Would you like\nsome tea? What? Is it cold? Shall I tell her to bring some? _C'est a ne\npas mettre un chien dehors._...\"\n\nAlyosha ran to the washing-stand, wetted the towel, persuaded Ivan to sit\ndown again, and put the wet towel round his head. He sat down beside him.\n\n\"What were you telling me just now about Lise?\" Ivan began again. (He was\nbecoming very talkative.) \"I like Lise. I said something nasty about her.\nIt was a lie. I like her ... I am afraid for Katya to-morrow. I am more\nafraid of her than of anything. On account of the future. She will cast me\noff to-morrow and trample me under foot. She thinks that I am ruining\nMitya from jealousy on her account! Yes, she thinks that! But it's not so.\nTo-morrow the cross, but not the gallows. No, I shan't hang myself. Do you\nknow, I can never commit suicide, Alyosha. Is it because I am base? I am\nnot a coward. Is it from love of life? How did I know that Smerdyakov had\nhanged himself? Yes, it was _he_ told me so.\"\n\n\"And you are quite convinced that there has been some one here?\" asked\nAlyosha.\n\n\"Yes, on that sofa in the corner. You would have driven him away. You did\ndrive him away: he disappeared when you arrived. I love your face,\nAlyosha. Did you know that I loved your face? And _he_ is myself, Alyosha.\nAll that's base in me, all that's mean and contemptible. Yes, I am a\nromantic. He guessed it ... though it's a libel. He is frightfully stupid;\nbut it's to his advantage. He has cunning, animal cunning--he knew how to\ninfuriate me. He kept taunting me with believing in him, and that was how\nhe made me listen to him. He fooled me like a boy. He told me a great deal\nthat was true about myself, though. I should never have owned it to\nmyself. Do you know, Alyosha,\" Ivan added in an intensely earnest and\nconfidential tone, \"I should be awfully glad to think that it was _he_ and\nnot I.\"\n\n\"He has worn you out,\" said Alyosha, looking compassionately at his\nbrother.\n\n\"He's been teasing me. And you know he does it so cleverly, so cleverly.\n'Conscience! What is conscience? I make it up for myself. Why am I\ntormented by it? From habit. From the universal habit of mankind for the\nseven thousand years. So let us give it up, and we shall be gods.' It was\nhe said that, it was he said that!\"\n\n\"And not you, not you?\" Alyosha could not help crying, looking frankly at\nhis brother. \"Never mind him, anyway; have done with him and forget him.\nAnd let him take with him all that you curse now, and never come back!\"\n\n\"Yes, but he is spiteful. He laughed at me. He was impudent, Alyosha,\"\nIvan said, with a shudder of offense. \"But he was unfair to me, unfair to\nme about lots of things. He told lies about me to my face. 'Oh, you are\ngoing to perform an act of heroic virtue: to confess you murdered your\nfather, that the valet murdered him at your instigation.' \"\n\n\"Brother,\" Alyosha interposed, \"restrain yourself. It was not you murdered\nhim. It's not true!\"\n\n\"That's what he says, he, and he knows it. 'You are going to perform an\nact of heroic virtue, and you don't believe in virtue; that's what\ntortures you and makes you angry, that's why you are so vindictive.' He\nsaid that to me about me and he knows what he says.\"\n\n\"It's you say that, not he,\" exclaimed Alyosha mournfully, \"and you say it\nbecause you are ill and delirious, tormenting yourself.\"\n\n\"No, he knows what he says. 'You are going from pride,' he says. 'You'll\nstand up and say it was I killed him, and why do you writhe with horror?\nYou are lying! I despise your opinion, I despise your horror!' He said\nthat about me. 'And do you know you are longing for their praise--\"he is a\ncriminal, a murderer, but what a generous soul; he wanted to save his\nbrother and he confessed.\" ' That's a lie, Alyosha!\" Ivan cried suddenly,\nwith flashing eyes. \"I don't want the low rabble to praise me, I swear I\ndon't! That's a lie! That's why I threw the glass at him and it broke\nagainst his ugly face.\"\n\n\"Brother, calm yourself, stop!\" Alyosha entreated him.\n\n\"Yes, he knows how to torment one. He's cruel,\" Ivan went on, unheeding.\n\"I had an inkling from the first what he came for. 'Granting that you go\nthrough pride, still you had a hope that Smerdyakov might be convicted and\nsent to Siberia, and Mitya would be acquitted, while you would only be\npunished with moral condemnation' ('Do you hear?' he laughed then)--'and\nsome people will praise you. But now Smerdyakov's dead, he has hanged\nhimself, and who'll believe you alone? But yet you are going, you are\ngoing, you'll go all the same, you've decided to go. What are you going\nfor now?' That's awful, Alyosha. I can't endure such questions. Who dare\nask me such questions?\"\n\n\"Brother,\" interposed Alyosha--his heart sank with terror, but he still\nseemed to hope to bring Ivan to reason--\"how could he have told you of\nSmerdyakov's death before I came, when no one knew of it and there was no\ntime for any one to know of it?\"\n\n\"He told me,\" said Ivan firmly, refusing to admit a doubt. \"It was all he\ndid talk about, if you come to that. 'And it would be all right if you\nbelieved in virtue,' he said. 'No matter if they disbelieve you, you are\ngoing for the sake of principle. But you are a little pig like Fyodor\nPavlovitch, and what do you want with virtue? Why do you want to go\nmeddling if your sacrifice is of no use to any one? Because you don't know\nyourself why you go! Oh, you'd give a great deal to know yourself why you\ngo! And can you have made up your mind? You've not made up your mind.\nYou'll sit all night deliberating whether to go or not. But you will go;\nyou know you'll go. You know that whichever way you decide, the decision\ndoes not depend on you. You'll go because you won't dare not to go. Why\nwon't you dare? You must guess that for yourself. That's a riddle for\nyou!' He got up and went away. You came and he went. He called me a\ncoward, Alyosha! _Le mot de l'enigme_ is that I am a coward. 'It is not\nfor such eagles to soar above the earth.' It was he added that--he! And\nSmerdyakov said the same. He must be killed! Katya despises me. I've seen\nthat for a month past. Even Lise will begin to despise me! 'You are going\nin order to be praised.' That's a brutal lie! And you despise me too,\nAlyosha. Now I am going to hate you again! And I hate the monster, too! I\nhate the monster! I don't want to save the monster. Let him rot in\nSiberia! He's begun singing a hymn! Oh, to-morrow I'll go, stand before\nthem, and spit in their faces!\"\n\nHe jumped up in a frenzy, flung off the towel, and fell to pacing up and\ndown the room again. Alyosha recalled what he had just said. \"I seem to be\nsleeping awake.... I walk, I speak, I see, but I am asleep.\" It seemed to\nbe just like that now. Alyosha did not leave him. The thought passed\nthrough his mind to run for a doctor, but he was afraid to leave his\nbrother alone: there was no one to whom he could leave him. By degrees\nIvan lost consciousness completely at last. He still went on talking,\ntalking incessantly, but quite incoherently, and even articulated his\nwords with difficulty. Suddenly he staggered violently; but Alyosha was in\ntime to support him. Ivan let him lead him to his bed. Alyosha undressed\nhim somehow and put him to bed. He sat watching over him for another two\nhours. The sick man slept soundly, without stirring, breathing softly and\nevenly. Alyosha took a pillow and lay down on the sofa, without\nundressing.\n\nAs he fell asleep he prayed for Mitya and Ivan. He began to understand\nIvan's illness. \"The anguish of a proud determination. An earnest\nconscience!\" God, in Whom he disbelieved, and His truth were gaining\nmastery over his heart, which still refused to submit. \"Yes,\" the thought\nfloated through Alyosha's head as it lay on the pillow, \"yes, if\nSmerdyakov is dead, no one will believe Ivan's evidence; but he will go\nand give it.\" Alyosha smiled softly. \"God will conquer!\" he thought. \"He\nwill either rise up in the light of truth, or ... he'll perish in hate,\nrevenging on himself and on every one his having served the cause he does\nnot believe in,\" Alyosha added bitterly, and again he prayed for Ivan.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook XII. A Judicial Error  Chapter I. The Fatal Day\n\n\nAt ten o'clock in the morning of the day following the events I have\ndescribed, the trial of Dmitri Karamazov began in our district court.\n\nI hasten to emphasize the fact that I am far from esteeming myself capable\nof reporting all that took place at the trial in full detail, or even in\nthe actual order of events. I imagine that to mention everything with full\nexplanation would fill a volume, even a very large one. And so I trust I\nmay not be reproached, for confining myself to what struck me. I may have\nselected as of most interest what was of secondary importance, and may\nhave omitted the most prominent and essential details. But I see I shall\ndo better not to apologize. I will do my best and the reader will see for\nhimself that I have done all I can.\n\nAnd, to begin with, before entering the court, I will mention what\nsurprised me most on that day. Indeed, as it appeared later, every one was\nsurprised at it, too. We all knew that the affair had aroused great\ninterest, that every one was burning with impatience for the trial to\nbegin, that it had been a subject of talk, conjecture, exclamation and\nsurmise for the last two months in local society. Every one knew, too,\nthat the case had become known throughout Russia, but yet we had not\nimagined that it had aroused such burning, such intense, interest in every\none, not only among ourselves, but all over Russia. This became evident at\nthe trial this day.\n\nVisitors had arrived not only from the chief town of our province, but\nfrom several other Russian towns, as well as from Moscow and Petersburg.\nAmong them were lawyers, ladies, and even several distinguished\npersonages. Every ticket of admission had been snatched up. A special\nplace behind the table at which the three judges sat was set apart for the\nmost distinguished and important of the men visitors; a row of arm-chairs\nhad been placed there--something exceptional, which had never been allowed\nbefore. A large proportion--not less than half of the public--were ladies.\nThere was such a large number of lawyers from all parts that they did not\nknow where to seat them, for every ticket had long since been eagerly\nsought for and distributed. I saw at the end of the room, behind the\nplatform, a special partition hurriedly put up, behind which all these\nlawyers were admitted, and they thought themselves lucky to have standing\nroom there, for all chairs had been removed for the sake of space, and the\ncrowd behind the partition stood throughout the case closely packed,\nshoulder to shoulder.\n\nSome of the ladies, especially those who came from a distance, made their\nappearance in the gallery very smartly dressed, but the majority of the\nladies were oblivious even of dress. Their faces betrayed hysterical,\nintense, almost morbid, curiosity. A peculiar fact--established afterwards\nby many observations--was that almost all the ladies, or, at least the vast\nmajority of them, were on Mitya's side and in favor of his being\nacquitted. This was perhaps chiefly owing to his reputation as a conqueror\nof female hearts. It was known that two women rivals were to appear in the\ncase. One of them--Katerina Ivanovna--was an object of general interest. All\nsorts of extraordinary tales were told about her, amazing anecdotes of her\npassion for Mitya, in spite of his crime. Her pride and \"aristocratic\nconnections\" were particularly insisted upon (she had called upon scarcely\nany one in the town). People said she intended to petition the Government\nfor leave to accompany the criminal to Siberia and to be married to him\nsomewhere in the mines. The appearance of Grushenka in court was awaited\nwith no less impatience. The public was looking forward with anxious\ncuriosity to the meeting of the two rivals--the proud aristocratic girl and\n\"the hetaira.\" But Grushenka was a more familiar figure to the ladies of\nthe district than Katerina Ivanovna. They had already seen \"the woman who\nhad ruined Fyodor Pavlovitch and his unhappy son,\" and all, almost without\nexception, wondered how father and son could be so in love with \"such a\nvery common, ordinary Russian girl, who was not even pretty.\"\n\nIn brief, there was a great deal of talk. I know for a fact that there\nwere several serious family quarrels on Mitya's account in our town. Many\nladies quarreled violently with their husbands over differences of opinion\nabout the dreadful case, and it was only natural that the husbands of\nthese ladies, far from being favorably disposed to the prisoner, should\nenter the court bitterly prejudiced against him. In fact, one may say\npretty certainly that the masculine, as distinguished from the feminine,\npart of the audience were biased against the prisoner. There were numbers\nof severe, frowning, even vindictive faces. Mitya, indeed, had managed to\noffend many people during his stay in the town. Some of the visitors were,\nof course, in excellent spirits and quite unconcerned as to the fate of\nMitya personally. But all were interested in the trial, and the majority\nof the men were certainly hoping for the conviction of the criminal,\nexcept perhaps the lawyers, who were more interested in the legal than in\nthe moral aspect of the case.\n\nEverybody was excited at the presence of the celebrated lawyer,\nFetyukovitch. His talent was well known, and this was not the first time\nhe had defended notorious criminal cases in the provinces. And if he\ndefended them, such cases became celebrated and long remembered all over\nRussia. There were stories, too, about our prosecutor and about the\nPresident of the Court. It was said that Ippolit Kirillovitch was in a\ntremor at meeting Fetyukovitch, and that they had been enemies from the\nbeginning of their careers in Petersburg, that though our sensitive\nprosecutor, who always considered that he had been aggrieved by some one\nin Petersburg because his talents had not been properly appreciated, was\nkeenly excited over the Karamazov case, and was even dreaming of\nrebuilding his flagging fortunes by means of it, Fetyukovitch, they said,\nwas his one anxiety. But these rumors were not quite just. Our prosecutor\nwas not one of those men who lose heart in face of danger. On the\ncontrary, his self-confidence increased with the increase of danger. It\nmust be noted that our prosecutor was in general too hasty and morbidly\nimpressionable. He would put his whole soul into some case and work at it\nas though his whole fate and his whole fortune depended on its result.\nThis was the subject of some ridicule in the legal world, for just by this\ncharacteristic our prosecutor had gained a wider notoriety than could have\nbeen expected from his modest position. People laughed particularly at his\npassion for psychology. In my opinion, they were wrong, and our prosecutor\nwas, I believe, a character of greater depth than was generally supposed.\nBut with his delicate health he had failed to make his mark at the outset\nof his career and had never made up for it later.\n\nAs for the President of our Court, I can only say that he was a humane and\ncultured man, who had a practical knowledge of his work and progressive\nviews. He was rather ambitious, but did not concern himself greatly about\nhis future career. The great aim of his life was to be a man of advanced\nideas. He was, too, a man of connections and property. He felt, as we\nlearnt afterwards, rather strongly about the Karamazov case, but from a\nsocial, not from a personal standpoint. He was interested in it as a\nsocial phenomenon, in its classification and its character as a product of\nour social conditions, as typical of the national character, and so on,\nand so on. His attitude to the personal aspect of the case, to its tragic\nsignificance and the persons involved in it, including the prisoner, was\nrather indifferent and abstract, as was perhaps fitting, indeed.\n\nThe court was packed and overflowing long before the judges made their\nappearance. Our court is the best hall in the town--spacious, lofty, and\ngood for sound. On the right of the judges, who were on a raised platform,\na table and two rows of chairs had been put ready for the jury. On the\nleft was the place for the prisoner and the counsel for the defense. In\nthe middle of the court, near the judges, was a table with the \"material\nproofs.\" On it lay Fyodor Pavlovitch's white silk dressing-gown, stained\nwith blood; the fatal brass pestle with which the supposed murder had been\ncommitted; Mitya's shirt, with a blood-stained sleeve; his coat, stained\nwith blood in patches over the pocket in which he had put his\nhandkerchief; the handkerchief itself, stiff with blood and by now quite\nyellow; the pistol loaded by Mitya at Perhotin's with a view to suicide,\nand taken from him on the sly at Mokroe by Trifon Borissovitch; the\nenvelope in which the three thousand roubles had been put ready for\nGrushenka, the narrow pink ribbon with which it had been tied, and many\nother articles I don't remember. In the body of the hall, at some\ndistance, came the seats for the public. But in front of the balustrade a\nfew chairs had been placed for witnesses who remained in the court after\ngiving their evidence.\n\nAt ten o'clock the three judges arrived--the President, one honorary\njustice of the peace, and one other. The prosecutor, of course, entered\nimmediately after. The President was a short, stout, thick-set man of\nfifty, with a dyspeptic complexion, dark hair turning gray and cut short,\nand a red ribbon, of what Order I don't remember. The prosecutor struck me\nand the others, too, as looking particularly pale, almost green. His face\nseemed to have grown suddenly thinner, perhaps in a single night, for I\nhad seen him looking as usual only two days before. The President began\nwith asking the court whether all the jury were present.\n\nBut I see I can't go on like this, partly because some things I did not\nhear, others I did not notice, and others I have forgotten, but most of\nall because, as I have said before, I have literally no time or space to\nmention everything that was said and done. I only know that neither side\nobjected to very many of the jurymen. I remember the twelve jurymen--four\nwere petty officials of the town, two were merchants, and six peasants and\nartisans of the town. I remember, long before the trial, questions were\ncontinually asked with some surprise, especially by ladies: \"Can such a\ndelicate, complex and psychological case be submitted for decision to\npetty officials and even peasants?\" and \"What can an official, still more\na peasant, understand in such an affair?\" All the four officials in the\njury were, in fact, men of no consequence and of low rank. Except one who\nwas rather younger, they were gray-headed men, little known in society,\nwho had vegetated on a pitiful salary, and who probably had elderly,\nunpresentable wives and crowds of children, perhaps even without shoes and\nstockings. At most, they spent their leisure over cards and, of course,\nhad never read a single book. The two merchants looked respectable, but\nwere strangely silent and stolid. One of them was close-shaven, and was\ndressed in European style; the other had a small, gray beard, and wore a\nred ribbon with some sort of a medal upon it on his neck. There is no need\nto speak of the artisans and the peasants. The artisans of\nSkotoprigonyevsk are almost peasants, and even work on the land. Two of\nthem also wore European dress, and, perhaps for that reason, were dirtier\nand more uninviting-looking than the others. So that one might well\nwonder, as I did as soon as I had looked at them, \"what men like that\ncould possibly make of such a case?\" Yet their faces made a strangely\nimposing, almost menacing, impression; they were stern and frowning.\n\nAt last the President opened the case of the murder of Fyodor Pavlovitch\nKaramazov. I don't quite remember how he described him. The court usher\nwas told to bring in the prisoner, and Mitya made his appearance. There\nwas a hush through the court. One could have heard a fly. I don't know how\nit was with others, but Mitya made a most unfavorable impression on me. He\nlooked an awful dandy in a brand-new frock-coat. I heard afterwards that\nhe had ordered it in Moscow expressly for the occasion from his own\ntailor, who had his measure. He wore immaculate black kid gloves and\nexquisite linen. He walked in with his yard-long strides, looking stiffly\nstraight in front of him, and sat down in his place with a most\nunperturbed air.\n\nAt the same moment the counsel for defense, the celebrated Fetyukovitch,\nentered, and a sort of subdued hum passed through the court. He was a\ntall, spare man, with long thin legs, with extremely long, thin, pale\nfingers, clean-shaven face, demurely brushed, rather short hair, and thin\nlips that were at times curved into something between a sneer and a smile.\nHe looked about forty. His face would have been pleasant, if it had not\nbeen for his eyes, which, in themselves small and inexpressive, were set\nremarkably close together, with only the thin, long nose as a dividing\nline between them. In fact, there was something strikingly birdlike about\nhis face. He was in evening dress and white tie.\n\nI remember the President's first questions to Mitya, about his name, his\ncalling, and so on. Mitya answered sharply, and his voice was so\nunexpectedly loud that it made the President start and look at the\nprisoner with surprise. Then followed a list of persons who were to take\npart in the proceedings--that is, of the witnesses and experts. It was a\nlong list. Four of the witnesses were not present--Miuesov, who had given\nevidence at the preliminary inquiry, but was now in Paris; Madame Hohlakov\nand Maximov, who were absent through illness; and Smerdyakov, through his\nsudden death, of which an official statement from the police was\npresented. The news of Smerdyakov's death produced a sudden stir and\nwhisper in the court. Many of the audience, of course, had not heard of\nthe sudden suicide. What struck people most was Mitya's sudden outburst As\nsoon as the statement of Smerdyakov's death was made, he cried out aloud\nfrom his place:\n\n\"He was a dog and died like a dog!\"\n\nI remember how his counsel rushed to him, and how the President addressed\nhim, threatening to take stern measures, if such an irregularity were\nrepeated. Mitya nodded and in a subdued voice repeated several times\nabruptly to his counsel, with no show of regret:\n\n\"I won't again, I won't. It escaped me. I won't do it again.\"\n\nAnd, of course, this brief episode did him no good with the jury or the\npublic. His character was displayed, and it spoke for itself. It was under\nthe influence of this incident that the opening statement was read. It was\nrather short, but circumstantial. It only stated the chief reasons why he\nhad been arrested, why he must be tried, and so on. Yet it made a great\nimpression on me. The clerk read it loudly and distinctly. The whole\ntragedy was suddenly unfolded before us, concentrated, in bold relief, in\na fatal and pitiless light. I remember how, immediately after it had been\nread, the President asked Mitya in a loud impressive voice:\n\n\"Prisoner, do you plead guilty?\"\n\nMitya suddenly rose from his seat.\n\n\"I plead guilty to drunkenness and dissipation,\" he exclaimed, again in a\nstartling, almost frenzied, voice, \"to idleness and debauchery. I meant to\nbecome an honest man for good, just at the moment when I was struck down\nby fate. But I am not guilty of the death of that old man, my enemy and my\nfather. No, no, I am not guilty of robbing him! I could not be. Dmitri\nKaramazov is a scoundrel, but not a thief.\"\n\nHe sat down again, visibly trembling all over. The President again\nbriefly, but impressively, admonished him to answer only what was asked,\nand not to go off into irrelevant exclamations. Then he ordered the case\nto proceed. All the witnesses were led up to take the oath. Then I saw\nthem all together. The brothers of the prisoner were, however, allowed to\ngive evidence without taking the oath. After an exhortation from the\npriest and the President, the witnesses were led away and were made to sit\nas far as possible apart from one another. Then they began calling them up\none by one.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. Dangerous Witnesses\n\n\nI do not know whether the witnesses for the defense and for the\nprosecution were separated into groups by the President, and whether it\nwas arranged to call them in a certain order. But no doubt it was so. I\nonly know that the witnesses for the prosecution were called first. I\nrepeat I don't intend to describe all the questions step by step. Besides,\nmy account would be to some extent superfluous, because in the speeches\nfor the prosecution and for the defense the whole course of the evidence\nwas brought together and set in a strong and significant light, and I took\ndown parts of those two remarkable speeches in full, and will quote them\nin due course, together with one extraordinary and quite unexpected\nepisode, which occurred before the final speeches, and undoubtedly\ninfluenced the sinister and fatal outcome of the trial.\n\nI will only observe that from the first moments of the trial one peculiar\ncharacteristic of the case was conspicuous and observed by all, that is,\nthe overwhelming strength of the prosecution as compared with the\narguments the defense had to rely upon. Every one realized it from the\nfirst moment that the facts began to group themselves round a single\npoint, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was gradually revealed.\nEvery one, perhaps, felt from the first that the case was beyond dispute,\nthat there was no doubt about it, that there could be really no\ndiscussion, and that the defense was only a matter of form, and that the\nprisoner was guilty, obviously and conclusively guilty. I imagine that\neven the ladies, who were so impatiently longing for the acquittal of the\ninteresting prisoner, were at the same time, without exception, convinced\nof his guilt. What's more, I believe they would have been mortified if his\nguilt had not been so firmly established, as that would have lessened the\neffect of the closing scene of the criminal's acquittal. That he would be\nacquitted, all the ladies, strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to the\nvery last moment. \"He is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from motives of\nhumanity, in accordance with the new ideas, the new sentiments that had\ncome into fashion,\" and so on, and so on. And that was why they had\ncrowded into the court so impatiently. The men were more interested in the\ncontest between the prosecutor and the famous Fetyukovitch. All were\nwondering and asking themselves what could even a talent like\nFetyukovitch's make of such a desperate case; and so they followed his\nachievements, step by step, with concentrated attention.\n\nBut Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end, up to his\nspeech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some design, that he\nwas working towards some object, but it was almost impossible to guess\nwhat it was. His confidence and self-reliance were unmistakable, however.\nEvery one noticed with pleasure, moreover, that he, after so short a stay,\nnot more than three days, perhaps, among us, had so wonderfully succeeded\nin mastering the case and \"had studied it to a nicety.\" People described\nwith relish, afterwards, how cleverly he had \"taken down\" all the\nwitnesses for the prosecution, and as far as possible perplexed them and,\nwhat's more, had aspersed their reputation and so depreciated the value of\ntheir evidence. But it was supposed that he did this rather by way of\nsport, so to speak, for professional glory, to show nothing had been\nomitted of the accepted methods, for all were convinced that he could do\nno real good by such disparagement of the witnesses, and probably was more\naware of this than any one, having some idea of his own in the background,\nsome concealed weapon of defense, which he would suddenly reveal when the\ntime came. But meanwhile, conscious of his strength, he seemed to be\ndiverting himself.\n\nSo, for instance, when Grigory, Fyodor Pavlovitch's old servant, who had\ngiven the most damning piece of evidence about the open door, was\nexamined, the counsel for the defense positively fastened upon him when\nhis turn came to question him. It must be noted that Grigory entered the\nhall with a composed and almost stately air, not the least disconcerted by\nthe majesty of the court or the vast audience listening to him. He gave\nevidence with as much confidence as though he had been talking with his\nMarfa, only perhaps more respectfully. It was impossible to make him\ncontradict himself. The prosecutor questioned him first in detail about\nthe family life of the Karamazovs. The family picture stood out in lurid\ncolors. It was plain to ear and eye that the witness was guileless and\nimpartial. In spite of his profound reverence for the memory of his\ndeceased master, he yet bore witness that he had been unjust to Mitya and\n\"hadn't brought up his children as he should. He'd have been devoured by\nlice when he was little, if it hadn't been for me,\" he added, describing\nMitya's early childhood. \"It wasn't fair either of the father to wrong his\nson over his mother's property, which was by right his.\"\n\nIn reply to the prosecutor's question what grounds he had for asserting\nthat Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money relations,\nGrigory, to the surprise of every one, had no proof at all to bring\nforward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the son was\n\"unfair,\" and that he ought \"to have paid him several thousand roubles\nmore.\" I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this question\nwhether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of Mitya's inheritance\nwith marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be asked it, not\nexcepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained no exact information from any\none; all alleged that it was so, but were unable to bring forward any\ndistinct proof. Grigory's description of the scene at the dinner-table,\nwhen Dmitri had burst in and beaten his father, threatening to come back\nto kill him, made a sinister impression on the court, especially as the\nold servant's composure in telling it, his parsimony of words and peculiar\nphraseology, were as effective as eloquence. He observed that he was not\nangry with Mitya for having knocked him down and struck him on the face;\nhe had forgiven him long ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he\nobserved, crossing himself, that he was a lad of ability, but stupid and\nafflicted, and, worse still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor Pavlovitch\nand his elder son who had taught him to be so. But he defended\nSmerdyakov's honesty almost with warmth, and related how Smerdyakov had\nonce found the master's money in the yard, and, instead of concealing it,\nhad taken it to his master, who had rewarded him with a \"gold piece\" for\nit, and trusted him implicitly from that time forward. He maintained\nobstinately that the door into the garden had been open. But he was asked\nso many questions that I can't recall them all.\n\nAt last the counsel for the defense began to cross-examine him, and the\nfirst question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor Pavlovitch\nwas supposed to have put three thousand roubles for \"a certain person.\"\n\"Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many years in close\nattendance on your master?\" Grigory answered that he had not seen it and\nhad never heard of the money from any one \"till everybody was talking\nabout it.\" This question about the envelope Fetyukovitch put to every one\nwho could conceivably have known of it, as persistently as the prosecutor\nasked his question about Dmitri's inheritance, and got the same answer\nfrom all, that no one had seen the envelope, though many had heard of it.\nFrom the beginning every one noticed Fetyukovitch's persistence on this\nsubject.\n\n\"Now, with your permission I'll ask you a question,\" Fetyukovitch said,\nsuddenly and unexpectedly. \"Of what was that balsam, or, rather,\ndecoction, made, which, as we learn from the preliminary inquiry, you used\non that evening to rub your lumbago, in the hope of curing it?\"\n\nGrigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief silence\nmuttered, \"There was saffron in it.\"\n\n\"Nothing but saffron? Don't you remember any other ingredient?\"\n\n\"There was milfoil in it, too.\"\n\n\"And pepper perhaps?\" Fetyukovitch queried.\n\n\"Yes, there was pepper, too.\"\n\n\"Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?\"\n\n\"In spirit.\"\n\nThere was a faint sound of laughter in the court.\n\n\"You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what\nwas left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your\nwife?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wine-glass or two?\"\n\n\"It might have been a tumbler-full.\"\n\n\"A tumbler-full, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?\"\n\nGrigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant.\n\n\"A glass and a half of neat spirit--is not at all bad, don't you think? You\nmight see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the garden?\"\n\nGrigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The\nPresident made a movement.\n\n\"Do you know for a fact,\" Fetyukovitch persisted, \"whether you were awake\nor not when you saw the open door?\"\n\n\"I was on my legs.\"\n\n\"That's not a proof that you were awake.\" (There was again laughter in the\ncourt.) \"Could you have answered at that moment, if any one had asked you\na question--for instance, what year it is?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?\"\n\nGrigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor.\nStrange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was.\n\n\"But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your hands?\"\n\n\"I am a servant,\" Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct voice. \"If\nmy betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to suffer it.\"\n\nFetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President intervened,\nreminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovitch bowed\nwith dignity and said that he had no more questions to ask of the witness.\nThe public and the jury, of course, were left with a grain of doubt in\ntheir minds as to the evidence of a man who might, while undergoing a\ncertain cure, have seen \"the gates of heaven,\" and who did not even know\nwhat year he was living in. But before Grigory left the box another\nepisode occurred. The President, turning to the prisoner, asked him\nwhether he had any comment to make on the evidence of the last witness.\n\n\"Except about the door, all he has said is true,\" cried Mitya, in a loud\nvoice. \"For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for forgiving my blows,\nI thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as faithful to\nmy father as seven hundred poodles.\"\n\n\"Prisoner, be careful in your language,\" the President admonished him.\n\n\"I am not a poodle,\" Grigory muttered.\n\n\"All right, it's I am a poodle myself,\" cried Mitya. \"If it's an insult, I\ntake it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and cruel to him. I\nwas cruel to AEsop too.\"\n\n\"What AEsop?\" the President asked sternly again.\n\n\"Oh, Pierrot ... my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch.\"\n\nThe President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very sternly\nto be more careful in his language.\n\n\"You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges.\"\n\nThe counsel for the defense was equally clever in dealing with the\nevidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the leading\nwitnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great significance. It\nappeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was amazing, he had been\neverywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody, knew every detail of the\nbiography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the Karamazovs. Of the envelope, it\nis true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he described minutely\nMitya's exploits in the \"Metropolis,\" all his compromising doings and\nsayings, and told the story of Captain Snegiryov's \"wisp of tow.\" But even\nRakitin could say nothing positive about Mitya's inheritance, and confined\nhimself to contemptuous generalities.\n\n\"Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in debt to the\nother, with their crazy Karamazov way of muddling things so that no one\ncould make head or tail of it?\" He attributed the tragic crime to the\nhabits that had become ingrained by ages of serfdom and the distressed\ncondition of Russia, due to the lack of appropriate institutions. He was,\nin fact, allowed some latitude of speech. This was the first occasion on\nwhich Rakitin showed what he could do, and attracted notice. The\nprosecutor knew that the witness was preparing a magazine article on the\ncase, and afterwards in his speech, as we shall see later, quoted some\nideas from the article, showing that he had seen it already. The picture\ndrawn by the witness was a gloomy and sinister one, and greatly\nstrengthened the case for the prosecution. Altogether, Rakitin's discourse\nfascinated the public by its independence and the extraordinary nobility\nof its ideas. There were even two or three outbreaks of applause when he\nspoke of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia.\n\nBut Rakitin, in his youthful ardor, made a slight blunder, of which the\ncounsel for the defense at once adroitly took advantage. Answering certain\nquestions about Grushenka, and carried away by the loftiness of his own\nsentiments and his success, of which he was, of course, conscious, he went\nso far as to speak somewhat contemptuously of Agrafena Alexandrovna as\n\"the kept mistress of Samsonov.\" He would have given a good deal to take\nback his words afterwards, for Fetyukovitch caught him out over it at\nonce. And it was all because Rakitin had not reckoned on the lawyer having\nbeen able to become so intimately acquainted with every detail in so short\na time.\n\n\"Allow me to ask,\" began the counsel for the defense, with the most\naffable and even respectful smile, \"you are, of course, the same Mr.\nRakitin whose pamphlet, _The Life of the Deceased Elder, Father Zossima_,\npublished by the diocesan authorities, full of profound and religious\nreflections and preceded by an excellent and devout dedication to the\nbishop, I have just read with such pleasure?\"\n\n\"I did not write it for publication ... it was published afterwards,\"\nmuttered Rakitin, for some reason fearfully disconcerted and almost\nashamed.\n\n\"Oh, that's excellent! A thinker like you can, and indeed ought to, take\nthe widest view of every social question. Your most instructive pamphlet\nhas been widely circulated through the patronage of the bishop, and has\nbeen of appreciable service.... But this is the chief thing I should like\nto learn from you. You stated just now that you were very intimately\nacquainted with Madame Svyetlov.\" (It must be noted that Grushenka's\nsurname was Svyetlov. I heard it for the first time that day, during the\ncase.)\n\n\"I cannot answer for all my acquaintances.... I am a young man ... and who\ncan be responsible for every one he meets?\" cried Rakitin, flushing all\nover.\n\n\"I understand, I quite understand,\" cried Fetyukovitch, as though he, too,\nwere embarrassed and in haste to excuse himself. \"You, like any other,\nmight well be interested in an acquaintance with a young and beautiful\nwoman who would readily entertain the _elite_ of the youth of the\nneighborhood, but ... I only wanted to know ... It has come to my\nknowledge that Madame Svyetlov was particularly anxious a couple of months\nago to make the acquaintance of the younger Karamazov, Alexey\nFyodorovitch, and promised you twenty-five roubles, if you would bring him\nto her in his monastic dress. And that actually took place on the evening\nof the day on which the terrible crime, which is the subject of the\npresent investigation, was committed. You brought Alexey Karamazov to\nMadame Svyetlov, and did you receive the twenty-five roubles from Madame\nSvyetlov as a reward, that's what I wanted to hear from you?\"\n\n\"It was a joke.... I don't see of what interest that can be to you.... I\ntook it for a joke ... meaning to give it back later....\"\n\n\"Then you did take-- But you have not given it back yet ... or have you?\"\n\n\"That's of no consequence,\" muttered Rakitin, \"I refuse to answer such\nquestions.... Of course I shall give it back.\"\n\nThe President intervened, but Fetyukovitch declared he had no more\nquestions to ask of the witness. Mr. Rakitin left the witness-box not\nabsolutely without a stain upon his character. The effect left by the\nlofty idealism of his speech was somewhat marred, and Fetyukovitch's\nexpression, as he watched him walk away, seemed to suggest to the public\n\"this is a specimen of the lofty-minded persons who accuse him.\" I\nremember that this incident, too, did not pass off without an outbreak\nfrom Mitya. Enraged by the tone in which Rakitin had referred to\nGrushenka, he suddenly shouted \"Bernard!\" When, after Rakitin's cross-\nexamination, the President asked the prisoner if he had anything to say,\nMitya cried loudly:\n\n\"Since I've been arrested, he has borrowed money from me! He is a\ncontemptible Bernard and opportunist, and he doesn't believe in God; he\ntook the bishop in!\"\n\nMitya, of course, was pulled up again for the intemperance of his\nlanguage, but Rakitin was done for. Captain Snegiryov's evidence was a\nfailure, too, but from quite a different reason. He appeared in ragged and\ndirty clothes, muddy boots, and in spite of the vigilance and expert\nobservation of the police officers, he turned out to be hopelessly drunk.\nOn being asked about Mitya's attack upon him, he refused to answer.\n\n\"God bless him. Ilusha told me not to. God will make it up to me yonder.\"\n\n\"Who told you not to tell? Of whom are you talking?\"\n\n\"Ilusha, my little son. 'Father, father, how he insulted you!' He said\nthat at the stone. Now he is dying....\"\n\nThe captain suddenly began sobbing, and plumped down on his knees before\nthe President. He was hurriedly led away amidst the laughter of the\npublic. The effect prepared by the prosecutor did not come off at all.\n\nFetyukovitch went on making the most of every opportunity, and amazed\npeople more and more by his minute knowledge of the case. Thus, for\nexample, Trifon Borissovitch made a great impression, of course, very\nprejudicial to Mitya. He calculated almost on his fingers that on his\nfirst visit to Mokroe, Mitya must have spent three thousand roubles, \"or\nvery little less. Just think what he squandered on those gypsy girls\nalone! And as for our lousy peasants, it wasn't a case of flinging half a\nrouble in the street, he made them presents of twenty-five roubles each,\nat least, he didn't give them less. And what a lot of money was simply\nstolen from him! And if any one did steal, he did not leave a receipt. How\ncould one catch the thief when he was flinging his money away all the\ntime? Our peasants are robbers, you know; they have no care for their\nsouls. And the way he went on with the girls, our village girls! They're\ncompletely set up since then, I tell you, they used to be poor.\" He\nrecalled, in fact, every item of expense and added it all up. So the\ntheory that only fifteen hundred had been spent and the rest had been put\naside in a little bag seemed inconceivable.\n\n\"I saw three thousand as clear as a penny in his hands, I saw it with my\nown eyes; I should think I ought to know how to reckon money,\" cried\nTrifon Borissovitch, doing his best to satisfy \"his betters.\"\n\nWhen Fetyukovitch had to cross-examine him, he scarcely tried to refute\nhis evidence, but began asking him about an incident at the first carousal\nat Mokroe, a month before the arrest, when Timofey and another peasant\ncalled Akim had picked up on the floor in the passage a hundred roubles\ndropped by Mitya when he was drunk, and had given them to Trifon\nBorissovitch and received a rouble each from him for doing so. \"Well,\"\nasked the lawyer, \"did you give that hundred roubles back to Mr.\nKaramazov?\" Trifon Borissovitch shuffled in vain.... He was obliged, after\nthe peasants had been examined, to admit the finding of the hundred\nroubles, only adding that he had religiously returned it all to Dmitri\nFyodorovitch \"in perfect honesty, and it's only because his honor was in\nliquor at the time, he wouldn't remember it.\" But, as he had denied the\nincident of the hundred roubles till the peasants had been called to prove\nit, his evidence as to returning the money to Mitya was naturally regarded\nwith great suspicion. So one of the most dangerous witnesses brought\nforward by the prosecution was again discredited.\n\nThe same thing happened with the Poles. They took up an attitude of pride\nand independence; they vociferated loudly that they had both been in the\nservice of the Crown, and that \"Pan Mitya\" had offered them three thousand\n\"to buy their honor,\" and that they had seen a large sum of money in his\nhands. Pan Mussyalovitch introduced a terrible number of Polish words into\nhis sentences, and seeing that this only increased his consequence in the\neyes of the President and the prosecutor, grew more and more pompous, and\nended by talking in Polish altogether. But Fetyukovitch caught them, too,\nin his snares. Trifon Borissovitch, recalled, was forced, in spite of his\nevasions, to admit that Pan Vrublevsky had substituted another pack of\ncards for the one he had provided, and that Pan Mussyalovitch had cheated\nduring the game. Kalganov confirmed this, and both the Poles left the\nwitness-box with damaged reputations, amidst laughter from the public.\n\nThen exactly the same thing happened with almost all the most dangerous\nwitnesses. Fetyukovitch succeeded in casting a slur on all of them, and\ndismissing them with a certain derision. The lawyers and experts were lost\nin admiration, and were only at a loss to understand what good purpose\ncould be served by it, for all, I repeat, felt that the case for the\nprosecution could not be refuted, but was growing more and more tragically\noverwhelming. But from the confidence of the \"great magician\" they saw\nthat he was serene, and they waited, feeling that \"such a man\" had not\ncome from Petersburg for nothing, and that he was not a man to return\nunsuccessful.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. The Medical Experts And A Pound Of Nuts\n\n\nThe evidence of the medical experts, too, was of little use to the\nprisoner. And it appeared later that Fetyukovitch had not reckoned much\nupon it. The medical line of defense had only been taken up through the\ninsistence of Katerina Ivanovna, who had sent for a celebrated doctor from\nMoscow on purpose. The case for the defense could, of course, lose nothing\nby it and might, with luck, gain something from it. There was, however, an\nelement of comedy about it, through the difference of opinion of the\ndoctors. The medical experts were the famous doctor from Moscow, our\ndoctor, Herzenstube, and the young doctor, Varvinsky. The two latter\nappeared also as witnesses for the prosecution.\n\nThe first to be called in the capacity of expert was Doctor Herzenstube.\nHe was a gray and bald old man of seventy, of middle height and sturdy\nbuild. He was much esteemed and respected by every one in the town. He was\na conscientious doctor and an excellent and pious man, a Hernguter or\nMoravian brother, I am not quite sure which. He had been living amongst us\nfor many years and behaved with wonderful dignity. He was a kind-hearted\nand humane man. He treated the sick poor and peasants for nothing, visited\nthem in their slums and huts, and left money for medicine, but he was as\nobstinate as a mule. If once he had taken an idea into his head, there was\nno shaking it. Almost every one in the town was aware, by the way, that\nthe famous doctor had, within the first two or three days of his presence\namong us, uttered some extremely offensive allusions to Doctor\nHerzenstube's qualifications. Though the Moscow doctor asked twenty-five\nroubles for a visit, several people in the town were glad to take\nadvantage of his arrival, and rushed to consult him regardless of expense.\nAll these had, of course, been previously patients of Doctor Herzenstube,\nand the celebrated doctor had criticized his treatment with extreme\nharshness. Finally, he had asked the patients as soon as he saw them,\n\"Well, who has been cramming you with nostrums? Herzenstube? He, he!\"\nDoctor Herzenstube, of course, heard all this, and now all the three\ndoctors made their appearance, one after another, to be examined.\n\nDoctor Herzenstube roundly declared that the abnormality of the prisoner's\nmental faculties was self-evident. Then giving his grounds for this\nopinion, which I omit here, he added that the abnormality was not only\nevident in many of the prisoner's actions in the past, but was apparent\neven now at this very moment. When he was asked to explain how it was\napparent now at this moment, the old doctor, with simple-hearted\ndirectness, pointed out that the prisoner on entering the court had \"an\nextraordinary air, remarkable in the circumstances\"; that he had \"marched\nin like a soldier, looking straight before him, though it would have been\nmore natural for him to look to the left where, among the public, the\nladies were sitting, seeing that he was a great admirer of the fair sex\nand must be thinking much of what the ladies are saying of him now,\" the\nold man concluded in his peculiar language.\n\nI must add that he spoke Russian readily, but every phrase was formed in\nGerman style, which did not, however, trouble him, for it had always been\na weakness of his to believe that he spoke Russian perfectly, better\nindeed than Russians. And he was very fond of using Russian proverbs,\nalways declaring that the Russian proverbs were the best and most\nexpressive sayings in the whole world. I may remark, too, that in\nconversation, through absent-mindedness he often forgot the most ordinary\nwords, which sometimes went out of his head, though he knew them\nperfectly. The same thing happened, though, when he spoke German, and at\nsuch times he always waved his hand before his face as though trying to\ncatch the lost word, and no one could induce him to go on speaking till he\nhad found the missing word. His remark that the prisoner ought to have\nlooked at the ladies on entering roused a whisper of amusement in the\naudience. All our ladies were very fond of our old doctor; they knew, too,\nthat having been all his life a bachelor and a religious man of exemplary\nconduct, he looked upon women as lofty creatures. And so his unexpected\nobservation struck every one as very queer.\n\nThe Moscow doctor, being questioned in his turn, definitely and\nemphatically repeated that he considered the prisoner's mental condition\nabnormal in the highest degree. He talked at length and with erudition of\n\"aberration\" and \"mania,\" and argued that, from all the facts collected,\nthe prisoner had undoubtedly been in a condition of aberration for several\ndays before his arrest, and, if the crime had been committed by him, it\nmust, even if he were conscious of it, have been almost involuntary, as he\nhad not the power to control the morbid impulse that possessed him.\n\nBut apart from temporary aberration, the doctor diagnosed mania, which\npremised, in his words, to lead to complete insanity in the future. (It\nmust be noted that I report this in my own words, the doctor made use of\nvery learned and professional language.) \"All his actions are in\ncontravention of common sense and logic,\" he continued. \"Not to refer to\nwhat I have not seen, that is, the crime itself and the whole catastrophe,\nthe day before yesterday, while he was talking to me, he had an\nunaccountably fixed look in his eye. He laughed unexpectedly when there\nwas nothing to laugh at. He showed continual and inexplicable\nirritability, using strange words, 'Bernard!' 'Ethics!' and others equally\ninappropriate.\" But the doctor detected mania, above all, in the fact that\nthe prisoner could not even speak of the three thousand roubles, of which\nhe considered himself to have been cheated, without extraordinary\nirritation, though he could speak comparatively lightly of other\nmisfortunes and grievances. According to all accounts, he had even in the\npast, whenever the subject of the three thousand roubles was touched on,\nflown into a perfect frenzy, and yet he was reported to be a disinterested\nand not grasping man.\n\n\"As to the opinion of my learned colleague,\" the Moscow doctor added\nironically in conclusion, \"that the prisoner would, on entering the court,\nhave naturally looked at the ladies and not straight before him, I will\nonly say that, apart from the playfulness of this theory, it is radically\nunsound. For though I fully agree that the prisoner, on entering the court\nwhere his fate will be decided, would not naturally look straight before\nhim in that fixed way, and that that may really be a sign of his abnormal\nmental condition, at the same time I maintain that he would naturally not\nlook to the left at the ladies, but, on the contrary, to the right to find\nhis legal adviser, on whose help all his hopes rest and on whose defense\nall his future depends.\" The doctor expressed his opinion positively and\nemphatically.\n\nBut the unexpected pronouncement of Doctor Varvinsky gave the last touch\nof comedy to the difference of opinion between the experts. In his opinion\nthe prisoner was now, and had been all along, in a perfectly normal\ncondition, and, although he certainly must have been in a nervous and\nexceedingly excited state before his arrest, this might have been due to\nseveral perfectly obvious causes, jealousy, anger, continual drunkenness,\nand so on. But this nervous condition would not involve the mental\naberration of which mention had just been made. As to the question whether\nthe prisoner should have looked to the left or to the right on entering\nthe court, \"in his modest opinion,\" the prisoner would naturally look\nstraight before him on entering the court, as he had in fact done, as that\nwas where the judges, on whom his fate depended, were sitting. So that it\nwas just by looking straight before him that he showed his perfectly\nnormal state of mind at the present. The young doctor concluded his\n\"modest\" testimony with some heat.\n\n\"Bravo, doctor!\" cried Mitya, from his seat, \"just so!\"\n\nMitya, of course, was checked, but the young doctor's opinion had a\ndecisive influence on the judges and on the public, and, as appeared\nafterwards, every one agreed with him. But Doctor Herzenstube, when called\nas a witness, was quite unexpectedly of use to Mitya. As an old resident\nin the town who had known the Karamazov family for years, he furnished\nsome facts of great value for the prosecution, and suddenly, as though\nrecalling something, he added:\n\n\"But the poor young man might have had a very different life, for he had a\ngood heart both in childhood and after childhood, that I know. But the\nRussian proverb says, 'If a man has one head, it's good, but if another\nclever man comes to visit him, it would be better still, for then there\nwill be two heads and not only one.' \"\n\n\"One head is good, but two are better,\" the prosecutor put in impatiently.\nHe knew the old man's habit of talking slowly and deliberately, regardless\nof the impression he was making and of the delay he was causing, and\nhighly prizing his flat, dull and always gleefully complacent German wit.\nThe old man was fond of making jokes.\n\n\"Oh, yes, that's what I say,\" he went on stubbornly. \"One head is good,\nbut two are much better, but he did not meet another head with wits, and\nhis wits went. Where did they go? I've forgotten the word.\" He went on,\npassing his hand before his eyes, \"Oh, yes, _spazieren_.\"\n\n\"Wandering?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, wandering, that's what I say. Well, his wits went wandering and\nfell in such a deep hole that he lost himself. And yet he was a grateful\nand sensitive boy. Oh, I remember him very well, a little chap so high,\nleft neglected by his father in the back yard, when he ran about without\nboots on his feet, and his little breeches hanging by one button.\"\n\nA note of feeling and tenderness suddenly came into the honest old man's\nvoice. Fetyukovitch positively started, as though scenting something, and\ncaught at it instantly.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I was a young man then.... I was ... well, I was forty-five\nthen, and had only just come here. And I was so sorry for the boy then; I\nasked myself why shouldn't I buy him a pound of ... a pound of what? I've\nforgotten what it's called. A pound of what children are very fond of,\nwhat is it, what is it?\" The doctor began waving his hands again. \"It\ngrows on a tree and is gathered and given to every one....\"\n\n\"Apples?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no. You have a dozen of apples, not a pound.... No, there are a\nlot of them, and all little. You put them in the mouth and crack.\"\n\n\"Nuts?\"\n\n\"Quite so, nuts, I say so.\" The doctor repeated in the calmest way as\nthough he had been at no loss for a word. \"And I bought him a pound of\nnuts, for no one had ever bought the boy a pound of nuts before. And I\nlifted my finger and said to him, 'Boy, _Gott der Vater_.' He laughed and\nsaid, '_Gott der Vater_.'... '_Gott der Sohn_.' He laughed again and\nlisped, '_Gott der Sohn_.' '_Gott der heilige Geist_.' Then he laughed and\nsaid as best he could, '_Gott der heilige Geist_.' I went away, and two\ndays after I happened to be passing, and he shouted to me of himself,\n'Uncle, _Gott der Vater, Gott der Sohn_,' and he had only forgotten '_Gott\nder heilige Geist_.' But I reminded him of it and I felt very sorry for\nhim again. But he was taken away, and I did not see him again. Twenty-\nthree years passed. I am sitting one morning in my study, a white-haired\nold man, when there walks into the room a blooming young man, whom I\nshould never have recognized, but he held up his finger and said,\nlaughing, '_Gott der Vater, Gott der Sohn_, and _Gott der heilige Geist_.\nI have just arrived and have come to thank you for that pound of nuts, for\nno one else ever bought me a pound of nuts; you are the only one that ever\ndid.' And then I remembered my happy youth and the poor child in the yard,\nwithout boots on his feet, and my heart was touched and I said, 'You are a\ngrateful young man, for you have remembered all your life the pound of\nnuts I bought you in your childhood.' And I embraced him and blessed him.\nAnd I shed tears. He laughed, but he shed tears, too ... for the Russian\noften laughs when he ought to be weeping. But he did weep; I saw it. And\nnow, alas!...\"\n\n\"And I am weeping now, German, I am weeping now, too, you saintly man,\"\nMitya cried suddenly.\n\nIn any case the anecdote made a certain favorable impression on the\npublic. But the chief sensation in Mitya's favor was created by the\nevidence of Katerina Ivanovna, which I will describe directly. Indeed,\nwhen the witnesses _a decharge_, that is, called by the defense, began\ngiving evidence, fortune seemed all at once markedly more favorable to\nMitya, and what was particularly striking, this was a surprise even to the\ncounsel for the defense. But before Katerina Ivanovna was called, Alyosha\nwas examined, and he recalled a fact which seemed to furnish positive\nevidence against one important point made by the prosecution.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV. Fortune Smiles On Mitya\n\n\nIt came quite as a surprise even to Alyosha himself. He was not required\nto take the oath, and I remember that both sides addressed him very gently\nand sympathetically. It was evident that his reputation for goodness had\npreceded him. Alyosha gave his evidence modestly and with restraint, but\nhis warm sympathy for his unhappy brother was unmistakable. In answer to\none question, he sketched his brother's character as that of a man,\nviolent-tempered perhaps and carried away by his passions, but at the same\ntime honorable, proud and generous, capable of self-sacrifice, if\nnecessary. He admitted, however, that, through his passion for Grushenka\nand his rivalry with his father, his brother had been of late in an\nintolerable position. But he repelled with indignation the suggestion that\nhis brother might have committed a murder for the sake of gain, though he\nrecognized that the three thousand roubles had become almost an obsession\nwith Mitya; that he looked upon them as part of the inheritance he had\nbeen cheated of by his father, and that, indifferent as he was to money as\na rule, he could not even speak of that three thousand without fury. As\nfor the rivalry of the two \"ladies,\" as the prosecutor expressed it--that\nis, of Grushenka and Katya--he answered evasively and was even unwilling to\nanswer one or two questions altogether.\n\n\"Did your brother tell you, anyway, that he intended to kill your father?\"\nasked the prosecutor. \"You can refuse to answer if you think necessary,\"\nhe added.\n\n\"He did not tell me so directly,\" answered Alyosha.\n\n\"How so? Did he indirectly?\"\n\n\"He spoke to me once of his hatred for our father and his fear that at an\nextreme moment ... at a moment of fury, he might perhaps murder him.\"\n\n\"And you believed him?\"\n\n\"I am afraid to say that I did. But I never doubted that some higher\nfeeling would always save him at the fatal moment, as it has indeed saved\nhim, for it was not he killed my father,\" Alyosha said firmly, in a loud\nvoice that was heard throughout the court.\n\nThe prosecutor started like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet.\n\n\"Let me assure you that I fully believe in the complete sincerity of your\nconviction and do not explain it by or identify it with your affection for\nyour unhappy brother. Your peculiar view of the whole tragic episode is\nknown to us already from the preliminary investigation. I won't attempt to\nconceal from you that it is highly individual and contradicts all the\nother evidence collected by the prosecution. And so I think it essential\nto press you to tell me what facts have led you to this conviction of your\nbrother's innocence and of the guilt of another person against whom you\ngave evidence at the preliminary inquiry?\"\n\n\"I only answered the questions asked me at the preliminary inquiry,\"\nreplied Alyosha, slowly and calmly. \"I made no accusation against\nSmerdyakov of myself.\"\n\n\"Yet you gave evidence against him?\"\n\n\"I was led to do so by my brother Dmitri's words. I was told what took\nplace at his arrest and how he had pointed to Smerdyakov before I was\nexamined. I believe absolutely that my brother is innocent, and if he\ndidn't commit the murder, then--\"\n\n\"Then Smerdyakov? Why Smerdyakov? And why are you so completely persuaded\nof your brother's innocence?\"\n\n\"I cannot help believing my brother. I know he wouldn't lie to me. I saw\nfrom his face he wasn't lying.\"\n\n\"Only from his face? Is that all the proof you have?\"\n\n\"I have no other proof.\"\n\n\"And of Smerdyakov's guilt you have no proof whatever but your brother's\nword and the expression of his face?\"\n\n\"No, I have no other proof.\"\n\nThe prosecutor dropped the examination at this point. The impression left\nby Alyosha's evidence on the public was most disappointing. There had been\ntalk about Smerdyakov before the trial; some one had heard something, some\none had pointed out something else, it was said that Alyosha had gathered\ntogether some extraordinary proofs of his brother's innocence and\nSmerdyakov's guilt, and after all there was nothing, no evidence except\ncertain moral convictions so natural in a brother.\n\nBut Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination. On his asking Alyosha when\nit was that the prisoner had told him of his hatred for his father and\nthat he might kill him, and whether he had heard it, for instance, at\ntheir last meeting before the catastrophe, Alyosha started as he answered,\nas though only just recollecting and understanding something.\n\n\"I remember one circumstance now which I'd quite forgotten myself. It\nwasn't clear to me at the time, but now--\"\n\nAnd, obviously only now for the first time struck by an idea, he recounted\neagerly how, at his last interview with Mitya that evening under the tree,\non the road to the monastery, Mitya had struck himself on the breast, \"the\nupper part of the breast,\" and had repeated several times that he had a\nmeans of regaining his honor, that that means was here, here on his\nbreast. \"I thought, when he struck himself on the breast, he meant that it\nwas in his heart,\" Alyosha continued, \"that he might find in his heart\nstrength to save himself from some awful disgrace which was awaiting him\nand which he did not dare confess even to me. I must confess I did think\nat the time that he was speaking of our father, and that the disgrace he\nwas shuddering at was the thought of going to our father and doing some\nviolence to him. Yet it was just then that he pointed to something on his\nbreast, so that I remember the idea struck me at the time that the heart\nis not on that part of the breast, but below, and that he struck himself\nmuch too high, just below the neck, and kept pointing to that place. My\nidea seemed silly to me at the time, but he was perhaps pointing then to\nthat little bag in which he had fifteen hundred roubles!\"\n\n\"Just so,\" Mitya cried from his place. \"That's right, Alyosha, it was the\nlittle bag I struck with my fist.\"\n\nFetyukovitch flew to him in hot haste entreating him to keep quiet, and at\nthe same instant pounced on Alyosha. Alyosha, carried away himself by his\nrecollection, warmly expressed his theory that this disgrace was probably\njust that fifteen hundred roubles on him, which he might have returned to\nKaterina Ivanovna as half of what he owed her, but which he had yet\ndetermined not to repay her and to use for another purpose--namely, to\nenable him to elope with Grushenka, if she consented.\n\n\"It is so, it must be so,\" exclaimed Alyosha, in sudden excitement. \"My\nbrother cried several times that half of the disgrace, half of it (he said\n_half_ several times) he could free himself from at once, but that he was\nso unhappy in his weakness of will that he wouldn't do it ... that he knew\nbeforehand he was incapable of doing it!\"\n\n\"And you clearly, confidently remember that he struck himself just on this\npart of the breast?\" Fetyukovitch asked eagerly.\n\n\"Clearly and confidently, for I thought at the time, 'Why does he strike\nhimself up there when the heart is lower down?' and the thought seemed\nstupid to me at the time ... I remember its seeming stupid ... it flashed\nthrough my mind. That's what brought it back to me just now. How could I\nhave forgotten it till now? It was that little bag he meant when he said\nhe had the means but wouldn't give back that fifteen hundred. And when he\nwas arrested at Mokroe he cried out--I know, I was told it--that he\nconsidered it the most disgraceful act of his life that when he had the\nmeans of repaying Katerina Ivanovna half (half, note!) what he owed her,\nhe yet could not bring himself to repay the money and preferred to remain\na thief in her eyes rather than part with it. And what torture, what\ntorture that debt has been to him!\" Alyosha exclaimed in conclusion.\n\nThe prosecutor, of course, intervened. He asked Alyosha to describe once\nmore how it had all happened, and several times insisted on the question,\n\"Had the prisoner seemed to point to anything? Perhaps he had simply\nstruck himself with his fist on the breast?\"\n\n\"But it was not with his fist,\" cried Alyosha; \"he pointed with his\nfingers and pointed here, very high up.... How could I have so completely\nforgotten it till this moment?\"\n\nThe President asked Mitya what he had to say to the last witness's\nevidence. Mitya confirmed it, saying that he had been pointing to the\nfifteen hundred roubles which were on his breast, just below the neck, and\nthat that was, of course, the disgrace, \"A disgrace I cannot deny, the\nmost shameful act of my whole life,\" cried Mitya. \"I might have repaid it\nand didn't repay it. I preferred to remain a thief in her eyes rather than\ngive it back. And the most shameful part of it was that I knew beforehand\nI shouldn't give it back! You are right, Alyosha! Thanks, Alyosha!\"\n\nSo Alyosha's cross-examination ended. What was important and striking\nabout it was that one fact at least had been found, and even though this\nwere only one tiny bit of evidence, a mere hint at evidence, it did go\nsome little way towards proving that the bag had existed and had contained\nfifteen hundred roubles and that the prisoner had not been lying at the\npreliminary inquiry when he alleged at Mokroe that those fifteen hundred\nroubles were \"his own.\" Alyosha was glad. With a flushed face he moved\naway to the seat assigned to him. He kept repeating to himself: \"How was\nit I forgot? How could I have forgotten it? And what made it come back to\nme now?\"\n\nKaterina Ivanovna was called to the witness-box. As she entered something\nextraordinary happened in the court. The ladies clutched their lorgnettes\nand opera-glasses. There was a stir among the men: some stood up to get a\nbetter view. Everybody alleged afterwards that Mitya had turned \"white as\na sheet\" on her entrance. All in black, she advanced modestly, almost\ntimidly. It was impossible to tell from her face that she was agitated;\nbut there was a resolute gleam in her dark and gloomy eyes. I may remark\nthat many people mentioned that she looked particularly handsome at that\nmoment. She spoke softly but clearly, so that she was heard all over the\ncourt. She expressed herself with composure, or at least tried to appear\ncomposed. The President began his examination discreetly and very\nrespectfully, as though afraid to touch on \"certain chords,\" and showing\nconsideration for her great unhappiness. But in answer to one of the first\nquestions Katerina Ivanovna replied firmly that she had been formerly\nbetrothed to the prisoner, \"until he left me of his own accord...\" she\nadded quietly. When they asked her about the three thousand she had\nentrusted to Mitya to post to her relations, she said firmly, \"I didn't\ngive him the money simply to send it off. I felt at the time that he was\nin great need of money.... I gave him the three thousand on the\nunderstanding that he should post it within the month if he cared to.\nThere was no need for him to worry himself about that debt afterwards.\"\n\nI will not repeat all the questions asked her and all her answers in\ndetail. I will only give the substance of her evidence.\n\n\"I was firmly convinced that he would send off that sum as soon as he got\nmoney from his father,\" she went on. \"I have never doubted his\ndisinterestedness and his honesty ... his scrupulous honesty ... in money\nmatters. He felt quite certain that he would receive the money from his\nfather, and spoke to me several times about it. I knew he had a feud with\nhis father and have always believed that he had been unfairly treated by\nhis father. I don't remember any threat uttered by him against his father.\nHe certainly never uttered any such threat before me. If he had come to me\nat that time, I should have at once relieved his anxiety about that\nunlucky three thousand roubles, but he had given up coming to see me ...\nand I myself was put in such a position ... that I could not invite\nhim.... And I had no right, indeed, to be exacting as to that money,\" she\nadded suddenly, and there was a ring of resolution in her voice. \"I was\nonce indebted to him for assistance in money for more than three thousand,\nand I took it, although I could not at that time foresee that I should\never be in a position to repay my debt.\"\n\nThere was a note of defiance in her voice. It was then Fetyukovitch began\nhis cross-examination.\n\n\"Did that take place not here, but at the beginning of your acquaintance?\"\nFetyukovitch suggested cautiously, feeling his way, instantly scenting\nsomething favorable. I must mention in parenthesis that, though\nFetyukovitch had been brought from Petersburg partly at the instance of\nKaterina Ivanovna herself, he knew nothing about the episode of the four\nthousand roubles given her by Mitya, and of her \"bowing to the ground to\nhim.\" She concealed this from him and said nothing about it, and that was\nstrange. It may be pretty certainly assumed that she herself did not know\ntill the very last minute whether she would speak of that episode in the\ncourt, and waited for the inspiration of the moment.\n\nNo, I can never forget those moments. She began telling her story. She\ntold everything, the whole episode that Mitya had told Alyosha, and her\nbowing to the ground, and her reason. She told about her father and her\ngoing to Mitya, and did not in one word, in a single hint, suggest that\nMitya had himself, through her sister, proposed they should \"send him\nKaterina Ivanovna\" to fetch the money. She generously concealed that and\nwas not ashamed to make it appear as though she had of her own impulse run\nto the young officer, relying on something ... to beg him for the money.\nIt was something tremendous! I turned cold and trembled as I listened. The\ncourt was hushed, trying to catch each word. It was something unexampled.\nEven from such a self-willed and contemptuously proud girl as she was,\nsuch an extremely frank avowal, such sacrifice, such self-immolation,\nseemed incredible. And for what, for whom? To save the man who had\ndeceived and insulted her and to help, in however small a degree, in\nsaving him, by creating a strong impression in his favor. And, indeed, the\nfigure of the young officer who, with a respectful bow to the innocent\ngirl, handed her his last four thousand roubles--all he had in the\nworld--was thrown into a very sympathetic and attractive light, but ... I\nhad a painful misgiving at heart! I felt that calumny might come of it\nlater (and it did, in fact, it did). It was repeated all over the town\nafterwards with spiteful laughter that the story was perhaps not quite\ncomplete--that is, in the statement that the officer had let the young lady\ndepart \"with nothing but a respectful bow.\" It was hinted that something\nwas here omitted.\n\n\"And even if nothing had been omitted, if this were the whole story,\" the\nmost highly respected of our ladies maintained, \"even then it's very\ndoubtful whether it was creditable for a young girl to behave in that way,\neven for the sake of saving her father.\"\n\nAnd can Katerina Ivanovna, with her intelligence, her morbid\nsensitiveness, have failed to understand that people would talk like that?\nShe must have understood it, yet she made up her mind to tell everything.\nOf course, all these nasty little suspicions as to the truth of her story\nonly arose afterwards and at the first moment all were deeply impressed by\nit. As for the judges and the lawyers, they listened in reverent, almost\nshame-faced silence to Katerina Ivanovna. The prosecutor did not venture\nupon even one question on the subject. Fetyukovitch made a low bow to her.\nOh, he was almost triumphant! Much ground had been gained. For a man to\ngive his last four thousand on a generous impulse and then for the same\nman to murder his father for the sake of robbing him of three thousand--the\nidea seemed too incongruous. Fetyukovitch felt that now the charge of\ntheft, at least, was as good as disproved. \"The case\" was thrown into\nquite a different light. There was a wave of sympathy for Mitya. As for\nhim.... I was told that once or twice, while Katerina Ivanovna was giving\nher evidence, he jumped up from his seat, sank back again, and hid his\nface in his hands. But when she had finished, he suddenly cried in a\nsobbing voice:\n\n\"Katya, why have you ruined me?\" and his sobs were audible all over the\ncourt. But he instantly restrained himself, and cried again:\n\n\"Now I am condemned!\"\n\nThen he sat rigid in his place, with his teeth clenched and his arms\nacross his chest. Katerina Ivanovna remained in the court and sat down in\nher place. She was pale and sat with her eyes cast down. Those who were\nsitting near her declared that for a long time she shivered all over as\nthough in a fever. Grushenka was called.\n\nI am approaching the sudden catastrophe which was perhaps the final cause\nof Mitya's ruin. For I am convinced, so is every one--all the lawyers said\nthe same afterwards--that if the episode had not occurred, the prisoner\nwould at least have been recommended to mercy. But of that later. A few\nwords first about Grushenka.\n\nShe, too, was dressed entirely in black, with her magnificent black shawl\non her shoulders. She walked to the witness-box with her smooth, noiseless\ntread, with the slightly swaying gait common in women of full figure. She\nlooked steadily at the President, turning her eyes neither to the right\nnor to the left. To my thinking she looked very handsome at that moment,\nand not at all pale, as the ladies alleged afterwards. They declared, too,\nthat she had a concentrated and spiteful expression. I believe that she\nwas simply irritated and painfully conscious of the contemptuous and\ninquisitive eyes of our scandal-loving public. She was proud and could not\nstand contempt. She was one of those people who flare up, angry and eager\nto retaliate, at the mere suggestion of contempt. There was an element of\ntimidity, too, of course, and inward shame at her own timidity, so it was\nnot strange that her tone kept changing. At one moment it was angry,\ncontemptuous and rough, and at another there was a sincere note of self-\ncondemnation. Sometimes she spoke as though she were taking a desperate\nplunge; as though she felt, \"I don't care what happens, I'll say it....\"\nApropos of her acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch, she remarked curtly,\n\"That's all nonsense, and was it my fault that he would pester me?\" But a\nminute later she added, \"It was all my fault. I was laughing at them\nboth--at the old man and at him, too--and I brought both of them to this. It\nwas all on account of me it happened.\"\n\nSamsonov's name came up somehow. \"That's nobody's business,\" she snapped\nat once, with a sort of insolent defiance. \"He was my benefactor; he took\nme when I hadn't a shoe to my foot, when my family had turned me out.\" The\nPresident reminded her, though very politely, that she must answer the\nquestions directly, without going off into irrelevant details. Grushenka\ncrimsoned and her eyes flashed.\n\nThe envelope with the notes in it she had not seen, but had only heard\nfrom \"that wicked wretch\" that Fyodor Pavlovitch had an envelope with\nnotes for three thousand in it. \"But that was all foolishness. I was only\nlaughing. I wouldn't have gone to him for anything.\"\n\n\"To whom are you referring as 'that wicked wretch'?\" inquired the\nprosecutor.\n\n\"The lackey, Smerdyakov, who murdered his master and hanged himself last\nnight.\"\n\nShe was, of course, at once asked what ground she had for such a definite\naccusation; but it appeared that she, too, had no grounds for it.\n\n\"Dmitri Fyodorovitch told me so himself; you can believe him. The woman\nwho came between us has ruined him; she is the cause of it all, let me\ntell you,\" Grushenka added. She seemed to be quivering with hatred, and\nthere was a vindictive note in her voice.\n\nShe was again asked to whom she was referring.\n\n\"The young lady, Katerina Ivanovna there. She sent for me, offered me\nchocolate, tried to fascinate me. There's not much true shame about her, I\ncan tell you that....\"\n\nAt this point the President checked her sternly, begging her to moderate\nher language. But the jealous woman's heart was burning, and she did not\ncare what she did.\n\n\"When the prisoner was arrested at Mokroe,\" the prosecutor asked, \"every\none saw and heard you run out of the next room and cry out: 'It's all my\nfault. We'll go to Siberia together!' So you already believed him to have\nmurdered his father?\"\n\n\"I don't remember what I felt at the time,\" answered Grushenka. \"Every one\nwas crying out that he had killed his father, and I felt that it was my\nfault, that it was on my account he had murdered him. But when he said he\nwasn't guilty, I believed him at once, and I believe him now and always\nshall believe him. He is not the man to tell a lie.\"\n\nFetyukovitch began his cross-examination. I remember that among other\nthings he asked about Rakitin and the twenty-five roubles \"you paid him\nfor bringing Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov to see you.\"\n\n\"There was nothing strange about his taking the money,\" sneered Grushenka,\nwith angry contempt. \"He was always coming to me for money: he used to get\nthirty roubles a month at least out of me, chiefly for luxuries: he had\nenough to keep him without my help.\"\n\n\"What led you to be so liberal to Mr. Rakitin?\" Fetyukovitch asked, in\nspite of an uneasy movement on the part of the President.\n\n\"Why, he is my cousin. His mother was my mother's sister. But he's always\nbesought me not to tell any one here of it, he is so dreadfully ashamed of\nme.\"\n\nThis fact was a complete surprise to every one; no one in the town nor in\nthe monastery, not even Mitya, knew of it. I was told that Rakitin turned\npurple with shame where he sat. Grushenka had somehow heard before she\ncame into the court that he had given evidence against Mitya, and so she\nwas angry. The whole effect on the public, of Rakitin's speech, of his\nnoble sentiments, of his attacks upon serfdom and the political disorder\nof Russia, was this time finally ruined. Fetyukovitch was satisfied: it\nwas another godsend. Grushenka's cross-examination did not last long and,\nof course, there could be nothing particularly new in her evidence. She\nleft a very disagreeable impression on the public; hundreds of\ncontemptuous eyes were fixed upon her, as she finished giving her evidence\nand sat down again in the court, at a good distance from Katerina\nIvanovna. Mitya was silent throughout her evidence. He sat as though\nturned to stone, with his eyes fixed on the ground.\n\nIvan was called to give evidence.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter V. A Sudden Catastrophe\n\n\nI may note that he had been called before Alyosha. But the usher of the\ncourt announced to the President that, owing to an attack of illness or\nsome sort of fit, the witness could not appear at the moment, but was\nready to give his evidence as soon as he recovered. But no one seemed to\nhave heard it and it only came out later.\n\nHis entrance was for the first moment almost unnoticed. The principal\nwitnesses, especially the two rival ladies, had already been questioned.\nCuriosity was satisfied for the time; the public was feeling almost\nfatigued. Several more witnesses were still to be heard, who probably had\nlittle information to give after all that had been given. Time was\npassing. Ivan walked up with extraordinary slowness, looking at no one,\nand with his head bowed, as though plunged in gloomy thought. He was\nirreproachably dressed, but his face made a painful impression, on me at\nleast: there was an earthy look in it, a look like a dying man's. His eyes\nwere lusterless; he raised them and looked slowly round the court. Alyosha\njumped up from his seat and moaned \"Ah!\" I remember that, but it was\nhardly noticed.\n\nThe President began by informing him that he was a witness not on oath,\nthat he might answer or refuse to answer, but that, of course, he must\nbear witness according to his conscience, and so on, and so on. Ivan\nlistened and looked at him blankly, but his face gradually relaxed into a\nsmile, and as soon as the President, looking at him in astonishment,\nfinished, he laughed outright.\n\n\"Well, and what else?\" he asked in a loud voice.\n\nThere was a hush in the court; there was a feeling of something strange.\nThe President showed signs of uneasiness.\n\n\"You ... are perhaps still unwell?\" he began, looking everywhere for the\nusher.\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself, your excellency, I am well enough and can tell\nyou something interesting,\" Ivan answered with sudden calmness and\nrespectfulness.\n\n\"You have some special communication to make?\" the President went on,\nstill mistrustfully.\n\nIvan looked down, waited a few seconds and, raising his head, answered,\nalmost stammering:\n\n\"No ... I haven't. I have nothing particular.\"\n\nThey began asking him questions. He answered, as it were, reluctantly,\nwith extreme brevity, with a sort of disgust which grew more and more\nmarked, though he answered rationally. To many questions he answered that\nhe did not know. He knew nothing of his father's money relations with\nDmitri. \"I wasn't interested in the subject,\" he added. Threats to murder\nhis father he had heard from the prisoner. Of the money in the envelope he\nhad heard from Smerdyakov.\n\n\"The same thing over and over again,\" he interrupted suddenly, with a look\nof weariness. \"I have nothing particular to tell the court.\"\n\n\"I see you are unwell and understand your feelings,\" the President began.\n\nHe turned to the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense to invite them\nto examine the witness, if necessary, when Ivan suddenly asked in an\nexhausted voice:\n\n\"Let me go, your excellency, I feel very ill.\"\n\nAnd with these words, without waiting for permission, he turned to walk\nout of the court. But after taking four steps he stood still, as though he\nhad reached a decision, smiled slowly, and went back.\n\n\"I am like the peasant girl, your excellency ... you know. How does it go?\n'I'll stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.' They were trying to put\non her sarafan to take her to church to be married, and she said, 'I'll\nstand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.'... It's in some book about\nthe peasantry.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\" the President asked severely.\n\n\"Why, this,\" Ivan suddenly pulled out a roll of notes. \"Here's the money\n... the notes that lay in that envelope\" (he nodded towards the table on\nwhich lay the material evidence), \"for the sake of which our father was\nmurdered. Where shall I put them? Mr. Superintendent, take them.\"\n\nThe usher of the court took the whole roll and handed it to the President.\n\n\"How could this money have come into your possession if it is the same\nmoney?\" the President asked wonderingly.\n\n\"I got them from Smerdyakov, from the murderer, yesterday.... I was with\nhim just before he hanged himself. It was he, not my brother, killed our\nfather. He murdered him and I incited him to do it ... Who doesn't desire\nhis father's death?\"\n\n\"Are you in your right mind?\" broke involuntarily from the President.\n\n\"I should think I am in my right mind ... in the same nasty mind as all of\nyou ... as all these ... ugly faces.\" He turned suddenly to the audience.\n\"My father has been murdered and they pretend they are horrified,\" he\nsnarled, with furious contempt. \"They keep up the sham with one another.\nLiars! They all desire the death of their fathers. One reptile devours\nanother.... If there hadn't been a murder, they'd have been angry and gone\nhome ill-humored. It's a spectacle they want! _Panem et circenses_. Though\nI am one to talk! Have you any water? Give me a drink for Christ's sake!\"\nHe suddenly clutched his head.\n\nThe usher at once approached him. Alyosha jumped up and cried, \"He is ill.\nDon't believe him: he has brain fever.\" Katerina Ivanovna rose impulsively\nfrom her seat and, rigid with horror, gazed at Ivan. Mitya stood up and\ngreedily looked at his brother and listened to him with a wild, strange\nsmile.\n\n\"Don't disturb yourselves. I am not mad, I am only a murderer,\" Ivan began\nagain. \"You can't expect eloquence from a murderer,\" he added suddenly for\nsome reason and laughed a queer laugh.\n\nThe prosecutor bent over to the President in obvious dismay. The two other\njudges communicated in agitated whispers. Fetyukovitch pricked up his ears\nas he listened: the hall was hushed in expectation. The President seemed\nsuddenly to recollect himself.\n\n\"Witness, your words are incomprehensible and impossible here. Calm\nyourself, if you can, and tell your story ... if you really have something\nto tell. How can you confirm your statement ... if indeed you are not\ndelirious?\"\n\n\"That's just it. I have no proof. That cur Smerdyakov won't send you\nproofs from the other world ... in an envelope. You think of nothing but\nenvelopes--one is enough. I've no witnesses ... except one, perhaps,\" he\nsmiled thoughtfully.\n\n\"Who is your witness?\"\n\n\"He has a tail, your excellency, and that would be irregular! _Le diable\nn'existe point!_ Don't pay attention: he is a paltry, pitiful devil,\" he\nadded suddenly. He ceased laughing and spoke as it were, confidentially.\n\"He is here somewhere, no doubt--under that table with the material\nevidence on it, perhaps. Where should he sit if not there? You see, listen\nto me. I told him I don't want to keep quiet, and he talked about the\ngeological cataclysm ... idiocy! Come, release the monster ... he's been\nsinging a hymn. That's because his heart is light! It's like a drunken man\nin the street bawling how 'Vanka went to Petersburg,' and I would give a\nquadrillion quadrillions for two seconds of joy. You don't know me! Oh,\nhow stupid all this business is! Come, take me instead of him! I didn't\ncome for nothing.... Why, why is everything so stupid?...\"\n\nAnd he began slowly, and as it were reflectively, looking round him again.\nBut the court was all excitement by now. Alyosha rushed towards him, but\nthe court usher had already seized Ivan by the arm.\n\n\"What are you about?\" he cried, staring into the man's face, and suddenly\nseizing him by the shoulders, he flung him violently to the floor. But the\npolice were on the spot and he was seized. He screamed furiously. And all\nthe time he was being removed, he yelled and screamed something\nincoherent.\n\nThe whole court was thrown into confusion. I don't remember everything as\nit happened. I was excited myself and could not follow. I only know that\nafterwards, when everything was quiet again and every one understood what\nhad happened, the court usher came in for a reprimand, though he very\nreasonably explained that the witness had been quite well, that the doctor\nhad seen him an hour ago, when he had a slight attack of giddiness, but\nthat, until he had come into the court, he had talked quite consecutively,\nso that nothing could have been foreseen--that he had, in fact, insisted on\ngiving evidence. But before every one had completely regained their\ncomposure and recovered from this scene, it was followed by another.\nKaterina Ivanovna had an attack of hysterics. She sobbed, shrieking\nloudly, but refused to leave the court, struggled, and besought them not\nto remove her. Suddenly she cried to the President:\n\n\"There is more evidence I must give at once ... at once! Here is a\ndocument, a letter ... take it, read it quickly, quickly! It's a letter\nfrom that monster ... that man there, there!\" she pointed to Mitya. \"It\nwas he killed his father, you will see that directly. He wrote to me how\nhe would kill his father! But the other one is ill, he is ill, he is\ndelirious!\" she kept crying out, beside herself.\n\nThe court usher took the document she held out to the President, and she,\ndropping into her chair, hiding her face in her hands, began convulsively\nand noiselessly sobbing, shaking all over, and stifling every sound for\nfear she should be ejected from the court. The document she had handed up\nwas that letter Mitya had written at the \"Metropolis\" tavern, which Ivan\nhad spoken of as a \"mathematical proof.\" Alas! its mathematical\nconclusiveness was recognized, and had it not been for that letter, Mitya\nmight have escaped his doom or, at least, that doom would have been less\nterrible. It was, I repeat, difficult to notice every detail. What\nfollowed is still confused to my mind. The President must, I suppose, have\nat once passed on the document to the judges, the jury, and the lawyers on\nboth sides. I only remember how they began examining the witness. On being\ngently asked by the President whether she had recovered sufficiently,\nKaterina Ivanovna exclaimed impetuously:\n\n\"I am ready, I am ready! I am quite equal to answering you,\" she added,\nevidently still afraid that she would somehow be prevented from giving\nevidence. She was asked to explain in detail what this letter was and\nunder what circumstances she received it.\n\n\"I received it the day before the crime was committed, but he wrote it the\nday before that, at the tavern--that is, two days before he committed the\ncrime. Look, it is written on some sort of bill!\" she cried breathlessly.\n\"He hated me at that time, because he had behaved contemptibly and was\nrunning after that creature ... and because he owed me that three\nthousand.... Oh! he was humiliated by that three thousand on account of\nhis own meanness! This is how it happened about that three thousand. I beg\nyou, I beseech you, to hear me. Three weeks before he murdered his father,\nhe came to me one morning. I knew he was in want of money, and what he\nwanted it for. Yes, yes--to win that creature and carry her off. I knew\nthen that he had been false to me and meant to abandon me, and it was I,\nI, who gave him that money, who offered it to him on the pretext of his\nsending it to my sister in Moscow. And as I gave it him, I looked him in\nthe face and said that he could send it when he liked, 'in a month's time\nwould do.' How, how could he have failed to understand that I was\npractically telling him to his face, 'You want money to be false to me\nwith your creature, so here's the money for you. I give it to you myself.\nTake it, if you have so little honor as to take it!' I wanted to prove\nwhat he was, and what happened? He took it, he took it, and squandered it\nwith that creature in one night.... But he knew, he knew that I knew all\nabout it. I assure you he understood, too, that I gave him that money to\ntest him, to see whether he was so lost to all sense of honor as to take\nit from me. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine, and he\nunderstood it all and he took it--he carried off my money!\"\n\n\"That's true, Katya,\" Mitya roared suddenly, \"I looked into your eyes and\nI knew that you were dishonoring me, and yet I took your money. Despise me\nas a scoundrel, despise me, all of you! I've deserved it!\"\n\n\"Prisoner,\" cried the President, \"another word and I will order you to be\nremoved.\"\n\n\"That money was a torment to him,\" Katya went on with impulsive haste. \"He\nwanted to repay it me. He wanted to, that's true; but he needed money for\nthat creature, too. So he murdered his father, but he didn't repay me, and\nwent off with her to that village where he was arrested. There, again, he\nsquandered the money he had stolen after the murder of his father. And a\nday before the murder he wrote me this letter. He was drunk when he wrote\nit. I saw it at once, at the time. He wrote it from spite, and feeling\ncertain, positively certain, that I should never show it to any one, even\nif he did kill him, or else he wouldn't have written it. For he knew I\nshouldn't want to revenge myself and ruin him! But read it, read it\nattentively--more attentively, please--and you will see that he had\ndescribed it all in his letter, all beforehand, how he would kill his\nfather and where his money was kept. Look, please, don't overlook that,\nthere's one phrase there, 'I shall kill him as soon as Ivan has gone\naway.' So he thought it all out beforehand how he would kill him,\"\nKaterina Ivanovna pointed out to the court with venomous and malignant\ntriumph. Oh! it was clear she had studied every line of that letter and\ndetected every meaning underlining it. \"If he hadn't been drunk, he\nwouldn't have written to me; but, look, everything is written there\nbeforehand, just as he committed the murder after. A complete program of\nit!\" she exclaimed frantically.\n\nShe was reckless now of all consequences to herself, though, no doubt, she\nhad foreseen them even a month ago, for even then, perhaps, shaking with\nanger, she had pondered whether to show it at the trial or not. Now she\nhad taken the fatal plunge. I remember that the letter was read aloud by\nthe clerk, directly afterwards, I believe. It made an overwhelming\nimpression. They asked Mitya whether he admitted having written the\nletter.\n\n\"It's mine, mine!\" cried Mitya. \"I shouldn't have written it, if I hadn't\nbeen drunk!... We've hated each other for many things, Katya, but I swear,\nI swear I loved you even while I hated you, and you didn't love me!\"\n\nHe sank back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair. The prosecutor\nand counsel for the defense began cross-examining her, chiefly to\nascertain what had induced her to conceal such a document and to give her\nevidence in quite a different tone and spirit just before.\n\n\"Yes, yes. I was telling lies just now. I was lying against my honor and\nmy conscience, but I wanted to save him, for he has hated and despised me\nso!\" Katya cried madly. \"Oh, he has despised me horribly, he has always\ndespised me, and do you know, he has despised me from the very moment that\nI bowed down to him for that money. I saw that.... I felt it at once at\nthe time, but for a long time I wouldn't believe it. How often I have read\nit in his eyes, 'You came of yourself, though.' Oh, he didn't understand,\nhe had no idea why I ran to him, he can suspect nothing but baseness, he\njudged me by himself, he thought every one was like himself!\" Katya hissed\nfuriously, in a perfect frenzy. \"And he only wanted to marry me, because\nI'd inherited a fortune, because of that, because of that! I always\nsuspected it was because of that! Oh, he is a brute! He was always\nconvinced that I should be trembling with shame all my life before him,\nbecause I went to him then, and that he had a right to despise me for ever\nfor it, and so to be superior to me--that's why he wanted to marry me!\nThat's so, that's all so! I tried to conquer him by my love--a love that\nknew no bounds. I even tried to forgive his faithlessness; but he\nunderstood nothing, nothing! How could he understand indeed? He is a\nmonster! I only received that letter the next evening: it was brought me\nfrom the tavern--and only that morning, only that morning I wanted to\nforgive him everything, everything--even his treachery!\"\n\nThe President and the prosecutor, of course, tried to calm her. I can't\nhelp thinking that they felt ashamed of taking advantage of her hysteria\nand of listening to such avowals. I remember hearing them say to her, \"We\nunderstand how hard it is for you; be sure we are able to feel for you,\"\nand so on, and so on. And yet they dragged the evidence out of the raving,\nhysterical woman. She described at last with extraordinary clearness,\nwhich is so often seen, though only for a moment, in such over-wrought\nstates, how Ivan had been nearly driven out of his mind during the last\ntwo months trying to save \"the monster and murderer,\" his brother.\n\n\"He tortured himself,\" she exclaimed, \"he was always trying to minimize\nhis brother's guilt and confessing to me that he, too, had never loved his\nfather, and perhaps desired his death himself. Oh, he has a tender, over-\ntender conscience! He tormented himself with his conscience! He told me\neverything, everything! He came every day and talked to me as his only\nfriend. I have the honor to be his only friend!\" she cried suddenly with a\nsort of defiance, and her eyes flashed. \"He had been twice to see\nSmerdyakov. One day he came to me and said, 'If it was not my brother, but\nSmerdyakov committed the murder' (for the legend was circulating\neverywhere that Smerdyakov had done it), 'perhaps I too am guilty, for\nSmerdyakov knew I didn't like my father and perhaps believed that I\ndesired my father's death.' Then I brought out that letter and showed it\nhim. He was entirely convinced that his brother had done it, and he was\noverwhelmed by it. He couldn't endure the thought that his own brother was\na parricide! Only a week ago I saw that it was making him ill. During the\nlast few days he has talked incoherently in my presence. I saw his mind\nwas giving way. He walked about, raving; he was seen muttering in the\nstreets. The doctor from Moscow, at my request, examined him the day\nbefore yesterday and told me that he was on the eve of brain fever--and all\non his account, on account of this monster! And last night he learnt that\nSmerdyakov was dead! It was such a shock that it drove him out of his mind\n... and all through this monster, all for the sake of saving the monster!\"\n\nOh, of course, such an outpouring, such an avowal is only possible once in\na lifetime--at the hour of death, for instance, on the way to the scaffold!\nBut it was in Katya's character, and it was such a moment in her life. It\nwas the same impetuous Katya who had thrown herself on the mercy of a\nyoung profligate to save her father; the same Katya who had just before,\nin her pride and chastity, sacrificed herself and her maidenly modesty\nbefore all these people, telling of Mitya's generous conduct, in the hope\nof softening his fate a little. And now, again, she sacrificed herself;\nbut this time it was for another, and perhaps only now--perhaps only at\nthis moment--she felt and knew how dear that other was to her! She had\nsacrificed herself in terror for him, conceiving all of a sudden that he\nhad ruined himself by his confession that it was he who had committed the\nmurder, not his brother, she had sacrificed herself to save him, to save\nhis good name, his reputation!\n\nAnd yet one terrible doubt occurred to one--was she lying in her\ndescription of her former relations with Mitya?--that was the question. No,\nshe had not intentionally slandered him when she cried that Mitya despised\nher for her bowing down to him! She believed it herself. She had been\nfirmly convinced, perhaps ever since that bow, that the simple-hearted\nMitya, who even then adored her, was laughing at her and despising her.\nShe had loved him with an hysterical, \"lacerated\" love only from pride,\nfrom wounded pride, and that love was not like love, but more like\nrevenge. Oh! perhaps that lacerated love would have grown into real love,\nperhaps Katya longed for nothing more than that, but Mitya's faithlessness\nhad wounded her to the bottom of her heart, and her heart could not\nforgive him. The moment of revenge had come upon her suddenly, and all\nthat had been accumulating so long and so painfully in the offended\nwoman's breast burst out all at once and unexpectedly. She betrayed Mitya,\nbut she betrayed herself, too. And no sooner had she given full expression\nto her feelings than the tension of course was over and she was\noverwhelmed with shame. Hysterics began again: she fell on the floor,\nsobbing and screaming. She was carried out. At that moment Grushenka, with\na wail, rushed towards Mitya before they had time to prevent her.\n\n\"Mitya,\" she wailed, \"your serpent has destroyed you! There, she has shown\nyou what she is!\" she shouted to the judges, shaking with anger. At a\nsignal from the President they seized her and tried to remove her from the\ncourt. She wouldn't allow it. She fought and struggled to get back to\nMitya. Mitya uttered a cry and struggled to get to her. He was\noverpowered.\n\nYes, I think the ladies who came to see the spectacle must have been\nsatisfied--the show had been a varied one. Then I remember the Moscow\ndoctor appeared on the scene. I believe the President had previously sent\nthe court usher to arrange for medical aid for Ivan. The doctor announced\nto the court that the sick man was suffering from a dangerous attack of\nbrain fever, and that he must be at once removed. In answer to questions\nfrom the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense he said that the\npatient had come to him of his own accord the day before yesterday and\nthat he had warned him that he had such an attack coming on, but he had\nnot consented to be looked after. \"He was certainly not in a normal state\nof mind: he told me himself that he saw visions when he was awake, that he\nmet several persons in the street, who were dead, and that Satan visited\nhim every evening,\" said the doctor, in conclusion. Having given his\nevidence, the celebrated doctor withdrew. The letter produced by Katerina\nIvanovna was added to the material proofs. After some deliberation, the\njudges decided to proceed with the trial and to enter both the unexpected\npieces of evidence (given by Ivan and Katerina Ivanovna) on the protocol.\n\nBut I will not detail the evidence of the other witnesses, who only\nrepeated and confirmed what had been said before, though all with their\ncharacteristic peculiarities. I repeat, all was brought together in the\nprosecutor's speech, which I shall quote immediately. Every one was\nexcited, every one was electrified by the late catastrophe, and all were\nawaiting the speeches for the prosecution and the defense with intense\nimpatience. Fetyukovitch was obviously shaken by Katerina Ivanovna's\nevidence. But the prosecutor was triumphant. When all the evidence had\nbeen taken, the court was adjourned for almost an hour. I believe it was\njust eight o'clock when the President returned to his seat and our\nprosecutor, Ippolit Kirillovitch, began his speech.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI. The Prosecutor's Speech. Sketches Of Character\n\n\nIppolit Kirillovitch began his speech, trembling with nervousness, with\ncold sweat on his forehead, feeling hot and cold all over by turns. He\ndescribed this himself afterwards. He regarded this speech as his _chef-\nd'oeuvre_, the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of his whole life, as his swan-song. He died,\nit is true, nine months later of rapid consumption, so that he had the\nright, as it turned out, to compare himself to a swan singing his last\nsong. He had put his whole heart and all the brain he had into that\nspeech. And poor Ippolit Kirillovitch unexpectedly revealed that at least\nsome feeling for the public welfare and \"the eternal question\" lay\nconcealed in him. Where his speech really excelled was in its sincerity.\nHe genuinely believed in the prisoner's guilt; he was accusing him not as\nan official duty only, and in calling for vengeance he quivered with a\ngenuine passion \"for the security of society.\" Even the ladies in the\naudience, though they remained hostile to Ippolit Kirillovitch, admitted\nthat he made an extraordinary impression on them. He began in a breaking\nvoice, but it soon gained strength and filled the court to the end of his\nspeech. But as soon as he had finished, he almost fainted.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury,\" began the prosecutor, \"this case has made a stir\nthroughout Russia. But what is there to wonder at, what is there so\npeculiarly horrifying in it for us? We are so accustomed to such crimes!\nThat's what's so horrible, that such dark deeds have ceased to horrify us.\nWhat ought to horrify us is that we are so accustomed to it, and not this\nor that isolated crime. What are the causes of our indifference, our\nlukewarm attitude to such deeds, to such signs of the times, ominous of an\nunenviable future? Is it our cynicism, is it the premature exhaustion of\nintellect and imagination in a society that is sinking into decay, in\nspite of its youth? Is it that our moral principles are shattered to their\nfoundations, or is it, perhaps, a complete lack of such principles among\nus? I cannot answer such questions; nevertheless they are disturbing, and\nevery citizen not only must, but ought to be harassed by them. Our newborn\nand still timid press has done good service to the public already, for\nwithout it we should never have heard of the horrors of unbridled violence\nand moral degradation which are continually made known by the press, not\nmerely to those who attend the new jury courts established in the present\nreign, but to every one. And what do we read almost daily? Of things\nbeside which the present case grows pale, and seems almost commonplace.\nBut what is most important is that the majority of our national crimes of\nviolence bear witness to a widespread evil, now so general among us that\nit is difficult to contend against it.\n\n\"One day we see a brilliant young officer of high society, at the very\noutset of his career, in a cowardly underhand way, without a pang of\nconscience, murdering an official who had once been his benefactor, and\nthe servant girl, to steal his own I.O.U. and what ready money he could\nfind on him; 'it will come in handy for my pleasures in the fashionable\nworld and for my career in the future.' After murdering them, he puts\npillows under the head of each of his victims; he goes away. Next, a young\nhero 'decorated for bravery' kills the mother of his chief and benefactor,\nlike a highwayman, and to urge his companions to join him he asserts that\n'she loves him like a son, and so will follow all his directions and take\nno precautions.' Granted that he is a monster, yet I dare not say in these\ndays that he is unique. Another man will not commit the murder, but will\nfeel and think like him, and is as dishonorable in soul. In silence, alone\nwith his conscience, he asks himself perhaps, 'What is honor, and isn't\nthe condemnation of bloodshed a prejudice?'\n\n\"Perhaps people will cry out against me that I am morbid, hysterical, that\nit is a monstrous slander, that I am exaggerating. Let them say so--and\nheavens! I should be the first to rejoice if it were so! Oh, don't believe\nme, think of me as morbid, but remember my words; if only a tenth, if only\na twentieth part of what I say is true--even so it's awful! Look how our\nyoung people commit suicide, without asking themselves Hamlet's question\nwhat there is beyond, without a sign of such a question, as though all\nthat relates to the soul and to what awaits us beyond the grave had long\nbeen erased in their minds and buried under the sands. Look at our vice,\nat our profligates. Fyodor Pavlovitch, the luckless victim in the present\ncase, was almost an innocent babe compared with many of them. And yet we\nall knew him, 'he lived among us!'...\n\n\"Yes, one day perhaps the leading intellects of Russia and of Europe will\nstudy the psychology of Russian crime, for the subject is worth it. But\nthis study will come later, at leisure, when all the tragic topsy-turvydom\nof to-day is farther behind us, so that it's possible to examine it with\nmore insight and more impartiality than I can do. Now we are either\nhorrified or pretend to be horrified, though we really gloat over the\nspectacle, and love strong and eccentric sensations which tickle our\ncynical, pampered idleness. Or, like little children, we brush the\ndreadful ghosts away and hide our heads in the pillow so as to return to\nour sports and merriment as soon as they have vanished. But we must one\nday begin life in sober earnest, we must look at ourselves as a society;\nit's time we tried to grasp something of our social position, or at least\nto make a beginning in that direction.\n\n\"A great writer(9) of the last epoch, comparing Russia to a swift troika\ngalloping to an unknown goal, exclaims, 'Oh, troika, birdlike troika, who\ninvented thee!' and adds, in proud ecstasy, that all the peoples of the\nworld stand aside respectfully to make way for the recklessly galloping\ntroika to pass. That may be, they may stand aside, respectfully or no, but\nin my poor opinion the great writer ended his book in this way either in\nan access of childish and naive optimism, or simply in fear of the\ncensorship of the day. For if the troika were drawn by his heroes,\nSobakevitch, Nozdryov, Tchitchikov, it could reach no rational goal,\nwhoever might be driving it. And those were the heroes of an older\ngeneration, ours are worse specimens still....\"\n\nAt this point Ippolit Kirillovitch's speech was interrupted by applause.\nThe liberal significance of this simile was appreciated. The applause was,\nit's true, of brief duration, so that the President did not think it\nnecessary to caution the public, and only looked severely in the direction\nof the offenders. But Ippolit Kirillovitch was encouraged; he had never\nbeen applauded before! He had been all his life unable to get a hearing,\nand now he suddenly had an opportunity of securing the ear of all Russia.\n\n\"What, after all, is this Karamazov family, which has gained such an\nunenviable notoriety throughout Russia?\" he continued. \"Perhaps I am\nexaggerating, but it seems to me that certain fundamental features of the\neducated class of to-day are reflected in this family picture--only, of\ncourse, in miniature, 'like the sun in a drop of water.' Think of that\nunhappy, vicious, unbridled old man, who has met with such a melancholy\nend, the head of a family! Beginning life of noble birth, but in a poor\ndependent position, through an unexpected marriage he came into a small\nfortune. A petty knave, a toady and buffoon, of fairly good, though\nundeveloped, intelligence, he was, above all, a moneylender, who grew\nbolder with growing prosperity. His abject and servile characteristics\ndisappeared, his malicious and sarcastic cynicism was all that remained.\nOn the spiritual side he was undeveloped, while his vitality was\nexcessive. He saw nothing in life but sensual pleasure, and he brought his\nchildren up to be the same. He had no feelings for his duties as a father.\nHe ridiculed those duties. He left his little children to the servants,\nand was glad to be rid of them, forgot about them completely. The old\nman's maxim was _Apres moi le deluge_. He was an example of everything\nthat is opposed to civic duty, of the most complete and malignant\nindividualism. 'The world may burn for aught I care, so long as I am all\nright,' and he was all right; he was content, he was eager to go on living\nin the same way for another twenty or thirty years. He swindled his own\nson and spent his money, his maternal inheritance, on trying to get his\nmistress from him. No, I don't intend to leave the prisoner's defense\naltogether to my talented colleague from Petersburg. I will speak the\ntruth myself, I can well understand what resentment he had heaped up in\nhis son's heart against him.\n\n\"But enough, enough of that unhappy old man; he has paid the penalty. Let\nus remember, however, that he was a father, and one of the typical fathers\nof to-day. Am I unjust, indeed, in saying that he is typical of many\nmodern fathers? Alas! many of them only differ in not openly professing\nsuch cynicism, for they are better educated, more cultured, but their\nphilosophy is essentially the same as his. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but\nyou have agreed to forgive me. Let us agree beforehand, you need not\nbelieve me, but let me speak. Let me say what I have to say, and remember\nsomething of my words.\n\n\"Now for the children of this father, this head of a family. One of them\nis the prisoner before us, all the rest of my speech will deal with him.\nOf the other two I will speak only cursorily.\n\n\"The elder is one of those modern young men of brilliant education and\nvigorous intellect, who has lost all faith in everything. He has denied\nand rejected much already, like his father. We have all heard him, he was\na welcome guest in local society. He never concealed his opinions, quite\nthe contrary in fact, which justifies me in speaking rather openly of him\nnow, of course, not as an individual, but as a member of the Karamazov\nfamily. Another personage closely connected with the case died here by his\nown hand last night. I mean an afflicted idiot, formerly the servant, and\npossibly the illegitimate son, of Fyodor Pavlovitch, Smerdyakov. At the\npreliminary inquiry, he told me with hysterical tears how the young Ivan\nKaramazov had horrified him by his spiritual audacity. 'Everything in the\nworld is lawful according to him, and nothing must be forbidden in the\nfuture--that is what he always taught me.' I believe that idiot was driven\nout of his mind by this theory, though, of course, the epileptic attacks\nfrom which he suffered, and this terrible catastrophe, have helped to\nunhinge his faculties. But he dropped one very interesting observation,\nwhich would have done credit to a more intelligent observer, and that is,\nindeed, why I've mentioned it: 'If there is one of the sons that is like\nFyodor Pavlovitch in character, it is Ivan Fyodorovitch.'\n\n\"With that remark I conclude my sketch of his character, feeling it\nindelicate to continue further. Oh, I don't want to draw any further\nconclusions and croak like a raven over the young man's future. We've seen\nto-day in this court that there are still good impulses in his young\nheart, that family feeling has not been destroyed in him by lack of faith\nand cynicism, which have come to him rather by inheritance than by the\nexercise of independent thought.\n\n\"Then the third son. Oh, he is a devout and modest youth, who does not\nshare his elder brother's gloomy and destructive theory of life. He has\nsought to cling to the 'ideas of the people,' or to what goes by that name\nin some circles of our intellectual classes. He clung to the monastery,\nand was within an ace of becoming a monk. He seems to me to have betrayed\nunconsciously, and so early, that timid despair which leads so many in our\nunhappy society, who dread cynicism and its corrupting influences, and\nmistakenly attribute all the mischief to European enlightenment, to return\nto their 'native soil,' as they say, to the bosom, so to speak, of their\nmother earth, like frightened children, yearning to fall asleep on the\nwithered bosom of their decrepit mother, and to sleep there for ever, only\nto escape the horrors that terrify them.\n\n\"For my part I wish the excellent and gifted young man every success; I\ntrust that his youthful idealism and impulse towards the ideas of the\npeople may never degenerate, as often happens, on the moral side into\ngloomy mysticism, and on the political into blind chauvinism--two elements\nwhich are even a greater menace to Russia than the premature decay, due to\nmisunderstanding and gratuitous adoption of European ideas, from which his\nelder brother is suffering.\"\n\nTwo or three people clapped their hands at the mention of chauvinism and\nmysticism. Ippolit Kirillovitch had been, indeed, carried away by his own\neloquence. All this had little to do with the case in hand, to say nothing\nof the fact of its being somewhat vague, but the sickly and consumptive\nman was overcome by the desire to express himself once in his life. People\nsaid afterwards that he was actuated by unworthy motives in his criticism\nof Ivan, because the latter had on one or two occasions got the better of\nhim in argument, and Ippolit Kirillovitch, remembering it, tried now to\ntake his revenge. But I don't know whether it was true. All this was only\nintroductory, however, and the speech passed to more direct consideration\nof the case.\n\n\"But to return to the eldest son,\" Ippolit Kirillovitch went on. \"He is\nthe prisoner before us. We have his life and his actions, too, before us;\nthe fatal day has come and all has been brought to the surface. While his\nbrothers seem to stand for 'Europeanism' and 'the principles of the\npeople,' he seems to represent Russia as she is. Oh, not all Russia, not\nall! God preserve us, if it were! Yet, here we have her, our mother\nRussia, the very scent and sound of her. Oh, he is spontaneous, he is a\nmarvelous mingling of good and evil, he is a lover of culture and\nSchiller, yet he brawls in taverns and plucks out the beards of his boon\ncompanions. Oh, he, too, can be good and noble, but only when all goes\nwell with him. What is more, he can be carried off his feet, positively\ncarried off his feet by noble ideals, but only if they come of themselves,\nif they fall from heaven for him, if they need not be paid for. He\ndislikes paying for anything, but is very fond of receiving, and that's so\nwith him in everything. Oh, give him every possible good in life (he\ncouldn't be content with less), and put no obstacle in his way, and he\nwill show that he, too, can be noble. He is not greedy, no, but he must\nhave money, a great deal of money, and you will see how generously, with\nwhat scorn of filthy lucre, he will fling it all away in the reckless\ndissipation of one night. But if he has not money, he will show what he is\nready to do to get it when he is in great need of it. But all this later,\nlet us take events in their chronological order.\n\n\"First, we have before us a poor abandoned child, running about the back-\nyard 'without boots on his feet,' as our worthy and esteemed fellow\ncitizen, of foreign origin, alas! expressed it just now. I repeat it\nagain, I yield to no one the defense of the criminal. I am here to accuse\nhim, but to defend him also. Yes, I, too, am human; I, too, can weigh the\ninfluence of home and childhood on the character. But the boy grows up and\nbecomes an officer; for a duel and other reckless conduct he is exiled to\none of the remote frontier towns of Russia. There he led a wild life as an\nofficer. And, of course, he needed money, money before all things, and so\nafter prolonged disputes he came to a settlement with his father, and the\nlast six thousand was sent him. A letter is in existence in which he\npractically gives up his claim to the rest and settles his conflict with\nhis father over the inheritance on the payment of this six thousand.\n\n\"Then came his meeting with a young girl of lofty character and brilliant\neducation. Oh, I do not venture to repeat the details; you have only just\nheard them. Honor, self-sacrifice were shown there, and I will be silent.\nThe figure of the young officer, frivolous and profligate, doing homage to\ntrue nobility and a lofty ideal, was shown in a very sympathetic light\nbefore us. But the other side of the medal was unexpectedly turned to us\nimmediately after in this very court. Again I will not venture to\nconjecture why it happened so, but there were causes. The same lady,\nbathed in tears of long-concealed indignation, alleged that he, he of all\nmen, had despised her for her action, which, though incautious, reckless\nperhaps, was still dictated by lofty and generous motives. He, he, the\ngirl's betrothed, looked at her with that smile of mockery, which was more\ninsufferable from him than from any one. And knowing that he had already\ndeceived her (he had deceived her, believing that she was bound to endure\neverything from him, even treachery), she intentionally offered him three\nthousand roubles, and clearly, too clearly, let him understand that she\nwas offering him money to deceive her. 'Well, will you take it or not, are\nyou so lost to shame?' was the dumb question in her scrutinizing eyes. He\nlooked at her, saw clearly what was in her mind (he's admitted here before\nyou that he understood it all), appropriated that three thousand\nunconditionally, and squandered it in two days with the new object of his\naffections.\n\n\"What are we to believe then? The first legend of the young officer\nsacrificing his last farthing in a noble impulse of generosity and doing\nreverence to virtue, or this other revolting picture? As a rule, between\ntwo extremes one has to find the mean, but in the present case this is not\ntrue. The probability is that in the first case he was genuinely noble,\nand in the second as genuinely base. And why? Because he was of the broad\nKaramazov character--that's just what I am leading up to--capable of\ncombining the most incongruous contradictions, and capable of the greatest\nheights and of the greatest depths. Remember the brilliant remark made by\na young observer who has seen the Karamazov family at close quarters--Mr.\nRakitin: 'The sense of their own degradation is as essential to those\nreckless, unbridled natures as the sense of their lofty generosity.' And\nthat's true, they need continually this unnatural mixture. Two extremes at\nthe same moment, or they are miserable and dissatisfied and their\nexistence is incomplete. They are wide, wide as mother Russia; they\ninclude everything and put up with everything.\n\n\"By the way, gentlemen of the jury, we've just touched upon that three\nthousand roubles, and I will venture to anticipate things a little. Can\nyou conceive that a man like that, on receiving that sum and in such a\nway, at the price of such shame, such disgrace, such utter degradation,\ncould have been capable that very day of setting apart half that sum, that\nvery day, and sewing it up in a little bag, and would have had the\nfirmness of character to carry it about with him for a whole month\nafterwards, in spite of every temptation and his extreme need of it!\nNeither in drunken debauchery in taverns, nor when he was flying into the\ncountry, trying to get from God knows whom, the money so essential to him\nto remove the object of his affections from being tempted by his father,\ndid he bring himself to touch that little bag! Why, if only to avoid\nabandoning his mistress to the rival of whom he was so jealous, he would\nhave been certain to have opened that bag and to have stayed at home to\nkeep watch over her, and to await the moment when she would say to him at\nlast 'I am yours,' and to fly with her far from their fatal surroundings.\n\n\"But no, he did not touch his talisman, and what is the reason he gives\nfor it? The chief reason, as I have just said, was that when she would\nsay, 'I am yours, take me where you will,' he might have the wherewithal\nto take her. But that first reason, in the prisoner's own words, was of\nlittle weight beside the second. While I have that money on me, he said, I\nam a scoundrel, not a thief, for I can always go to my insulted betrothed,\nand, laying down half the sum I have fraudulently appropriated, I can\nalways say to her, 'You see, I've squandered half your money, and shown I\nam a weak and immoral man, and, if you like, a scoundrel' (I use the\nprisoner's own expressions), 'but though I am a scoundrel, I am not a\nthief, for if I had been a thief, I shouldn't have brought you back this\nhalf of the money, but should have taken it as I did the other half!' A\nmarvelous explanation! This frantic, but weak man, who could not resist\nthe temptation of accepting the three thousand roubles at the price of\nsuch disgrace, this very man suddenly develops the most stoical firmness,\nand carries about a thousand roubles without daring to touch it. Does that\nfit in at all with the character we have analyzed? No, and I venture to\ntell you how the real Dmitri Karamazov would have behaved in such\ncircumstances, if he really had brought himself to put away the money.\n\n\"At the first temptation--for instance, to entertain the woman with whom he\nhad already squandered half the money--he would have unpicked his little\nbag and have taken out some hundred roubles, for why should he have taken\nback precisely half the money, that is, fifteen hundred roubles? why not\nfourteen hundred? He could just as well have said then that he was not a\nthief, because he brought back fourteen hundred roubles. Then another time\nhe would have unpicked it again and taken out another hundred, and then a\nthird, and then a fourth, and before the end of the month he would have\ntaken the last note but one, feeling that if he took back only a hundred\nit would answer the purpose, for a thief would have stolen it all. And\nthen he would have looked at this last note, and have said to himself,\n'It's really not worth while to give back one hundred; let's spend that,\ntoo!' That's how the real Dmitri Karamazov, as we know him, would have\nbehaved. One cannot imagine anything more incongruous with the actual fact\nthan this legend of the little bag. Nothing could be more inconceivable.\nBut we shall return to that later.\"\n\nAfter touching upon what had come out in the proceedings concerning the\nfinancial relations of father and son, and arguing again and again that it\nwas utterly impossible, from the facts known, to determine which was in\nthe wrong, Ippolit Kirillovitch passed to the evidence of the medical\nexperts in reference to Mitya's fixed idea about the three thousand owing\nhim.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII. An Historical Survey\n\n\n\"The medical experts have striven to convince us that the prisoner is out\nof his mind and, in fact, a maniac. I maintain that he is in his right\nmind, and that if he had not been, he would have behaved more cleverly. As\nfor his being a maniac, that I would agree with, but only in one point,\nthat is, his fixed idea about the three thousand. Yet I think one might\nfind a much simpler cause than his tendency to insanity. For my part I\nagree thoroughly with the young doctor who maintained that the prisoner's\nmental faculties have always been normal, and that he has only been\nirritable and exasperated. The object of the prisoner's continual and\nviolent anger was not the sum itself; there was a special motive at the\nbottom of it. That motive is jealousy!\"\n\nHere Ippolit Kirillovitch described at length the prisoner's fatal passion\nfor Grushenka. He began from the moment when the prisoner went to the\n\"young person's\" lodgings \"to beat her\"--\"I use his own expression,\" the\nprosecutor explained--\"but instead of beating her, he remained there, at\nher feet. That was the beginning of the passion. At the same time the\nprisoner's father was captivated by the same young person--a strange and\nfatal coincidence, for they both lost their hearts to her simultaneously,\nthough both had known her before. And she inspired in both of them the\nmost violent, characteristically Karamazov passion. We have her own\nconfession: 'I was laughing at both of them.' Yes, the sudden desire to\nmake a jest of them came over her, and she conquered both of them at once.\nThe old man, who worshiped money, at once set aside three thousand roubles\nas a reward for one visit from her, but soon after that, he would have\nbeen happy to lay his property and his name at her feet, if only she would\nbecome his lawful wife. We have good evidence of this. As for the\nprisoner, the tragedy of his fate is evident; it is before us. But such\nwas the young person's 'game.' The enchantress gave the unhappy young man\nno hope until the last moment, when he knelt before her, stretching out\nhands that were already stained with the blood of his father and rival. It\nwas in that position that he was arrested. 'Send me to Siberia with him, I\nhave brought him to this, I am most to blame,' the woman herself cried, in\ngenuine remorse at the moment of his arrest.\n\n\"The talented young man, to whom I have referred already, Mr. Rakitin,\ncharacterized this heroine in brief and impressive terms: 'She was\ndisillusioned early in life, deceived and ruined by a betrothed, who\nseduced and abandoned her. She was left in poverty, cursed by her\nrespectable family, and taken under the protection of a wealthy old man,\nwhom she still, however, considers as her benefactor. There was perhaps\nmuch that was good in her young heart, but it was embittered too early.\nShe became prudent and saved money. She grew sarcastic and resentful\nagainst society.' After this sketch of her character it may well be\nunderstood that she might laugh at both of them simply from mischief, from\nmalice.\n\n\"After a month of hopeless love and moral degradation, during which he\nbetrayed his betrothed and appropriated money entrusted to his honor, the\nprisoner was driven almost to frenzy, almost to madness by continual\njealousy--and of whom? His father! And the worst of it was that the crazy\nold man was alluring and enticing the object of his affection by means of\nthat very three thousand roubles, which the son looked upon as his own\nproperty, part of his inheritance from his mother, of which his father was\ncheating him. Yes, I admit it was hard to bear! It might well drive a man\nto madness. It was not the money, but the fact that this money was used\nwith such revolting cynicism to ruin his happiness!\"\n\nThen the prosecutor went on to describe how the idea of murdering his\nfather had entered the prisoner's head, and illustrated his theory with\nfacts.\n\n\"At first he only talked about it in taverns--he was talking about it all\nthat month. Ah, he likes being always surrounded with company, and he\nlikes to tell his companions everything, even his most diabolical and\ndangerous ideas; he likes to share every thought with others, and expects,\nfor some reason, that those he confides in will meet him with perfect\nsympathy, enter into all his troubles and anxieties, take his part and not\noppose him in anything. If not, he flies into a rage and smashes up\neverything in the tavern. [Then followed the anecdote about Captain\nSnegiryov.] Those who heard the prisoner began to think at last that he\nmight mean more than threats, and that such a frenzy might turn threats\ninto actions.\"\n\nHere the prosecutor described the meeting of the family at the monastery,\nthe conversations with Alyosha, and the horrible scene of violence when\nthe prisoner had rushed into his father's house just after dinner.\n\n\"I cannot positively assert,\" the prosecutor continued, \"that the prisoner\nfully intended to murder his father before that incident. Yet the idea had\nseveral times presented itself to him, and he had deliberated on it--for\nthat we have facts, witnesses, and his own words. I confess, gentlemen of\nthe jury,\" he added, \"that till to-day I have been uncertain whether to\nattribute to the prisoner conscious premeditation. I was firmly convinced\nthat he had pictured the fatal moment beforehand, but had only pictured\nit, contemplating it as a possibility. He had not definitely considered\nwhen and how he might commit the crime.\n\n\"But I was only uncertain till to-day, till that fatal document was\npresented to the court just now. You yourselves heard that young lady's\nexclamation, 'It is the plan, the program of the murder!' That is how she\ndefined that miserable, drunken letter of the unhappy prisoner. And, in\nfact, from that letter we see that the whole fact of the murder was\npremeditated. It was written two days before, and so we know now for a\nfact that, forty-eight hours before the perpetration of his terrible\ndesign, the prisoner swore that, if he could not get money next day, he\nwould murder his father in order to take the envelope with the notes from\nunder his pillow, as soon as Ivan had left. 'As soon as Ivan had gone\naway'--you hear that; so he had thought everything out, weighing every\ncircumstance, and he carried it all out just as he had written it. The\nproof of premeditation is conclusive; the crime must have been committed\nfor the sake of the money, that is stated clearly, that is written and\nsigned. The prisoner does not deny his signature.\n\n\"I shall be told he was drunk when he wrote it. But that does not diminish\nthe value of the letter, quite the contrary; he wrote when drunk what he\nhad planned when sober. Had he not planned it when sober, he would not\nhave written it when drunk. I shall be asked: Then why did he talk about\nit in taverns? A man who premeditates such a crime is silent and keeps it\nto himself. Yes, but he talked about it before he had formed a plan, when\nhe had only the desire, only the impulse to it. Afterwards he talked less\nabout it. On the evening he wrote that letter at the 'Metropolis' tavern,\ncontrary to his custom he was silent, though he had been drinking. He did\nnot play billiards, he sat in a corner, talked to no one. He did indeed\nturn a shopman out of his seat, but that was done almost unconsciously,\nbecause he could never enter a tavern without making a disturbance. It is\ntrue that after he had taken the final decision, he must have felt\napprehensive that he had talked too much about his design beforehand, and\nthat this might lead to his arrest and prosecution afterwards. But there\nwas nothing for it; he could not take his words back, but his luck had\nserved him before, it would serve him again. He believed in his star, you\nknow! I must confess, too, that he did a great deal to avoid the fatal\ncatastrophe. 'To-morrow I shall try and borrow the money from every one,'\nas he writes in his peculiar language, 'and if they won't give it to me,\nthere will be bloodshed.' \"\n\nHere Ippolit Kirillovitch passed to a detailed description of all Mitya's\nefforts to borrow the money. He described his visit to Samsonov, his\njourney to Lyagavy. \"Harassed, jeered at, hungry, after selling his watch\nto pay for the journey (though he tells us he had fifteen hundred roubles\non him--a likely story), tortured by jealousy at having left the object of\nhis affections in the town, suspecting that she would go to Fyodor\nPavlovitch in his absence, he returned at last to the town, to find, to\nhis joy, that she had not been near his father. He accompanied her himself\nto her protector. (Strange to say, he doesn't seem to have been jealous of\nSamsonov, which is psychologically interesting.) Then he hastens back to\nhis ambush in the back gardens, and there learns that Smerdyakov is in a\nfit, that the other servant is ill--the coast is clear and he knows the\n'signals'--what a temptation! Still he resists it; he goes off to a lady\nwho has for some time been residing in the town, and who is highly\nesteemed among us, Madame Hohlakov. That lady, who had long watched his\ncareer with compassion, gave him the most judicious advice, to give up his\ndissipated life, his unseemly love-affair, the waste of his youth and\nvigor in pot-house debauchery, and to set off to Siberia to the gold-\nmines: 'that would be an outlet for your turbulent energies, your romantic\ncharacter, your thirst for adventure.' \"\n\nAfter describing the result of this conversation and the moment when the\nprisoner learnt that Grushenka had not remained at Samsonov's, the sudden\nfrenzy of the luckless man worn out with jealousy and nervous exhaustion,\nat the thought that she had deceived him and was now with his father,\nIppolit Kirillovitch concluded by dwelling upon the fatal influence of\nchance. \"Had the maid told him that her mistress was at Mokroe with her\nformer lover, nothing would have happened. But she lost her head, she\ncould only swear and protest her ignorance, and if the prisoner did not\nkill her on the spot, it was only because he flew in pursuit of his false\nmistress.\n\n\"But note, frantic as he was, he took with him a brass pestle. Why that?\nWhy not some other weapon? But since he had been contemplating his plan\nand preparing himself for it for a whole month, he would snatch up\nanything like a weapon that caught his eye. He had realized for a month\npast that any object of the kind would serve as a weapon, so he instantly,\nwithout hesitation, recognized that it would serve his purpose. So it was\nby no means unconsciously, by no means involuntarily, that he snatched up\nthat fatal pestle. And then we find him in his father's garden--the coast\nis clear, there are no witnesses, darkness and jealousy. The suspicion\nthat she was there, with him, with his rival, in his arms, and perhaps\nlaughing at him at that moment--took his breath away. And it was not mere\nsuspicion, the deception was open, obvious. She must be there, in that\nlighted room, she must be behind the screen; and the unhappy man would\nhave us believe that he stole up to the window, peeped respectfully in,\nand discreetly withdrew, for fear something terrible and immoral should\nhappen. And he tries to persuade us of that, us, who understand his\ncharacter, who know his state of mind at the moment, and that he knew the\nsignals by which he could at once enter the house.\" At this point Ippolit\nKirillovitch broke off to discuss exhaustively the suspected connection of\nSmerdyakov with the murder. He did this very circumstantially, and every\none realized that, although he professed to despise that suspicion, he\nthought the subject of great importance.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII. A Treatise On Smerdyakov\n\n\n\"To begin with, what was the source of this suspicion?\" (Ippolit\nKirillovitch began.) \"The first person who cried out that Smerdyakov had\ncommitted the murder was the prisoner himself at the moment of his arrest,\nyet from that time to this he had not brought forward a single fact to\nconfirm the charge, nor the faintest suggestion of a fact. The charge is\nconfirmed by three persons only--the two brothers of the prisoner and\nMadame Svyetlov. The elder of these brothers expressed his suspicions only\nto-day, when he was undoubtedly suffering from brain fever. But we know\nthat for the last two months he has completely shared our conviction of\nhis brother's guilt and did not attempt to combat that idea. But of that\nlater. The younger brother has admitted that he has not the slightest fact\nto support his notion of Smerdyakov's guilt, and has only been led to that\nconclusion from the prisoner's own words and the expression of his face.\nYes, that astounding piece of evidence has been brought forward twice to-\nday by him. Madame Svyetlov was even more astounding. 'What the prisoner\ntells you, you must believe; he is not a man to tell a lie.' That is all\nthe evidence against Smerdyakov produced by these three persons, who are\nall deeply concerned in the prisoner's fate. And yet the theory of\nSmerdyakov's guilt has been noised about, has been and is still\nmaintained. Is it credible? Is it conceivable?\"\n\nHere Ippolit Kirillovitch thought it necessary to describe the personality\nof Smerdyakov, \"who had cut short his life in a fit of insanity.\" He\ndepicted him as a man of weak intellect, with a smattering of education,\nwho had been thrown off his balance by philosophical ideas above his level\nand certain modern theories of duty, which he learnt in practice from the\nreckless life of his master, who was also perhaps his father--Fyodor\nPavlovitch; and, theoretically, from various strange philosophical\nconversations with his master's elder son, Ivan Fyodorovitch, who readily\nindulged in this diversion, probably feeling dull or wishing to amuse\nhimself at the valet's expense. \"He spoke to me himself of his spiritual\ncondition during the last few days at his father's house,\" Ippolit\nKirillovitch explained; \"but others too have borne witness to it--the\nprisoner himself, his brother, and the servant Grigory--that is, all who\nknew him well.\n\n\"Moreover, Smerdyakov, whose health was shaken by his attacks of epilepsy,\nhad not the courage of a chicken. 'He fell at my feet and kissed them,'\nthe prisoner himself has told us, before he realized how damaging such a\nstatement was to himself. 'He is an epileptic chicken,' he declared about\nhim in his characteristic language. And the prisoner chose him for his\nconfidant (we have his own word for it) and he frightened him into\nconsenting at last to act as a spy for him. In that capacity he deceived\nhis master, revealing to the prisoner the existence of the envelope with\nthe notes in it and the signals by means of which he could get into the\nhouse. How could he help telling him, indeed? 'He would have killed me, I\ncould see that he would have killed me,' he said at the inquiry, trembling\nand shaking even before us, though his tormentor was by that time arrested\nand could do him no harm. 'He suspected me at every instant. In fear and\ntrembling I hastened to tell him every secret to pacify him, that he might\nsee that I had not deceived him and let me off alive.' Those are his own\nwords. I wrote them down and I remember them. 'When he began shouting at\nme, I would fall on my knees.'\n\n\"He was naturally very honest and enjoyed the complete confidence of his\nmaster, ever since he had restored him some money he had lost. So it may\nbe supposed that the poor fellow suffered pangs of remorse at having\ndeceived his master, whom he loved as his benefactor. Persons severely\nafflicted with epilepsy are, so the most skillful doctors tell us, always\nprone to continual and morbid self-reproach. They worry over their\n'wickedness,' they are tormented by pangs of conscience, often entirely\nwithout cause; they exaggerate and often invent all sorts of faults and\ncrimes. And here we have a man of that type who had really been driven to\nwrong-doing by terror and intimidation.\n\n\"He had, besides, a strong presentiment that something terrible would be\nthe outcome of the situation that was developing before his eyes. When\nIvan Fyodorovitch was leaving for Moscow, just before the catastrophe,\nSmerdyakov besought him to remain, though he was too timid to tell him\nplainly what he feared. He confined himself to hints, but his hints were\nnot understood.\n\n\"It must be observed that he looked on Ivan Fyodorovitch as a protector,\nwhose presence in the house was a guarantee that no harm would come to\npass. Remember the phrase in Dmitri Karamazov's drunken letter, 'I shall\nkill the old man, if only Ivan goes away.' So Ivan Fyodorovitch's presence\nseemed to every one a guarantee of peace and order in the house.\n\n\"But he went away, and within an hour of his young master's departure\nSmerdyakov was taken with an epileptic fit. But that's perfectly\nintelligible. Here I must mention that Smerdyakov, oppressed by terror and\ndespair of a sort, had felt during those last few days that one of the\nfits from which he had suffered before at moments of strain, might be\ncoming upon him again. The day and hour of such an attack cannot, of\ncourse, be foreseen, but every epileptic can feel beforehand that he is\nlikely to have one. So the doctors tell us. And so, as soon as Ivan\nFyodorovitch had driven out of the yard, Smerdyakov, depressed by his\nlonely and unprotected position, went to the cellar. He went down the\nstairs wondering if he would have a fit or not, and what if it were to\ncome upon him at once. And that very apprehension, that very wonder,\nbrought on the spasm in his throat that always precedes such attacks, and\nhe fell unconscious into the cellar. And in this perfectly natural\noccurrence people try to detect a suspicion, a hint that he was shamming\nan attack _on purpose_. But, if it were on purpose, the question arises at\nonce, what was his motive? What was he reckoning on? What was he aiming\nat? I say nothing about medicine: science, I am told, may go astray: the\ndoctors were not able to discriminate between the counterfeit and the\nreal. That may be so, but answer me one question: what motive had he for\nsuch a counterfeit? Could he, had he been plotting the murder, have\ndesired to attract the attention of the household by having a fit just\nbefore?\n\n\"You see, gentlemen of the jury, on the night of the murder, there were\nfive persons in Fyodor Pavlovitch's--Fyodor Pavlovitch himself (but he did\nnot kill himself, that's evident); then his servant, Grigory, but he was\nalmost killed himself; the third person was Grigory's wife, Marfa\nIgnatyevna, but it would be simply shameful to imagine her murdering her\nmaster. Two persons are left--the prisoner and Smerdyakov. But, if we are\nto believe the prisoner's statement that he is not the murderer, then\nSmerdyakov must have been, for there is no other alternative, no one else\ncan be found. That is what accounts for the artful, astounding accusation\nagainst the unhappy idiot who committed suicide yesterday. Had a shadow of\nsuspicion rested on any one else, had there been any sixth person, I am\npersuaded that even the prisoner would have been ashamed to accuse\nSmerdyakov, and would have accused that sixth person, for to charge\nSmerdyakov with that murder is perfectly absurd.\n\n\"Gentlemen, let us lay aside psychology, let us lay aside medicine, let us\neven lay aside logic, let us turn only to the facts and see what the facts\ntell us. If Smerdyakov killed him, how did he do it? Alone or with the\nassistance of the prisoner? Let us consider the first alternative--that he\ndid it alone. If he had killed him it must have been with some object, for\nsome advantage to himself. But not having a shadow of the motive that the\nprisoner had for the murder--hatred, jealousy, and so on--Smerdyakov could\nonly have murdered him for the sake of gain, in order to appropriate the\nthree thousand roubles he had seen his master put in the envelope. And yet\nhe tells another person--and a person most closely interested, that is, the\nprisoner--everything about the money and the signals, where the envelope\nlay, what was written on it, what it was tied up with, and, above all,\ntold him of those signals by which he could enter the house. Did he do\nthis simply to betray himself, or to invite to the same enterprise one who\nwould be anxious to get that envelope for himself? 'Yes,' I shall be told,\n'but he betrayed it from fear.' But how do you explain this? A man who\ncould conceive such an audacious, savage act, and carry it out, tells\nfacts which are known to no one else in the world, and which, if he held\nhis tongue, no one would ever have guessed!\n\n\"No, however cowardly he might be, if he had plotted such a crime, nothing\nwould have induced him to tell any one about the envelope and the signals,\nfor that was as good as betraying himself beforehand. He would have\ninvented something, he would have told some lie if he had been forced to\ngive information, but he would have been silent about that. For, on the\nother hand, if he had said nothing about the money, but had committed the\nmurder and stolen the money, no one in the world could have charged him\nwith murder for the sake of robbery, since no one but he had seen the\nmoney, no one but he knew of its existence in the house. Even if he had\nbeen accused of the murder, it could only have been thought that he had\ncommitted it from some other motive. But since no one had observed any\nsuch motive in him beforehand, and every one saw, on the contrary, that\nhis master was fond of him and honored him with his confidence, he would,\nof course, have been the last to be suspected. People would have suspected\nfirst the man who had a motive, a man who had himself declared he had such\nmotives, who had made no secret of it; they would, in fact, have suspected\nthe son of the murdered man, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Had Smerdyakov killed\nand robbed him, and the son been accused of it, that would, of course,\nhave suited Smerdyakov. Yet are we to believe that, though plotting the\nmurder, he told that son, Dmitri, about the money, the envelope, and the\nsignals? Is that logical? Is that clear?\n\n\"When the day of the murder planned by Smerdyakov came, we have him\nfalling downstairs in a _feigned_ fit--with what object? In the first place\nthat Grigory, who had been intending to take his medicine, might put it\noff and remain on guard, seeing there was no one to look after the house,\nand, in the second place, I suppose, that his master seeing that there was\nno one to guard him, and in terror of a visit from his son, might redouble\nhis vigilance and precaution. And, most of all, I suppose that he,\nSmerdyakov, disabled by the fit, might be carried from the kitchen, where\nhe always slept, apart from all the rest, and where he could go in and out\nas he liked, to Grigory's room at the other end of the lodge, where he was\nalways put, shut off by a screen three paces from their own bed. This was\nthe immemorial custom established by his master and the kind-hearted Marfa\nIgnatyevna, whenever he had a fit. There, lying behind the screen, he\nwould most likely, to keep up the sham, have begun groaning, and so\nkeeping them awake all night (as Grigory and his wife testified). And all\nthis, we are to believe, that he might more conveniently get up and murder\nhis master!\n\n\"But I shall be told that he shammed illness on purpose that he might not\nbe suspected and that he told the prisoner of the money and the signals to\ntempt him to commit the murder, and when he had murdered him and had gone\naway with the money, making a noise, most likely, and waking people,\nSmerdyakov got up, am I to believe, and went in--what for? To murder his\nmaster a second time and carry off the money that had already been stolen?\nGentlemen, are you laughing? I am ashamed to put forward such suggestions,\nbut, incredible as it seems, that's just what the prisoner alleges. When\nhe had left the house, had knocked Grigory down and raised an alarm, he\ntells us Smerdyakov got up, went in and murdered his master and stole the\nmoney! I won't press the point that Smerdyakov could hardly have reckoned\non this beforehand, and have foreseen that the furious and exasperated son\nwould simply come to peep in respectfully, though he knew the signals, and\nbeat a retreat, leaving Smerdyakov his booty. Gentlemen of the jury, I put\nthis question to you in earnest; when was the moment when Smerdyakov could\nhave committed his crime? Name that moment, or you can't accuse him.\n\n\"But, perhaps, the fit was a real one, the sick man suddenly recovered,\nheard a shout, and went out. Well--what then? He looked about him and said,\n'Why not go and kill the master?' And how did he know what had happened,\nsince he had been lying unconscious till that moment? But there's a limit\nto these flights of fancy.\n\n\" 'Quite so,' some astute people will tell me, 'but what if they were in\nagreement? What if they murdered him together and shared the money--what\nthen?' A weighty question, truly! And the facts to confirm it are\nastounding. One commits the murder and takes all the trouble while his\naccomplice lies on one side shamming a fit, apparently to arouse suspicion\nin every one, alarm in his master and alarm in Grigory. It would be\ninteresting to know what motives could have induced the two accomplices to\nform such an insane plan.\n\n\"But perhaps it was not a case of active complicity on Smerdyakov's part,\nbut only of passive acquiescence; perhaps Smerdyakov was intimidated and\nagreed not to prevent the murder, and foreseeing that he would be blamed\nfor letting his master be murdered, without screaming for help or\nresisting, he may have obtained permission from Dmitri Karamazov to get\nout of the way by shamming a fit--'you may murder him as you like; it's\nnothing to me.' But as this attack of Smerdyakov's was bound to throw the\nhousehold into confusion, Dmitri Karamazov could never have agreed to such\na plan. I will waive that point however. Supposing that he did agree, it\nwould still follow that Dmitri Karamazov is the murderer and the\ninstigator, and Smerdyakov is only a passive accomplice, and not even an\naccomplice, but merely acquiesced against his will through terror.\n\n\"But what do we see? As soon as he is arrested the prisoner instantly\nthrows all the blame on Smerdyakov, not accusing him of being his\naccomplice, but of being himself the murderer. 'He did it alone,' he says.\n'He murdered and robbed him. It was the work of his hands.' Strange sort\nof accomplices who begin to accuse one another at once! And think of the\nrisk for Karamazov. After committing the murder while his accomplice lay\nin bed, he throws the blame on the invalid, who might well have resented\nit and in self-preservation might well have confessed the truth. For he\nmight well have seen that the court would at once judge how far he was\nresponsible, and so he might well have reckoned that if he were punished,\nit would be far less severely than the real murderer. But in that case he\nwould have been certain to make a confession, yet he has not done so.\nSmerdyakov never hinted at their complicity, though the actual murderer\npersisted in accusing him and declaring that he had committed the crime\nalone.\n\n\"What's more, Smerdyakov at the inquiry volunteered the statement that it\nwas _he_ who had told the prisoner of the envelope of notes and of the\nsignals, and that, but for him, he would have known nothing about them. If\nhe had really been a guilty accomplice, would he so readily have made this\nstatement at the inquiry? On the contrary, he would have tried to conceal\nit, to distort the facts or minimize them. But he was far from distorting\nor minimizing them. No one but an innocent man, who had no fear of being\ncharged with complicity, could have acted as he did. And in a fit of\nmelancholy arising from his disease and this catastrophe he hanged himself\nyesterday. He left a note written in his peculiar language, 'I destroy\nmyself of my own will and inclination so as to throw no blame on any one.'\nWhat would it have cost him to add: 'I am the murderer, not Karamazov'?\nBut that he did not add. Did his conscience lead him to suicide and not to\navowing his guilt?\n\n\"And what followed? Notes for three thousand roubles were brought into the\ncourt just now, and we were told that they were the same that lay in the\nenvelope now on the table before us, and that the witness had received\nthem from Smerdyakov the day before. But I need not recall the painful\nscene, though I will make one or two comments, selecting such trivial ones\nas might not be obvious at first sight to every one, and so may be\noverlooked. In the first place, Smerdyakov must have given back the money\nand hanged himself yesterday from remorse. And only yesterday he confessed\nhis guilt to Ivan Karamazov, as the latter informs us. If it were not so,\nindeed, why should Ivan Fyodorovitch have kept silence till now? And so,\nif he has confessed, then why, I ask again, did he not avow the whole\ntruth in the last letter he left behind, knowing that the innocent\nprisoner had to face this terrible ordeal the next day?\n\n\"The money alone is no proof. A week ago, quite by chance, the fact came\nto the knowledge of myself and two other persons in this court that Ivan\nFyodorovitch had sent two five per cent. coupons of five thousand\neach--that is, ten thousand in all--to the chief town of the province to be\nchanged. I only mention this to point out that any one may have money, and\nthat it can't be proved that these notes are the same as were in Fyodor\nPavlovitch's envelope.\n\n\"Ivan Karamazov, after receiving yesterday a communication of such\nimportance from the real murderer, did not stir. Why didn't he report it\nat once? Why did he put it all off till morning? I think I have a right to\nconjecture why. His health had been giving way for a week past: he had\nadmitted to a doctor and to his most intimate friends that he was\nsuffering from hallucinations and seeing phantoms of the dead: he was on\nthe eve of the attack of brain fever by which he has been stricken down\nto-day. In this condition he suddenly heard of Smerdyakov's death, and at\nonce reflected, 'The man is dead, I can throw the blame on him and save my\nbrother. I have money. I will take a roll of notes and say that Smerdyakov\ngave them me before his death.' You will say that was dishonorable: it's\ndishonorable to slander even the dead, and even to save a brother. True,\nbut what if he slandered him unconsciously? What if, finally unhinged by\nthe sudden news of the valet's death, he imagined it really was so? You\nsaw the recent scene: you have seen the witness's condition. He was\nstanding up and was speaking, but where was his mind?\n\n\"Then followed the document, the prisoner's letter written two days before\nthe crime, and containing a complete program of the murder. Why, then, are\nwe looking for any other program? The crime was committed precisely\naccording to this program, and by no other than the writer of it. Yes,\ngentlemen of the jury, it went off without a hitch! He did not run\nrespectfully and timidly away from his father's window, though he was\nfirmly convinced that the object of his affections was with him. No, that\nis absurd and unlikely! He went in and murdered him. Most likely he killed\nhim in anger, burning with resentment, as soon as he looked on his hated\nrival. But having killed him, probably with one blow of the brass pestle,\nand having convinced himself, after careful search, that she was not\nthere, he did not, however, forget to put his hand under the pillow and\ntake out the envelope, the torn cover of which lies now on the table\nbefore us.\n\n\"I mention this fact that you may note one, to my thinking, very\ncharacteristic circumstance. Had he been an experienced murderer and had\nhe committed the murder for the sake of gain only, would he have left the\ntorn envelope on the floor as it was found, beside the corpse? Had it been\nSmerdyakov, for instance, murdering his master to rob him, he would have\nsimply carried away the envelope with him, without troubling himself to\nopen it over his victim's corpse, for he would have known for certain that\nthe notes were in the envelope--they had been put in and sealed up in his\npresence--and had he taken the envelope with him, no one would ever have\nknown of the robbery. I ask you, gentlemen, would Smerdyakov have behaved\nin that way? Would he have left the envelope on the floor?\n\n\"No, this was the action of a frantic murderer, a murderer who was not a\nthief and had never stolen before that day, who snatched the notes from\nunder the pillow, not like a thief stealing them, but as though seizing\nhis own property from the thief who had stolen it. For that was the idea\nwhich had become almost an insane obsession in Dmitri Karamazov in regard\nto that money. And pouncing upon the envelope, which he had never seen\nbefore, he tore it open to make sure whether the money was in it, and ran\naway with the money in his pocket, even forgetting to consider that he had\nleft an astounding piece of evidence against himself in that torn envelope\non the floor. All because it was Karamazov, not Smerdyakov, he didn't\nthink, he didn't reflect, and how should he? He ran away; he heard behind\nhim the servant cry out; the old man caught him, stopped him and was\nfelled to the ground by the brass pestle.\n\n\"The prisoner, moved by pity, leapt down to look at him. Would you believe\nit, he tells us that he leapt down out of pity, out of compassion, to see\nwhether he could do anything for him. Was that a moment to show\ncompassion? No; he jumped down simply to make certain whether the only\nwitness of his crime were dead or alive. Any other feeling, any other\nmotive would be unnatural. Note that he took trouble over Grigory, wiped\nhis head with his handkerchief and, convincing himself he was dead, he ran\nto the house of his mistress, dazed and covered with blood. How was it he\nnever thought that he was covered with blood and would be at once\ndetected? But the prisoner himself assures us that he did not even notice\nthat he was covered with blood. That may be believed, that is very\npossible, that always happens at such moments with criminals. On one point\nthey will show diabolical cunning, while another will escape them\naltogether. But he was thinking at that moment of one thing only--where was\n_she_? He wanted to find out at once where she was, so he ran to her\nlodging and learnt an unexpected and astounding piece of news--she had gone\noff to Mokroe to meet her first lover.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX. The Galloping Troika. The End Of The Prosecutor's Speech.\n\n\nIppolit Kirillovitch had chosen the historical method of exposition,\nbeloved by all nervous orators, who find in its limitation a check on\ntheir own eager rhetoric. At this moment in his speech he went off into a\ndissertation on Grushenka's \"first lover,\" and brought forward several\ninteresting thoughts on this theme.\n\n\"Karamazov, who had been frantically jealous of every one, collapsed, so\nto speak, and effaced himself at once before this first lover. What makes\nit all the more strange is that he seems to have hardly thought of this\nformidable rival. But he had looked upon him as a remote danger, and\nKaramazov always lives in the present. Possibly he regarded him as a\nfiction. But his wounded heart grasped instantly that the woman had been\nconcealing this new rival and deceiving him, because he was anything but a\nfiction to her, because he was the one hope of her life. Grasping this\ninstantly, he resigned himself.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, I cannot help dwelling on this unexpected trait in\nthe prisoner's character. He suddenly evinces an irresistible desire for\njustice, a respect for woman and a recognition of her right to love. And\nall this at the very moment when he had stained his hands with his\nfather's blood for her sake! It is true that the blood he had shed was\nalready crying out for vengeance, for, after having ruined his soul and\nhis life in this world, he was forced to ask himself at that same instant\nwhat he was and what he could be now to her, to that being, dearer to him\nthan his own soul, in comparison with that former lover who had returned\npenitent, with new love, to the woman he had once betrayed, with honorable\noffers, with the promise of a reformed and happy life. And he, luckless\nman, what could he give her now, what could he offer her?\n\n\"Karamazov felt all this, knew that all ways were barred to him by his\ncrime and that he was a criminal under sentence, and not a man with life\nbefore him! This thought crushed him. And so he instantly flew to one\nfrantic plan, which, to a man of Karamazov's character, must have appeared\nthe one inevitable way out of his terrible position. That way out was\nsuicide. He ran for the pistols he had left in pledge with his friend\nPerhotin and on the way, as he ran, he pulled out of his pocket the money,\nfor the sake of which he had stained his hands with his father's gore. Oh,\nnow he needed money more than ever. Karamazov would die, Karamazov would\nshoot himself and it should be remembered! To be sure, he was a poet and\nhad burnt the candle at both ends all his life. 'To her, to her! and\nthere, oh, there I will give a feast to the whole world, such as never was\nbefore, that will be remembered and talked of long after! In the midst of\nshouts of wild merriment, reckless gypsy songs and dances I shall raise\nthe glass and drink to the woman I adore and her new-found happiness! And\nthen, on the spot, at her feet, I shall dash out my brains before her and\npunish myself! She will remember Mitya Karamazov sometimes, she will see\nhow Mitya loved her, she will feel for Mitya!'\n\n\"Here we see in excess a love of effect, a romantic despair and\nsentimentality, and the wild recklessness of the Karamazovs. Yes, but\nthere is something else, gentlemen of the jury, something that cries out\nin the soul, throbs incessantly in the mind, and poisons the heart unto\ndeath--that _something_ is conscience, gentlemen of the jury, its judgment,\nits terrible torments! The pistol will settle everything, the pistol is\nthe only way out! But _beyond_--I don't know whether Karamazov wondered at\nthat moment 'What lies beyond,' and whether Karamazov could, like Hamlet,\nwonder 'What lies beyond.' No, gentlemen of the jury, they have their\nHamlets, but we still have our Karamazovs!\"\n\nHere Ippolit Kirillovitch drew a minute picture of Mitya's preparations,\nthe scene at Perhotin's, at the shop, with the drivers. He quoted numerous\nwords and actions, confirmed by witnesses, and the picture made a terrible\nimpression on the audience. The guilt of this harassed and desperate man\nstood out clear and convincing, when the facts were brought together.\n\n\"What need had he of precaution? Two or three times he almost confessed,\nhinted at it, all but spoke out.\" (Then followed the evidence given by\nwitnesses.) \"He even cried out to the peasant who drove him, 'Do you know,\nyou are driving a murderer!' But it was impossible for him to speak out,\nhe had to get to Mokroe and there to finish his romance. But what was\nawaiting the luckless man? Almost from the first minute at Mokroe he saw\nthat his invincible rival was perhaps by no means so invincible, that the\ntoast to their new-found happiness was not desired and would not be\nacceptable. But you know the facts, gentlemen of the jury, from the\npreliminary inquiry. Karamazov's triumph over his rival was complete and\nhis soul passed into quite a new phase, perhaps the most terrible phase\nthrough which his soul has passed or will pass.\n\n\"One may say with certainty, gentlemen of the jury,\" the prosecutor\ncontinued, \"that outraged nature and the criminal heart bring their own\nvengeance more completely than any earthly justice. What's more, justice\nand punishment on earth positively alleviate the punishment of nature and\nare, indeed, essential to the soul of the criminal at such moments, as its\nsalvation from despair. For I cannot imagine the horror and moral\nsuffering of Karamazov when he learnt that she loved him, that for his\nsake she had rejected her first lover, that she was summoning him, Mitya,\nto a new life, that she was promising him happiness--and when? When\neverything was over for him and nothing was possible!\n\n\"By the way, I will note in parenthesis a point of importance for the\nlight it throws on the prisoner's position at the moment. This woman, this\nlove of his, had been till the last moment, till the very instant of his\narrest, a being unattainable, passionately desired by him but\nunattainable. Yet why did he not shoot himself then, why did he relinquish\nhis design and even forget where his pistol was? It was just that\npassionate desire for love and the hope of satisfying it that restrained\nhim. Throughout their revels he kept close to his adored mistress, who was\nat the banquet with him and was more charming and fascinating to him than\never--he did not leave her side, abasing himself in his homage before her.\n\n\"His passion might well, for a moment, stifle not only the fear of arrest,\nbut even the torments of conscience. For a moment, oh, only for a moment!\nI can picture the state of mind of the criminal hopelessly enslaved by\nthese influences--first, the influence of drink, of noise and excitement,\nof the thud of the dance and the scream of the song, and of her, flushed\nwith wine, singing and dancing and laughing to him! Secondly, the hope in\nthe background that the fatal end might still be far off, that not till\nnext morning, at least, they would come and take him. So he had a few\nhours and that's much, very much! In a few hours one can think of many\nthings. I imagine that he felt something like what criminals feel when\nthey are being taken to the scaffold. They have another long, long street\nto pass down and at walking pace, past thousands of people. Then there\nwill be a turning into another street and only at the end of that street\nthe dread place of execution! I fancy that at the beginning of the journey\nthe condemned man, sitting on his shameful cart, must feel that he has\ninfinite life still before him. The houses recede, the cart moves on--oh,\nthat's nothing, it's still far to the turning into the second street and\nhe still looks boldly to right and to left at those thousands of callously\ncurious people with their eyes fixed on him, and he still fancies that he\nis just such a man as they. But now the turning comes to the next street.\nOh, that's nothing, nothing, there's still a whole street before him, and\nhowever many houses have been passed, he will still think there are many\nleft. And so to the very end, to the very scaffold.\n\n\"This I imagine is how it was with Karamazov then. 'They've not had time\nyet,' he must have thought, 'I may still find some way out, oh, there's\nstill time to make some plan of defense, and now, now--she is so\nfascinating!'\n\n\"His soul was full of confusion and dread, but he managed, however, to put\naside half his money and hide it somewhere--I cannot otherwise explain the\ndisappearance of quite half of the three thousand he had just taken from\nhis father's pillow. He had been in Mokroe more than once before, he had\ncaroused there for two days together already, he knew the old big house\nwith all its passages and outbuildings. I imagine that part of the money\nwas hidden in that house, not long before the arrest, in some crevice,\nunder some floor, in some corner, under the roof. With what object? I\nshall be asked. Why, the catastrophe may take place at once, of course; he\nhadn't yet considered how to meet it, he hadn't the time, his head was\nthrobbing and his heart was with _her_, but money--money was indispensable\nin any case! With money a man is always a man. Perhaps such foresight at\nsuch a moment may strike you as unnatural? But he assures us himself that\na month before, at a critical and exciting moment, he had halved his money\nand sewn it up in a little bag. And though that was not true, as we shall\nprove directly, it shows the idea was a familiar one to Karamazov, he had\ncontemplated it. What's more, when he declared at the inquiry that he had\nput fifteen hundred roubles in a bag (which never existed) he may have\ninvented that little bag on the inspiration of the moment, because he had\ntwo hours before divided his money and hidden half of it at Mokroe till\nmorning, in case of emergency, simply not to have it on himself. Two\nextremes, gentlemen of the jury, remember that Karamazov can contemplate\ntwo extremes and both at once.\n\n\"We have looked in the house, but we haven't found the money. It may still\nbe there or it may have disappeared next day and be in the prisoner's\nhands now. In any case he was at her side, on his knees before her, she\nwas lying on the bed, he had his hands stretched out to her and he had so\nentirely forgotten everything that he did not even hear the men coming to\narrest him. He hadn't time to prepare any line of defense in his mind. He\nwas caught unawares and confronted with his judges, the arbiters of his\ndestiny.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, there are moments in the execution of our duties\nwhen it is terrible for us to face a man, terrible on his account, too!\nThe moments of contemplating that animal fear, when the criminal sees that\nall is lost, but still struggles, still means to struggle, the moments\nwhen every instinct of self-preservation rises up in him at once and he\nlooks at you with questioning and suffering eyes, studies you, your face,\nyour thoughts, uncertain on which side you will strike, and his distracted\nmind frames thousands of plans in an instant, but he is still afraid to\nspeak, afraid of giving himself away! This purgatory of the spirit, this\nanimal thirst for self-preservation, these humiliating moments of the\nhuman soul, are awful, and sometimes arouse horror and compassion for the\ncriminal even in the lawyer. And this was what we all witnessed then.\n\n\"At first he was thunderstruck and in his terror dropped some very\ncompromising phrases. 'Blood! I've deserved it!' But he quickly restrained\nhimself. He had not prepared what he was to say, what answer he was to\nmake, he had nothing but a bare denial ready. 'I am not guilty of my\nfather's death.' That was his fence for the moment and behind it he hoped\nto throw up a barricade of some sort. His first compromising exclamations\nhe hastened to explain by declaring that he was responsible for the death\nof the servant Grigory only. 'Of that bloodshed I am guilty, but who has\nkilled my father, gentlemen, who has killed him? Who can have killed him,\n_if not I_?' Do you hear, he asked us that, us, who had come to ask him\nthat question! Do you hear that phrase uttered with such premature\nhaste--'if not I'--the animal cunning, the naivete, the Karamazov impatience\nof it? 'I didn't kill him and you mustn't think I did! I wanted to kill\nhim, gentlemen, I wanted to kill him,' he hastens to admit (he was in a\nhurry, in a terrible hurry), 'but still I am not guilty, it is not I\nmurdered him.' He concedes to us that he wanted to murder him, as though\nto say, you can see for yourselves how truthful I am, so you'll believe\nall the sooner that I didn't murder him. Oh, in such cases the criminal is\noften amazingly shallow and credulous.\n\n\"At that point one of the lawyers asked him, as it were incidentally, the\nmost simple question, 'Wasn't it Smerdyakov killed him?' Then, as we\nexpected, he was horribly angry at our having anticipated him and caught\nhim unawares, before he had time to pave the way to choose and snatch the\nmoment when it would be most natural to bring in Smerdyakov's name. He\nrushed at once to the other extreme, as he always does, and began to\nassure us that Smerdyakov could not have killed him, was not capable of\nit. But don't believe him, that was only his cunning; he didn't really\ngive up the idea of Smerdyakov; on the contrary, he meant to bring him\nforward again; for, indeed, he had no one else to bring forward, but he\nwould do that later, because for the moment that line was spoiled for him.\nHe would bring him forward perhaps next day, or even a few days later,\nchoosing an opportunity to cry out to us, 'You know I was more skeptical\nabout Smerdyakov than you, you remember that yourselves, but now I am\nconvinced. He killed him, he must have done!' And for the present he falls\nback upon a gloomy and irritable denial. Impatience and anger prompted\nhim, however, to the most inept and incredible explanation of how he\nlooked into his father's window and how he respectfully withdrew. The\nworst of it was that he was unaware of the position of affairs, of the\nevidence given by Grigory.\n\n\"We proceeded to search him. The search angered, but encouraged him, the\nwhole three thousand had not been found on him, only half of it. And no\ndoubt only at that moment of angry silence, the fiction of the little bag\nfirst occurred to him. No doubt he was conscious himself of the\nimprobability of the story and strove painfully to make it sound more\nlikely, to weave it into a romance that would sound plausible. In such\ncases the first duty, the chief task of the investigating lawyers, is to\nprevent the criminal being prepared, to pounce upon him unexpectedly so\nthat he may blurt out his cherished ideas in all their simplicity,\nimprobability and inconsistency. The criminal can only be made to speak by\nthe sudden and apparently incidental communication of some new fact, of\nsome circumstance of great importance in the case, of which he had no\nprevious idea and could not have foreseen. We had such a fact in\nreadiness--that was Grigory's evidence about the open door through which\nthe prisoner had run out. He had completely forgotten about that door and\nhad not even suspected that Grigory could have seen it.\n\n\"The effect of it was amazing. He leapt up and shouted to us, 'Then\nSmerdyakov murdered him, it was Smerdyakov!' and so betrayed the basis of\nthe defense he was keeping back, and betrayed it in its most improbable\nshape, for Smerdyakov could only have committed the murder after he had\nknocked Grigory down and run away. When we told him that Grigory saw the\ndoor was open before he fell down, and had heard Smerdyakov behind the\nscreen as he came out of his bedroom--Karamazov was positively crushed. My\nesteemed and witty colleague, Nikolay Parfenovitch, told me afterwards\nthat he was almost moved to tears at the sight of him. And to improve\nmatters, the prisoner hastened to tell us about the much-talked-of little\nbag--so be it, you shall hear this romance!\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, I have told you already why I consider this\nromance not only an absurdity, but the most improbable invention that\ncould have been brought forward in the circumstances. If one tried for a\nbet to invent the most unlikely story, one could hardly find anything more\nincredible. The worst of such stories is that the triumphant romancers can\nalways be put to confusion and crushed by the very details in which real\nlife is so rich and which these unhappy and involuntary story-tellers\nneglect as insignificant trifles. Oh, they have no thought to spare for\nsuch details, their minds are concentrated on their grand invention as a\nwhole, and fancy any one daring to pull them up for a trifle! But that's\nhow they are caught. The prisoner was asked the question, 'Where did you\nget the stuff for your little bag and who made it for you?' 'I made it\nmyself.' 'And where did you get the linen?' The prisoner was positively\noffended, he thought it almost insulting to ask him such a trivial\nquestion, and would you believe it, his resentment was genuine! But they\nare all like that. 'I tore it off my shirt.' 'Then we shall find that\nshirt among your linen to-morrow, with a piece torn off.' And only fancy,\ngentlemen of the jury, if we really had found that torn shirt (and how\ncould we have failed to find it in his chest of drawers or trunk?) that\nwould have been a fact, a material fact in support of his statement! But\nhe was incapable of that reflection. 'I don't remember, it may not have\nbeen off my shirt, I sewed it up in one of my landlady's caps.' 'What sort\nof a cap?' 'It was an old cotton rag of hers lying about.' 'And do you\nremember that clearly?' 'No, I don't.' And he was angry, very angry, and\nyet imagine not remembering it! At the most terrible moments of man's\nlife, for instance when he is being led to execution, he remembers just\nsuch trifles. He will forget anything but some green roof that has flashed\npast him on the road, or a jackdaw on a cross--that he will remember. He\nconcealed the making of that little bag from his household, he must have\nremembered his humiliating fear that some one might come in and find him\nneedle in hand, how at the slightest sound he slipped behind the screen\n(there is a screen in his lodgings).\n\n\"But, gentlemen of the jury, why do I tell you all this, all these\ndetails, trifles?\" cried Ippolit Kirillovitch suddenly. \"Just because the\nprisoner still persists in these absurdities to this moment. He has not\nexplained anything since that fatal night two months ago, he has not added\none actual illuminating fact to his former fantastic statements; all those\nare trivialities. 'You must believe it on my honor.' Oh, we are glad to\nbelieve it, we are eager to believe it, even if only on his word of honor!\nAre we jackals thirsting for human blood? Show us a single fact in the\nprisoner's favor and we shall rejoice; but let it be a substantial, real\nfact, and not a conclusion drawn from the prisoner's expression by his own\nbrother, or that when he beat himself on the breast he must have meant to\npoint to the little bag, in the darkness, too. We shall rejoice at the new\nfact, we shall be the first to repudiate our charge, we shall hasten to\nrepudiate it. But now justice cries out and we persist, we cannot\nrepudiate anything.\"\n\nIppolit Kirillovitch passed to his final peroration. He looked as though\nhe was in a fever, he spoke of the blood that cried for vengeance, the\nblood of the father murdered by his son, with the base motive of robbery!\nHe pointed to the tragic and glaring consistency of the facts.\n\n\"And whatever you may hear from the talented and celebrated counsel for\nthe defense,\" Ippolit Kirillovitch could not resist adding, \"whatever\neloquent and touching appeals may be made to your sensibilities, remember\nthat at this moment you are in a temple of justice. Remember that you are\nthe champions of our justice, the champions of our holy Russia, of her\nprinciples, her family, everything that she holds sacred! Yes, you\nrepresent Russia here at this moment, and your verdict will be heard not\nin this hall only but will reecho throughout the whole of Russia, and all\nRussia will hear you, as her champions and her judges, and she will be\nencouraged or disheartened by your verdict. Do not disappoint Russia and\nher expectations. Our fatal troika dashes on in her headlong flight\nperhaps to destruction and in all Russia for long past men have stretched\nout imploring hands and called a halt to its furious reckless course. And\nif other nations stand aside from that troika that may be, not from\nrespect, as the poet would fain believe, but simply from horror. From\nhorror, perhaps from disgust. And well it is that they stand aside, but\nmaybe they will cease one day to do so and will form a firm wall\nconfronting the hurrying apparition and will check the frenzied rush of\nour lawlessness, for the sake of their own safety, enlightenment and\ncivilization. Already we have heard voices of alarm from Europe, they\nalready begin to sound. Do not tempt them! Do not heap up their growing\nhatred by a sentence justifying the murder of a father by his son!\"\n\nThough Ippolit Kirillovitch was genuinely moved, he wound up his speech\nwith this rhetorical appeal--and the effect produced by him was\nextraordinary. When he had finished his speech, he went out hurriedly and,\nas I have mentioned before, almost fainted in the adjoining room. There\nwas no applause in the court, but serious persons were pleased. The ladies\nwere not so well satisfied, though even they were pleased with his\neloquence, especially as they had no apprehensions as to the upshot of the\ntrial and had full trust in Fetyukovitch. \"He will speak at last and of\ncourse carry all before him.\"\n\nEvery one looked at Mitya; he sat silent through the whole of the\nprosecutor's speech, clenching his teeth, with his hands clasped, and his\nhead bowed. Only from time to time he raised his head and listened,\nespecially when Grushenka was spoken of. When the prosecutor mentioned\nRakitin's opinion of her, a smile of contempt and anger passed over his\nface and he murmured rather audibly, \"The Bernards!\" When Ippolit\nKirillovitch described how he had questioned and tortured him at Mokroe,\nMitya raised his head and listened with intense curiosity. At one point he\nseemed about to jump up and cry out, but controlled himself and only\nshrugged his shoulders disdainfully. People talked afterwards of the end\nof the speech, of the prosecutor's feat in examining the prisoner at\nMokroe, and jeered at Ippolit Kirillovitch. \"The man could not resist\nboasting of his cleverness,\" they said.\n\nThe court was adjourned, but only for a short interval, a quarter of an\nhour or twenty minutes at most. There was a hum of conversation and\nexclamations in the audience. I remember some of them.\n\n\"A weighty speech,\" a gentleman in one group observed gravely.\n\n\"He brought in too much psychology,\" said another voice.\n\n\"But it was all true, the absolute truth!\"\n\n\"Yes, he is first rate at it.\"\n\n\"He summed it all up.\"\n\n\"Yes, he summed us up, too,\" chimed in another voice. \"Do you remember, at\nthe beginning of his speech, making out we were all like Fyodor\nPavlovitch?\"\n\n\"And at the end, too. But that was all rot.\"\n\n\"And obscure too.\"\n\n\"He was a little too much carried away.\"\n\n\"It's unjust, it's unjust.\"\n\n\"No, it was smartly done, anyway. He's had long to wait, but he's had his\nsay, ha ha!\"\n\n\"What will the counsel for the defense say?\"\n\nIn another group I heard:\n\n\"He had no business to make a thrust at the Petersburg man like that;\n'appealing to your sensibilities'--do you remember?\"\n\n\"Yes, that was awkward of him.\"\n\n\"He was in too great a hurry.\"\n\n\"He is a nervous man.\"\n\n\"We laugh, but what must the prisoner be feeling?\"\n\n\"Yes, what must it be for Mitya?\"\n\nIn a third group:\n\n\"What lady is that, the fat one, with the lorgnette, sitting at the end?\"\n\n\"She is a general's wife, divorced, I know her.\"\n\n\"That's why she has the lorgnette.\"\n\n\"She is not good for much.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, she is a piquante little woman.\"\n\n\"Two places beyond her there is a little fair woman, she is prettier.\"\n\n\"They caught him smartly at Mokroe, didn't they, eh?\"\n\n\"Oh, it was smart enough. We've heard it before, how often he has told the\nstory at people's houses!\"\n\n\"And he couldn't resist doing it now. That's vanity.\"\n\n\"He is a man with a grievance, he he!\"\n\n\"Yes, and quick to take offense. And there was too much rhetoric, such\nlong sentences.\"\n\n\"Yes, he tries to alarm us, he kept trying to alarm us. Do you remember\nabout the troika? Something about 'They have Hamlets, but we have, so far,\nonly Karamazovs!' That was cleverly said!\"\n\n\"That was to propitiate the liberals. He is afraid of them.\"\n\n\"Yes, and he is afraid of the lawyer, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, what will Fetyukovitch say?\"\n\n\"Whatever he says, he won't get round our peasants.\"\n\n\"Don't you think so?\"\n\nA fourth group:\n\n\"What he said about the troika was good, that piece about the other\nnations.\"\n\n\"And that was true what he said about other nations not standing it.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Why, in the English Parliament a Member got up last week and speaking\nabout the Nihilists asked the Ministry whether it was not high time to\nintervene, to educate this barbarous people. Ippolit was thinking of him,\nI know he was. He was talking about that last week.\"\n\n\"Not an easy job.\"\n\n\"Not an easy job? Why not?\"\n\n\"Why, we'd shut up Kronstadt and not let them have any corn. Where would\nthey get it?\"\n\n\"In America. They get it from America now.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\"\n\nBut the bell rang, all rushed to their places. Fetyukovitch mounted the\ntribune.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter X. The Speech For The Defense. An Argument That Cuts Both Ways\n\n\nAll was hushed as the first words of the famous orator rang out. The eyes\nof the audience were fastened upon him. He began very simply and directly,\nwith an air of conviction, but not the slightest trace of conceit. He made\nno attempt at eloquence, at pathos, or emotional phrases. He was like a\nman speaking in a circle of intimate and sympathetic friends. His voice\nwas a fine one, sonorous and sympathetic, and there was something genuine\nand simple in the very sound of it. But every one realized at once that\nthe speaker might suddenly rise to genuine pathos and \"pierce the heart\nwith untold power.\" His language was perhaps more irregular than Ippolit\nKirillovitch's, but he spoke without long phrases, and indeed, with more\nprecision. One thing did not please the ladies: he kept bending forward,\nespecially at the beginning of his speech, not exactly bowing, but as\nthough he were about to dart at his listeners, bending his long spine in\nhalf, as though there were a spring in the middle that enabled him to bend\nalmost at right angles.\n\nAt the beginning of his speech he spoke rather disconnectedly, without\nsystem, one may say, dealing with facts separately, though, at the end,\nthese facts formed a whole. His speech might be divided into two parts,\nthe first consisting of criticism in refutation of the charge, sometimes\nmalicious and sarcastic. But in the second half he suddenly changed his\ntone, and even his manner, and at once rose to pathos. The audience seemed\non the look-out for it, and quivered with enthusiasm.\n\nHe went straight to the point, and began by saying that although he\npracticed in Petersburg, he had more than once visited provincial towns to\ndefend prisoners, of whose innocence he had a conviction or at least a\npreconceived idea. \"That is what has happened to me in the present case,\"\nhe explained. \"From the very first accounts in the newspapers I was struck\nby something which strongly prepossessed me in the prisoner's favor. What\ninterested me most was a fact which often occurs in legal practice, but\nrarely, I think, in such an extreme and peculiar form as in the present\ncase. I ought to formulate that peculiarity only at the end of my speech,\nbut I will do so at the very beginning, for it is my weakness to go to\nwork directly, not keeping my effects in reserve and economizing my\nmaterial. That may be imprudent on my part, but at least it's sincere.\nWhat I have in my mind is this: there is an overwhelming chain of evidence\nagainst the prisoner, and at the same time not one fact that will stand\ncriticism, if it is examined separately. As I followed the case more\nclosely in the papers my idea was more and more confirmed, and I suddenly\nreceived from the prisoner's relatives a request to undertake his defense.\nI at once hurried here, and here I became completely convinced. It was to\nbreak down this terrible chain of facts, and to show that each piece of\nevidence taken separately was unproved and fantastic, that I undertook the\ncase.\"\n\nSo Fetyukovitch began.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury,\" he suddenly protested, \"I am new to this\ndistrict. I have no preconceived ideas. The prisoner, a man of turbulent\nand unbridled temper, has not insulted me. But he has insulted perhaps\nhundreds of persons in this town, and so prejudiced many people against\nhim beforehand. Of course I recognize that the moral sentiment of local\nsociety is justly excited against him. The prisoner is of turbulent and\nviolent temper. Yet he was received in society here; he was even welcome\nin the family of my talented friend, the prosecutor.\"\n\n(N.B. At these words there were two or three laughs in the audience,\nquickly suppressed, but noticed by all. All of us knew that the prosecutor\nreceived Mitya against his will, solely because he had somehow interested\nhis wife--a lady of the highest virtue and moral worth, but fanciful,\ncapricious, and fond of opposing her husband, especially in trifles.\nMitya's visits, however, had not been frequent.)\n\n\"Nevertheless I venture to suggest,\" Fetyukovitch continued, \"that in\nspite of his independent mind and just character, my opponent may have\nformed a mistaken prejudice against my unfortunate client. Oh, that is so\nnatural; the unfortunate man has only too well deserved such prejudice.\nOutraged morality, and still more outraged taste, is often relentless. We\nhave, in the talented prosecutor's speech, heard a stern analysis of the\nprisoner's character and conduct, and his severe critical attitude to the\ncase was evident. And, what's more, he went into psychological subtleties\ninto which he could not have entered, if he had the least conscious and\nmalicious prejudice against the prisoner. But there are things which are\neven worse, even more fatal in such cases, than the most malicious and\nconsciously unfair attitude. It is worse if we are carried away by the\nartistic instinct, by the desire to create, so to speak, a romance,\nespecially if God has endowed us with psychological insight. Before I\nstarted on my way here, I was warned in Petersburg, and was myself aware,\nthat I should find here a talented opponent whose psychological insight\nand subtlety had gained him peculiar renown in legal circles of recent\nyears. But profound as psychology is, it's a knife that cuts both ways.\"\n(Laughter among the public.) \"You will, of course, forgive me my\ncomparison; I can't boast of eloquence. But I will take as an example any\npoint in the prosecutor's speech.\n\n\"The prisoner, running away in the garden in the dark, climbed over the\nfence, was seized by the servant, and knocked him down with a brass\npestle. Then he jumped back into the garden and spent five minutes over\nthe man, trying to discover whether he had killed him or not. And the\nprosecutor refuses to believe the prisoner's statement that he ran to old\nGrigory out of pity. 'No,' he says, 'such sensibility is impossible at\nsuch a moment, that's unnatural; he ran to find out whether the only\nwitness of his crime was dead or alive, and so showed that he had\ncommitted the murder, since he would not have run back for any other\nreason.'\n\n\"Here you have psychology; but let us take the same method and apply it to\nthe case the other way round, and our result will be no less probable. The\nmurderer, we are told, leapt down to find out, as a precaution, whether\nthe witness was alive or not, yet he had left in his murdered father's\nstudy, as the prosecutor himself argues, an amazing piece of evidence in\nthe shape of a torn envelope, with an inscription that there had been\nthree thousand roubles in it. 'If he had carried that envelope away with\nhim, no one in the world would have known of that envelope and of the\nnotes in it, and that the money had been stolen by the prisoner.' Those\nare the prosecutor's own words. So on one side you see a complete absence\nof precaution, a man who has lost his head and run away in a fright,\nleaving that clew on the floor, and two minutes later, when he has killed\nanother man, we are entitled to assume the most heartless and calculating\nforesight in him. But even admitting this was so, it is psychological\nsubtlety, I suppose, that discerns that under certain circumstances I\nbecome as bloodthirsty and keen-sighted as a Caucasian eagle, while at the\nnext I am as timid and blind as a mole. But if I am so bloodthirsty and\ncruelly calculating that when I kill a man I only run back to find out\nwhether he is alive to witness against me, why should I spend five minutes\nlooking after my victim at the risk of encountering other witnesses? Why\nsoak my handkerchief, wiping the blood off his head so that it may be\nevidence against me later? If he were so cold-hearted and calculating, why\nnot hit the servant on the head again and again with the same pestle so as\nto kill him outright and relieve himself of all anxiety about the witness?\n\n\"Again, though he ran to see whether the witness was alive, he left\nanother witness on the path, that brass pestle which he had taken from the\ntwo women, and which they could always recognize afterwards as theirs, and\nprove that he had taken it from them. And it is not as though he had\nforgotten it on the path, dropped it through carelessness or haste, no, he\nhad flung away his weapon, for it was found fifteen paces from where\nGrigory lay. Why did he do so? Just because he was grieved at having\nkilled a man, an old servant; and he flung away the pestle with a curse,\nas a murderous weapon. That's how it must have been, what other reason\ncould he have had for throwing it so far? And if he was capable of feeling\ngrief and pity at having killed a man, it shows that he was innocent of\nhis father's murder. Had he murdered him, he would never have run to\nanother victim out of pity; then he would have felt differently; his\nthoughts would have been centered on self-preservation. He would have had\nnone to spare for pity, that is beyond doubt. On the contrary, he would\nhave broken his skull instead of spending five minutes looking after him.\nThere was room for pity and good-feeling just because his conscience had\nbeen clear till then. Here we have a different psychology. I have\npurposely resorted to this method, gentlemen of the jury, to show that you\ncan prove anything by it. It all depends on who makes use of it.\nPsychology lures even most serious people into romancing, and quite\nunconsciously. I am speaking of the abuse of psychology, gentlemen.\"\n\nSounds of approval and laughter, at the expense of the prosecutor, were\nagain audible in the court. I will not repeat the speech in detail; I will\nonly quote some passages from it, some leading points.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI. There Was No Money. There Was No Robbery\n\n\nThere was one point that struck every one in Fetyukovitch's speech. He\nflatly denied the existence of the fatal three thousand roubles, and\nconsequently, the possibility of their having been stolen.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury,\" he began. \"Every new and unprejudiced observer\nmust be struck by a characteristic peculiarity in the present case,\nnamely, the charge of robbery, and the complete impossibility of proving\nthat there was anything to be stolen. We are told that money was\nstolen--three thousand roubles--but whether those roubles ever existed,\nnobody knows. Consider, how have we heard of that sum, and who has seen\nthe notes? The only person who saw them, and stated that they had been put\nin the envelope, was the servant, Smerdyakov. He had spoken of it to the\nprisoner and his brother, Ivan Fyodorovitch, before the catastrophe.\nMadame Svyetlov, too, had been told of it. But not one of these three\npersons had actually seen the notes, no one but Smerdyakov had seen them.\n\n\"Here the question arises, if it's true that they did exist, and that\nSmerdyakov had seen them, when did he see them for the last time? What if\nhis master had taken the notes from under his bed and put them back in his\ncash-box without telling him? Note, that according to Smerdyakov's story\nthe notes were kept under the mattress; the prisoner must have pulled them\nout, and yet the bed was absolutely unrumpled; that is carefully recorded\nin the protocol. How could the prisoner have found the notes without\ndisturbing the bed? How could he have helped soiling with his blood-\nstained hands the fine and spotless linen with which the bed had been\npurposely made?\n\n\"But I shall be asked: What about the envelope on the floor? Yes, it's\nworth saying a word or two about that envelope. I was somewhat surprised\njust now to hear the highly talented prosecutor declare of himself--of\nhimself, observe--that but for that envelope, but for its being left on the\nfloor, no one in the world would have known of the existence of that\nenvelope and the notes in it, and therefore of the prisoner's having\nstolen it. And so that torn scrap of paper is, by the prosecutor's own\nadmission, the sole proof on which the charge of robbery rests, 'otherwise\nno one would have known of the robbery, nor perhaps even of the money.'\nBut is the mere fact that that scrap of paper was lying on the floor a\nproof that there was money in it, and that that money had been stolen?\nYet, it will be objected, Smerdyakov had seen the money in the envelope.\nBut when, when had he seen it for the last time, I ask you that? I talked\nto Smerdyakov, and he told me that he had seen the notes two days before\nthe catastrophe. Then why not imagine that old Fyodor Pavlovitch, locked\nup alone in impatient and hysterical expectation of the object of his\nadoration, may have whiled away the time by breaking open the envelope and\ntaking out the notes. 'What's the use of the envelope?' he may have asked\nhimself. 'She won't believe the notes are there, but when I show her the\nthirty rainbow-colored notes in one roll, it will make more impression,\nyou may be sure, it will make her mouth water.' And so he tears open the\nenvelope, takes out the money, and flings the envelope on the floor,\nconscious of being the owner and untroubled by any fears of leaving\nevidence.\n\n\"Listen, gentlemen, could anything be more likely than this theory and\nsuch an action? Why is it out of the question? But if anything of the sort\ncould have taken place, the charge of robbery falls to the ground; if\nthere was no money, there was no theft of it. If the envelope on the floor\nmay be taken as evidence that there had been money in it, why may I not\nmaintain the opposite, that the envelope was on the floor because the\nmoney had been taken from it by its owner?\n\n\"But I shall be asked what became of the money if Fyodor Pavlovitch took\nit out of the envelope since it was not found when the police searched the\nhouse? In the first place, part of the money was found in the cash-box,\nand secondly, he might have taken it out that morning or the evening\nbefore to make some other use of it, to give or send it away; he may have\nchanged his idea, his plan of action completely, without thinking it\nnecessary to announce the fact to Smerdyakov beforehand. And if there is\nthe barest possibility of such an explanation, how can the prisoner be so\npositively accused of having committed murder for the sake of robbery, and\nof having actually carried out that robbery? This is encroaching on the\ndomain of romance. If it is maintained that something has been stolen, the\nthing must be produced, or at least its existence must be proved beyond\ndoubt. Yet no one had ever seen these notes.\n\n\"Not long ago in Petersburg a young man of eighteen, hardly more than a\nboy, who carried on a small business as a costermonger, went in broad\ndaylight into a moneychanger's shop with an ax, and with extraordinary,\ntypical audacity killed the master of the shop and carried off fifteen\nhundred roubles. Five hours later he was arrested, and, except fifteen\nroubles he had already managed to spend, the whole sum was found on him.\nMoreover, the shopman, on his return to the shop after the murder,\ninformed the police not only of the exact sum stolen, but even of the\nnotes and gold coins of which that sum was made up, and those very notes\nand coins were found on the criminal. This was followed by a full and\ngenuine confession on the part of the murderer. That's what I call\nevidence, gentlemen of the jury! In that case I know, I see, I touch the\nmoney, and cannot deny its existence. Is it the same in the present case?\nAnd yet it is a question of life and death.\n\n\"Yes, I shall be told, but he was carousing that night, squandering money;\nhe was shown to have had fifteen hundred roubles--where did he get the\nmoney? But the very fact that only fifteen hundred could be found, and the\nother half of the sum could nowhere be discovered, shows that that money\nwas not the same, and had never been in any envelope. By strict\ncalculation of time it was proved at the preliminary inquiry that the\nprisoner ran straight from those women servants to Perhotin's without\ngoing home, and that he had been nowhere. So he had been all the time in\ncompany and therefore could not have divided the three thousand in half\nand hidden half in the town. It's just this consideration that has led the\nprosecutor to assume that the money is hidden in some crevice at Mokroe.\nWhy not in the dungeons of the castle of Udolpho, gentlemen? Isn't this\nsupposition really too fantastic and too romantic? And observe, if that\nsupposition breaks down, the whole charge of robbery is scattered to the\nwinds, for in that case what could have become of the other fifteen\nhundred roubles? By what miracle could they have disappeared, since it's\nproved the prisoner went nowhere else? And we are ready to ruin a man's\nlife with such tales!\n\n\"I shall be told that he could not explain where he got the fifteen\nhundred that he had, and every one knew that he was without money before\nthat night. Who knew it, pray? The prisoner has made a clear and\nunflinching statement of the source of that money, and if you will have it\nso, gentlemen of the jury, nothing can be more probable than that\nstatement, and more consistent with the temper and spirit of the prisoner.\nThe prosecutor is charmed with his own romance. A man of weak will, who\nhad brought himself to take the three thousand so insultingly offered by\nhis betrothed, could not, we are told, have set aside half and sewn it up,\nbut would, even if he had done so, have unpicked it every two days and\ntaken out a hundred, and so would have spent it all in a month. All this,\nyou will remember, was put forward in a tone that brooked no\ncontradiction. But what if the thing happened quite differently? What if\nyou've been weaving a romance, and about quite a different kind of man?\nThat's just it, you have invented quite a different man!\n\n\"I shall be told, perhaps, there are witnesses that he spent on one day\nall that three thousand given him by his betrothed a month before the\ncatastrophe, so he could not have divided the sum in half. But who are\nthese witnesses? The value of their evidence has been shown in court\nalready. Besides, in another man's hand a crust always seems larger, and\nno one of these witnesses counted that money; they all judged simply at\nsight. And the witness Maximov has testified that the prisoner had twenty\nthousand in his hand. You see, gentlemen of the jury, psychology is a two-\nedged weapon. Let me turn the other edge now and see what comes of it.\n\n\"A month before the catastrophe the prisoner was entrusted by Katerina\nIvanovna with three thousand roubles to send off by post. But the question\nis: is it true that they were entrusted to him in such an insulting and\ndegrading way as was proclaimed just now? The first statement made by the\nyoung lady on the subject was different, perfectly different. In the\nsecond statement we heard only cries of resentment and revenge, cries of\nlong-concealed hatred. And the very fact that the witness gave her first\nevidence incorrectly, gives us a right to conclude that her second piece\nof evidence may have been incorrect also. The prosecutor will not, dare\nnot (his own words) touch on that story. So be it. I will not touch on it\neither, but will only venture to observe that if a lofty and high-\nprincipled person, such as that highly respected young lady unquestionably\nis, if such a person, I say, allows herself suddenly in court to\ncontradict her first statement, with the obvious motive of ruining the\nprisoner, it is clear that this evidence has been given not impartially,\nnot coolly. Have not we the right to assume that a revengeful woman might\nhave exaggerated much? Yes, she may well have exaggerated, in particular,\nthe insult and humiliation of her offering him the money. No, it was\noffered in such a way that it was possible to take it, especially for a\nman so easy-going as the prisoner, above all, as he expected to receive\nshortly from his father the three thousand roubles that he reckoned was\nowing to him. It was unreflecting of him, but it was just his\nirresponsible want of reflection that made him so confident that his\nfather would give him the money, that he would get it, and so could always\ndispatch the money entrusted to him and repay the debt.\n\n\"But the prosecutor refuses to allow that he could the same day have set\naside half the money and sewn it up in a little bag. That's not his\ncharacter, he tells us, he couldn't have had such feelings. But yet he\ntalked himself of the broad Karamazov nature; he cried out about the two\nextremes which a Karamazov can contemplate at once. Karamazov is just such\na two-sided nature, fluctuating between two extremes, that even when moved\nby the most violent craving for riotous gayety, he can pull himself up, if\nsomething strikes him on the other side. And on the other side is\nlove--that new love which had flamed up in his heart, and for that love he\nneeded money; oh, far more than for carousing with his mistress. If she\nwere to say to him, 'I am yours, I won't have Fyodor Pavlovitch,' then he\nmust have money to take her away. That was more important than carousing.\nCould a Karamazov fail to understand it? That anxiety was just what he was\nsuffering from--what is there improbable in his laying aside that money and\nconcealing it in case of emergency?\n\n\"But time passed, and Fyodor Pavlovitch did not give the prisoner the\nexpected three thousand; on the contrary, the latter heard that he meant\nto use this sum to seduce the woman he, the prisoner, loved. 'If Fyodor\nPavlovitch doesn't give the money,' he thought, 'I shall be put in the\nposition of a thief before Katerina Ivanovna.' And then the idea presented\nitself to him that he would go to Katerina Ivanovna, lay before her the\nfifteen hundred roubles he still carried round his neck, and say, 'I am a\nscoundrel, but not a thief.' So here we have already a twofold reason why\nhe should guard that sum of money as the apple of his eye, why he\nshouldn't unpick the little bag, and spend it a hundred at a time. Why\nshould you deny the prisoner a sense of honor? Yes, he has a sense of\nhonor, granted that it's misplaced, granted it's often mistaken, yet it\nexists and amounts to a passion, and he has proved that.\n\n\"But now the affair becomes even more complex; his jealous torments reach\na climax, and those same two questions torture his fevered brain more and\nmore: 'If I repay Katerina Ivanovna, where can I find the means to go off\nwith Grushenka?' If he behaved wildly, drank, and made disturbances in the\ntaverns in the course of that month, it was perhaps because he was\nwretched and strained beyond his powers of endurance. These two questions\nbecame so acute that they drove him at last to despair. He sent his\nyounger brother to beg for the last time for the three thousand roubles,\nbut without waiting for a reply, burst in himself and ended by beating the\nold man in the presence of witnesses. After that he had no prospect of\ngetting it from any one; his father would not give it him after that\nbeating.\n\n\"The same evening he struck himself on the breast, just on the upper part\nof the breast where the little bag was, and swore to his brother that he\nhad the means of not being a scoundrel, but that still he would remain a\nscoundrel, for he foresaw that he would not use that means, that he\nwouldn't have the character, that he wouldn't have the will-power to do\nit. Why, why does the prosecutor refuse to believe the evidence of Alexey\nKaramazov, given so genuinely and sincerely, so spontaneously and\nconvincingly? And why, on the contrary, does he force me to believe in\nmoney hidden in a crevice, in the dungeons of the castle of Udolpho?\n\n\"The same evening, after his talk with his brother, the prisoner wrote\nthat fatal letter, and that letter is the chief, the most stupendous proof\nof the prisoner having committed robbery! 'I shall beg from every one, and\nif I don't get it I shall murder my father and shall take the envelope\nwith the pink ribbon on it from under his mattress as soon as Ivan has\ngone.' A full program of the murder, we are told, so it must have been he.\n'It has all been done as he wrote,' cries the prosecutor.\n\n\"But in the first place, it's the letter of a drunken man and written in\ngreat irritation; secondly, he writes of the envelope from what he has\nheard from Smerdyakov again, for he has not seen the envelope himself; and\nthirdly, he wrote it indeed, but how can you prove that he did it? Did the\nprisoner take the envelope from under the pillow, did he find the money,\ndid that money exist indeed? And was it to get money that the prisoner ran\noff, if you remember? He ran off post-haste not to steal, but to find out\nwhere she was, the woman who had crushed him. He was not running to carry\nout a program, to carry out what he had written, that is, not for an act\nof premeditated robbery, but he ran suddenly, spontaneously, in a jealous\nfury. Yes! I shall be told, but when he got there and murdered him he\nseized the money, too. But did he murder him after all? The charge of\nrobbery I repudiate with indignation. A man cannot be accused of robbery,\nif it's impossible to state accurately what he has stolen; that's an\naxiom. But did he murder him without robbery, did he murder him at all? Is\nthat proved? Isn't that, too, a romance?\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII. And There Was No Murder Either\n\n\n\"Allow me, gentlemen of the jury, to remind you that a man's life is at\nstake and that you must be careful. We have heard the prosecutor himself\nadmit that until to-day he hesitated to accuse the prisoner of a full and\nconscious premeditation of the crime; he hesitated till he saw that fatal\ndrunken letter which was produced in court to-day. 'All was done as\nwritten.' But, I repeat again, he was running to her, to seek her, solely\nto find out where she was. That's a fact that can't be disputed. Had she\nbeen at home, he would not have run away, but would have remained at her\nside, and so would not have done what he promised in the letter. He ran\nunexpectedly and accidentally, and by that time very likely he did not\neven remember his drunken letter. 'He snatched up the pestle,' they say,\nand you will remember how a whole edifice of psychology was built on that\npestle--why he was bound to look at that pestle as a weapon, to snatch it\nup, and so on, and so on. A very commonplace idea occurs to me at this\npoint: What if that pestle had not been in sight, had not been lying on\nthe shelf from which it was snatched by the prisoner, but had been put\naway in a cupboard? It would not have caught the prisoner's eye, and he\nwould have run away without a weapon, with empty hands, and then he would\ncertainly not have killed any one. How then can I look upon the pestle as\na proof of premeditation?\n\n\"Yes, but he talked in the taverns of murdering his father, and two days\nbefore, on the evening when he wrote his drunken letter, he was quiet and\nonly quarreled with a shopman in the tavern, because a Karamazov could not\nhelp quarreling, forsooth! But my answer to that is, that, if he was\nplanning such a murder in accordance with his letter, he certainly would\nnot have quarreled even with a shopman, and probably would not have gone\ninto the tavern at all, because a person plotting such a crime seeks quiet\nand retirement, seeks to efface himself, to avoid being seen and heard,\nand that not from calculation, but from instinct. Gentlemen of the jury,\nthe psychological method is a two-edged weapon, and we, too, can use it.\nAs for all this shouting in taverns throughout the month, don't we often\nhear children, or drunkards coming out of taverns shout, 'I'll kill you'?\nbut they don't murder any one. And that fatal letter--isn't that simply\ndrunken irritability, too? Isn't that simply the shout of the brawler\noutside the tavern, 'I'll kill you! I'll kill the lot of you!' Why not,\nwhy could it not be that? What reason have we to call that letter 'fatal'\nrather than absurd? Because his father has been found murdered, because a\nwitness saw the prisoner running out of the garden with a weapon in his\nhand, and was knocked down by him: therefore, we are told, everything was\ndone as he had planned in writing, and the letter was not 'absurd,' but\n'fatal.'\n\n\"Now, thank God! we've come to the real point: 'since he was in the\ngarden, he must have murdered him.' In those few words: 'since he _was_,\nthen he _must_' lies the whole case for the prosecution. He was there, so\nhe must have. And what if there is no _must_ about it, even if he was\nthere? Oh, I admit that the chain of evidence--the coincidences--are really\nsuggestive. But examine all these facts separately, regardless of their\nconnection. Why, for instance, does the prosecution refuse to admit the\ntruth of the prisoner's statement that he ran away from his father's\nwindow? Remember the sarcasms in which the prosecutor indulged at the\nexpense of the respectful and 'pious' sentiments which suddenly came over\nthe murderer. But what if there were something of the sort, a feeling of\nreligious awe, if not of filial respect? 'My mother must have been praying\nfor me at that moment,' were the prisoner's words at the preliminary\ninquiry, and so he ran away as soon as he convinced himself that Madame\nSvyetlov was not in his father's house. 'But he could not convince himself\nby looking through the window,' the prosecutor objects. But why couldn't\nhe? Why? The window opened at the signals given by the prisoner. Some word\nmight have been uttered by Fyodor Pavlovitch, some exclamation which\nshowed the prisoner that she was not there. Why should we assume\neverything as we imagine it, as we make up our minds to imagine it? A\nthousand things may happen in reality which elude the subtlest\nimagination.\n\n\" 'Yes, but Grigory saw the door open and so the prisoner certainly was in\nthe house, therefore he killed him.' Now about that door, gentlemen of the\njury.... Observe that we have only the statement of one witness as to that\ndoor, and he was at the time in such a condition, that-- But supposing the\ndoor was open; supposing the prisoner has lied in denying it, from an\ninstinct of self-defense, natural in his position; supposing he did go\ninto the house--well, what then? How does it follow that because he was\nthere he committed the murder? He might have dashed in, run through the\nrooms; might have pushed his father away; might have struck him; but as\nsoon as he had made sure Madame Svyetlov was not there, he may have run\naway rejoicing that she was not there and that he had not killed his\nfather. And it was perhaps just because he had escaped from the temptation\nto kill his father, because he had a clear conscience and was rejoicing at\nnot having killed him, that he was capable of a pure feeling, the feeling\nof pity and compassion, and leapt off the fence a minute later to the\nassistance of Grigory after he had, in his excitement, knocked him down.\n\n\"With terrible eloquence the prosecutor has described to us the dreadful\nstate of the prisoner's mind at Mokroe when love again lay before him\ncalling him to new life, while love was impossible for him because he had\nhis father's bloodstained corpse behind him and beyond that\ncorpse--retribution. And yet the prosecutor allowed him love, which he\nexplained, according to his method, talking about his drunken condition,\nabout a criminal being taken to execution, about it being still far off,\nand so on and so on. But again I ask, Mr. Prosecutor, have you not\ninvented a new personality? Is the prisoner so coarse and heartless as to\nbe able to think at that moment of love and of dodges to escape\npunishment, if his hands were really stained with his father's blood? No,\nno, no! As soon as it was made plain to him that she loved him and called\nhim to her side, promising him new happiness, oh! then, I protest he must\nhave felt the impulse to suicide doubled, trebled, and must have killed\nhimself, if he had his father's murder on his conscience. Oh, no! he would\nnot have forgotten where his pistols lay! I know the prisoner: the savage,\nstony heartlessness ascribed to him by the prosecutor is inconsistent with\nhis character. He would have killed himself, that's certain. He did not\nkill himself just because 'his mother's prayers had saved him,' and he was\ninnocent of his father's blood. He was troubled, he was grieving that\nnight at Mokroe only about old Grigory and praying to God that the old man\nwould recover, that his blow had not been fatal, and that he would not\nhave to suffer for it. Why not accept such an interpretation of the facts?\nWhat trustworthy proof have we that the prisoner is lying?\n\n\"But we shall be told at once again, 'There is his father's corpse! If he\nran away without murdering him, who did murder him?' Here, I repeat, you\nhave the whole logic of the prosecution. Who murdered him, if not he?\nThere's no one to put in his place.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, is that really so? Is it positively, actually true\nthat there is no one else at all? We've heard the prosecutor count on his\nfingers all the persons who were in that house that night. They were five\nin number; three of them, I agree, could not have been responsible--the\nmurdered man himself, old Grigory, and his wife. There are left then the\nprisoner and Smerdyakov, and the prosecutor dramatically exclaims that the\nprisoner pointed to Smerdyakov because he had no one else to fix on, that\nhad there been a sixth person, even a phantom of a sixth person, he would\nhave abandoned the charge against Smerdyakov at once in shame and have\naccused that other. But, gentlemen of the jury, why may I not draw the\nvery opposite conclusion? There are two persons--the prisoner and\nSmerdyakov. Why can I not say that you accuse my client, simply because\nyou have no one else to accuse? And you have no one else only because you\nhave determined to exclude Smerdyakov from all suspicion.\n\n\"It's true, indeed, Smerdyakov is accused only by the prisoner, his two\nbrothers, and Madame Svyetlov. But there are others who accuse him: there\nare vague rumors of a question, of a suspicion, an obscure report, a\nfeeling of expectation. Finally, we have the evidence of a combination of\nfacts very suggestive, though, I admit, inconclusive. In the first place\nwe have precisely on the day of the catastrophe that fit, for the\ngenuineness of which the prosecutor, for some reason, has felt obliged to\nmake a careful defense. Then Smerdyakov's sudden suicide on the eve of the\ntrial. Then the equally startling evidence given in court to-day by the\nelder of the prisoner's brothers, who had believed in his guilt, but has\nto-day produced a bundle of notes and proclaimed Smerdyakov as the\nmurderer. Oh, I fully share the court's and the prosecutor's conviction\nthat Ivan Karamazov is suffering from brain fever, that his statement may\nreally be a desperate effort, planned in delirium, to save his brother by\nthrowing the guilt on the dead man. But again Smerdyakov's name is\npronounced, again there is a suggestion of mystery. There is something\nunexplained, incomplete. And perhaps it may one day be explained. But we\nwon't go into that now. Of that later.\n\n\"The court has resolved to go on with the trial, but, meantime, I might\nmake a few remarks about the character-sketch of Smerdyakov drawn with\nsubtlety and talent by the prosecutor. But while I admire his talent I\ncannot agree with him. I have visited Smerdyakov, I have seen him and\ntalked to him, and he made a very different impression on me. He was weak\nin health, it is true; but in character, in spirit, he was by no means the\nweak man the prosecutor has made him out to be. I found in him no trace of\nthe timidity on which the prosecutor so insisted. There was no simplicity\nabout him, either. I found in him, on the contrary, an extreme\nmistrustfulness concealed under a mask of _naivete_, and an intelligence\nof considerable range. The prosecutor was too simple in taking him for\nweak-minded. He made a very definite impression on me: I left him with the\nconviction that he was a distinctly spiteful creature, excessively\nambitious, vindictive, and intensely envious. I made some inquiries: he\nresented his parentage, was ashamed of it, and would clench his teeth when\nhe remembered that he was the son of 'stinking Lizaveta.' He was\ndisrespectful to the servant Grigory and his wife, who had cared for him\nin his childhood. He cursed and jeered at Russia. He dreamed of going to\nFrance and becoming a Frenchman. He used often to say that he hadn't the\nmeans to do so. I fancy he loved no one but himself and had a strangely\nhigh opinion of himself. His conception of culture was limited to good\nclothes, clean shirt-fronts and polished boots. Believing himself to be\nthe illegitimate son of Fyodor Pavlovitch (there is evidence of this), he\nmight well have resented his position, compared with that of his master's\nlegitimate sons. They had everything, he nothing. They had all the rights,\nthey had the inheritance, while he was only the cook. He told me himself\nthat he had helped Fyodor Pavlovitch to put the notes in the envelope. The\ndestination of that sum--a sum which would have made his career--must have\nbeen hateful to him. Moreover, he saw three thousand roubles in new\nrainbow-colored notes. (I asked him about that on purpose.) Oh, beware of\nshowing an ambitious and envious man a large sum of money at once! And it\nwas the first time he had seen so much money in the hands of one man. The\nsight of the rainbow-colored notes may have made a morbid impression on\nhis imagination, but with no immediate results.\n\n\"The talented prosecutor, with extraordinary subtlety, sketched for us all\nthe arguments for and against the hypothesis of Smerdyakov's guilt, and\nasked us in particular what motive he had in feigning a fit. But he may\nnot have been feigning at all, the fit may have happened quite naturally,\nbut it may have passed off quite naturally, and the sick man may have\nrecovered, not completely perhaps, but still regaining consciousness, as\nhappens with epileptics.\n\n\"The prosecutor asks at what moment could Smerdyakov have committed the\nmurder. But it is very easy to point out that moment. He might have waked\nup from deep sleep (for he was only asleep--an epileptic fit is always\nfollowed by a deep sleep) at that moment when the old Grigory shouted at\nthe top of his voice 'Parricide!' That shout in the dark and stillness may\nhave waked Smerdyakov whose sleep may have been less sound at the moment:\nhe might naturally have waked up an hour before.\n\n\"Getting out of bed, he goes almost unconsciously and with no definite\nmotive towards the sound to see what's the matter. His head is still\nclouded with his attack, his faculties are half asleep; but, once in the\ngarden, he walks to the lighted windows and he hears terrible news from\nhis master, who would be, of course, glad to see him. His mind sets to\nwork at once. He hears all the details from his frightened master, and\ngradually in his disordered brain there shapes itself an idea--terrible,\nbut seductive and irresistibly logical. To kill the old man, take the\nthree thousand, and throw all the blame on to his young master. A terrible\nlust of money, of booty, might seize upon him as he realized his security\nfrom detection. Oh! these sudden and irresistible impulses come so often\nwhen there is a favorable opportunity, and especially with murderers who\nhave had no idea of committing a murder beforehand. And Smerdyakov may\nhave gone in and carried out his plan. With what weapon? Why, with any\nstone picked up in the garden. But what for, with what object? Why, the\nthree thousand which means a career for him. Oh, I am not contradicting\nmyself--the money may have existed. And perhaps Smerdyakov alone knew where\nto find it, where his master kept it. And the covering of the money--the\ntorn envelope on the floor?\n\n\"Just now, when the prosecutor was explaining his subtle theory that only\nan inexperienced thief like Karamazov would have left the envelope on the\nfloor, and not one like Smerdyakov, who would have avoided leaving a piece\nof evidence against himself, I thought as I listened that I was hearing\nsomething very familiar, and, would you believe it, I have heard that very\nargument, that very conjecture, of how Karamazov would have behaved,\nprecisely two days before, from Smerdyakov himself. What's more, it struck\nme at the time. I fancied that there was an artificial simplicity about\nhim; that he was in a hurry to suggest this idea to me that I might fancy\nit was my own. He insinuated it, as it were. Did he not insinuate the same\nidea at the inquiry and suggest it to the talented prosecutor?\n\n\"I shall be asked, 'What about the old woman, Grigory's wife? She heard\nthe sick man moaning close by, all night.' Yes, she heard it, but that\nevidence is extremely unreliable. I knew a lady who complained bitterly\nthat she had been kept awake all night by a dog in the yard. Yet the poor\nbeast, it appeared, had only yelped once or twice in the night. And that's\nnatural. If any one is asleep and hears a groan he wakes up, annoyed at\nbeing waked, but instantly falls asleep again. Two hours later, again a\ngroan, he wakes up and falls asleep again; and the same thing again two\nhours later--three times altogether in the night. Next morning the sleeper\nwakes up and complains that some one has been groaning all night and\nkeeping him awake. And it is bound to seem so to him: the intervals of two\nhours of sleep he does not remember, he only remembers the moments of\nwaking, so he feels he has been waked up all night.\n\n\"But why, why, asks the prosecutor, did not Smerdyakov confess in his last\nletter? Why did his conscience prompt him to one step and not to both?\nBut, excuse me, conscience implies penitence, and the suicide may not have\nfelt penitence, but only despair. Despair and penitence are two very\ndifferent things. Despair may be vindictive and irreconcilable, and the\nsuicide, laying his hands on himself, may well have felt redoubled hatred\nfor those whom he had envied all his life.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, beware of a miscarriage of justice! What is there\nunlikely in all I have put before you just now? Find the error in my\nreasoning; find the impossibility, the absurdity. And if there is but a\nshade of possibility, but a shade of probability in my propositions, do\nnot condemn him. And is there only a shade? I swear by all that is sacred,\nI fully believe in the explanation of the murder I have just put forward.\nWhat troubles me and makes me indignant is that of all the mass of facts\nheaped up by the prosecution against the prisoner, there is not a single\none certain and irrefutable. And yet the unhappy man is to be ruined by\nthe accumulation of these facts. Yes, the accumulated effect is awful: the\nblood, the blood dripping from his fingers, the bloodstained shirt, the\ndark night resounding with the shout 'Parricide!' and the old man falling\nwith a broken head. And then the mass of phrases, statements, gestures,\nshouts! Oh! this has so much influence, it can so bias the mind; but,\ngentlemen of the jury, can it bias your minds? Remember, you have been\ngiven absolute power to bind and to loose, but the greater the power, the\nmore terrible its responsibility.\n\n\"I do not draw back one iota from what I have said just now, but suppose\nfor one moment I agreed with the prosecution that my luckless client had\nstained his hands with his father's blood. This is only hypothesis, I\nrepeat; I never for one instant doubt of his innocence. But, so be it, I\nassume that my client is guilty of parricide. Even so, hear what I have to\nsay. I have it in my heart to say something more to you, for I feel that\nthere must be a great conflict in your hearts and minds.... Forgive my\nreferring to your hearts and minds, gentlemen of the jury, but I want to\nbe truthful and sincere to the end. Let us all be sincere!\"\n\nAt this point the speech was interrupted by rather loud applause. The last\nwords, indeed, were pronounced with a note of such sincerity that every\none felt that he really might have something to say, and that what he was\nabout to say would be of the greatest consequence. But the President,\nhearing the applause, in a loud voice threatened to clear the court if\nsuch an incident were repeated. Every sound was hushed and Fetyukovitch\nbegan in a voice full of feeling quite unlike the tone he had used\nhitherto.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII. A Corrupter Of Thought\n\n\n\"It's not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my client with\nruin, gentlemen of the jury,\" he began, \"what is really damning for my\nclient is one fact--the dead body of his father. Had it been an ordinary\ncase of murder you would have rejected the charge in view of the\ntriviality, the incompleteness, and the fantastic character of the\nevidence, if you examine each part of it separately; or, at least, you\nwould have hesitated to ruin a man's life simply from the prejudice\nagainst him which he has, alas! only too well deserved. But it's not an\nordinary case of murder, it's a case of parricide. That impresses men's\nminds, and to such a degree that the very triviality and incompleteness of\nthe evidence becomes less trivial and less incomplete even to an\nunprejudiced mind. How can such a prisoner be acquitted? What if he\ncommitted the murder and gets off unpunished? That is what every one,\nalmost involuntarily, instinctively, feels at heart.\n\n\"Yes, it's a fearful thing to shed a father's blood--the father who has\nbegotten me, loved me, not spared his life for me, grieved over my\nillnesses from childhood up, troubled all his life for my happiness, and\nhas lived in my joys, in my successes. To murder such a father--that's\ninconceivable. Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father--a real father? What\nis the meaning of that great word? What is the great idea in that name? We\nhave just indicated in part what a true father is and what he ought to be.\nIn the case in which we are now so deeply occupied and over which our\nhearts are aching--in the present case, the father, Fyodor Pavlovitch\nKaramazov, did not correspond to that conception of a father to which we\nhave just referred. That's the misfortune. And indeed some fathers are a\nmisfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely: we must\nshrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the importance of\nthe decision you have to make. It's our particular duty not to shrink from\nany idea, like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor\nhappily expresses it.\n\n\"But in the course of his heated speech my esteemed opponent (and he was\nmy opponent before I opened my lips) exclaimed several times, 'Oh, I will\nnot yield the defense of the prisoner to the lawyer who has come down from\nPetersburg. I accuse, but I defend also!' He exclaimed that several times,\nbut forgot to mention that if this terrible prisoner was for twenty-three\nyears so grateful for a mere pound of nuts given him by the only man who\nhad been kind to him, as a child in his father's house, might not such a\nman well have remembered for twenty-three years how he ran in his father's\nback-yard, 'without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging\nby one button'--to use the expression of the kind-hearted doctor,\nHerzenstube?\n\n\"Oh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this\nmisfortune, why repeat what we all know already? What did my client meet\nwith when he arrived here, at his father's house, and why depict my client\nas a heartless egoist and monster? He is uncontrolled, he is wild and\nunruly--we are trying him now for that--but who is responsible for his life?\nWho is responsible for his having received such an unseemly bringing up,\nin spite of his excellent disposition and his grateful and sensitive\nheart? Did any one train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by\nstudy? Did any one love him ever so little in his childhood? My client was\nleft to the care of Providence like a beast of the field. He thirsted\nperhaps to see his father after long years of separation. A thousand times\nperhaps he may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the loathsome\nphantoms that haunted his childish dreams and with all his heart he may\nhave longed to embrace and to forgive his father! And what awaited him? He\nwas met by cynical taunts, suspicions and wrangling about money. He heard\nnothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts uttered daily over the\nbrandy, and at last he saw his father seducing his mistress from him with\nhis own money. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, that was cruel and revolting!\nAnd that old man was always complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of\nhis son. He slandered him in society, injured him, calumniated him, bought\nup his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce, unruly, and\nuncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most frequently indeed,\nexceedingly tender-hearted, only they don't express it. Don't laugh, don't\nlaugh at my idea! The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly just now at\nmy client for loving Schiller--loving the sublime and beautiful! I should\nnot have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures--oh, let me speak\nin defense of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood--these\nnatures often thirst for tenderness, goodness, and justice, as it were, in\ncontrast to themselves, their unruliness, their ferocity--they thirst for\nit unconsciously. Passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully\ncapable of loving woman, for instance, and with a spiritual and elevated\nlove. Again do not laugh at me, this is very often the case in such\nnatures. But they cannot hide their passions--sometimes very coarse--and\nthat is conspicuous and is noticed, but the inner man is unseen. Their\npassions are quickly exhausted; but, by the side of a noble and lofty\ncreature that seemingly coarse and rough man seeks a new life, seeks to\ncorrect himself, to be better, to become noble and honorable, 'sublime and\nbeautiful,' however much the expression has been ridiculed.\n\n\"I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client's\nengagement. But I may say half a word. What we heard just now was not\nevidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman, and it\nwas not for her--oh, not for her!--to reproach him with treachery, for she\nhas betrayed him! If she had had but a little time for reflection she\nwould not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her! No, my client\nis not a monster, as she called him!\n\n\"The Lover of Mankind on the eve of His Crucifixion said: 'I am the Good\nShepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not\none of them might be lost.' Let not a man's soul be lost through us!\n\n\"I asked just now what does 'father' mean, and exclaimed that it was a\ngreat word, a precious name. But one must use words honestly, gentlemen,\nand I venture to call things by their right names: such a father as old\nKaramazov cannot be called a father and does not deserve to be. Filial\nlove for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot\nbe created from nothing: only God can create something from nothing.\n\n\" 'Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath,' the apostle writes, from\na heart glowing with love. It's not for the sake of my client that I quote\nthese sacred words, I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me\nto preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen I make my\nappeal--_vivos voco!_ We are not long on earth, we do many evil deeds and\nsay many evil words. So let us all catch a favorable moment when we are\nall together to say a good word to each other. That's what I am doing:\nwhile I am in this place I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for\nnothing is this tribune given us by the highest authority--all Russia hears\nus! I am not speaking only for the fathers here present, I cry aloud to\nall fathers: 'Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.' Yes, let us\nfirst fulfill Christ's injunction ourselves and only then venture to\nexpect it of our children. Otherwise we are not fathers, but enemies of\nour children, and they are not our children, but our enemies, and we have\nmade them our enemies ourselves. 'What measure ye mete it shall be\nmeasured unto you again'--it's not I who say that, it's the Gospel precept,\nmeasure to others according as they measure to you. How can we blame\nchildren if they measure us according to our measure?\n\n\"Not long ago a servant girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly\ngiven birth to a child. She was watched, and a box of which no one knew\nanything was found in the corner of the loft, behind some bricks. It was\nopened and inside was found the body of a new-born child which she had\nkilled. In the same box were found the skeletons of two other babies\nwhich, according to her own confession, she had killed at the moment of\ntheir birth.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth\nto them, indeed; but was she a mother to them? Would any one venture to\ngive her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen, let us be\naudacious even: it's our duty to be so at this moment and not to be afraid\nof certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Ostrovsky's play, who\nare scared at the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the\nprogress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say\nplainly, the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who\nbegets it and does his duty by it.\n\n\"Oh, of course, there is the other meaning, there is the other\ninterpretation of the word 'father,' which insists that any father, even\nthough he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still\nremains my father simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the\nmystical meaning which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only\naccept by faith, or, better to say, _on faith_, like many other things\nwhich I do not understand, but which religion bids me believe. But in that\ncase let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life. In the sphere of\nactual life, which has, indeed, its own rights, but also lays upon us\ngreat duties and obligations, in that sphere, if we want to be\nhumane--Christian, in fact--we must, or ought to, act only upon convictions\njustified by reason and experience, which have been passed through the\ncrucible of analysis; in a word, we must act rationally, and not as though\nin dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we may not ill-treat\nand ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but\nrational and philanthropic....\"\n\nThere was violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court,\nbut Fetyukovitch waved his hands as though imploring them to let him\nfinish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The\norator went on.\n\n\"Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children as they grow up and begin to\nreason can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose\non them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father\ninvoluntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature,\nespecially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his\ncompanions. The conventional answer to this question is: 'He begot you,\nand you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him.'\nThe youth involuntarily reflects: 'But did he love me when he begot me?'\nhe asks, wondering more and more. 'Was it for my sake he begot me? He did\nnot know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion,\nperhaps, inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity\nto drunkenness--that's all he's done for me.... Why am I bound to love him\nsimply for begetting me when he has cared nothing for me all my life\nafter?'\n\n\"Oh, perhaps those questions strike you as coarse and cruel, but do not\nexpect an impossible restraint from a young mind. 'Drive nature out of the\ndoor and it will fly in at the window,' and, above all, let us not be\nafraid of words, but decide the question according to the dictates of\nreason and humanity and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why,\nlike this. Let the son stand before his father and ask him, 'Father, tell\nme, why must I love you? Father, show me that I must love you,' and if\nthat father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a\nreal, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on\na rational, responsible and strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does\nnot, there's an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the\nson has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy. Our\ntribune, gentlemen of the jury, ought to be a school of true and sound\nideas.\"\n\n(Here the orator was interrupted by irrepressible and almost frantic\napplause. Of course, it was not the whole audience, but a good half of it\napplauded. The fathers and mothers present applauded. Shrieks and\nexclamations were heard from the gallery, where the ladies were sitting.\nHandkerchiefs were waved. The President began ringing his bell with all\nhis might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but\ndid not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of\nhigh position, old men with stars on their breasts, sitting on specially\nreserved seats behind the judges, applauded the orator and waved their\nhandkerchiefs. So that when the noise died down, the President confined\nhimself to repeating his stern threat to clear the court, and\nFetyukovitch, excited and triumphant, continued his speech.)\n\n\"Gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has\nbeen said to-day, when the son got over the fence and stood face to face\nwith the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist most\nemphatically it was not for money he ran to his father's house: the charge\nof robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before. And it was not to murder\nhim he broke into the house, oh, no! If he had had that design he would,\nat least, have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The\nbrass pestle he caught up instinctively without knowing why he did it.\nGranted that he deceived his father by tapping at the window, granted that\nhe made his way in--I've said already that I do not for a moment believe\nthat legend, but let it be so, let us suppose it for a moment. Gentlemen,\nI swear to you by all that's holy, if it had not been his father, but an\nordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying\nhimself that the woman was not there, have made off, post-haste, without\ndoing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away\nperhaps, nothing more, for he had no thought and no time to spare for\nthat. What he wanted to know was where she was. But his father, his\nfather! The mere sight of the father who had hated him from his childhood,\nhad been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival, was\nenough! A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly,\nclouding his reason. It all surged up in one moment! It was an impulse of\nmadness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and\nunconsciously (like everything in nature) avenging the violation of its\neternal laws.\n\n\"But the prisoner even then did not murder him--I maintain that, I cry that\naloud!--no, he only brandished the pestle in a burst of indignant disgust,\nnot meaning to kill him, not knowing that he would kill him. Had he not\nhad this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father\ndown perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away, he did not\nknow whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder.\nSuch a murder is not a parricide. No, the murder of such a father cannot\nbe called parricide. Such a murder can only be reckoned parricide by\nprejudice.\n\n\"But I appeal to you again and again from the depths of my soul; did this\nmurder actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and\npunish him, he will say to himself: 'These people have done nothing for my\nbringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make\nme better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat\nand to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they\nhave sent me to penal servitude. I am quits, I owe them nothing now, and\nowe no one anything for ever. They are wicked and I will be wicked. They\nare cruel and I will be cruel.' That is what he will say, gentlemen of the\njury. And I swear, by finding him guilty you will only make it easier for\nhim: you will ease his conscience, he will curse the blood he has shed and\nwill not regret it. At the same time you will destroy in him the\npossibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness\nand blindness all his life.\n\n\"But do you want to punish him fearfully, terribly, with the most awful\npunishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and\nregenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy! You will see,\nyou will hear how he will tremble and be horror-struck. 'How can I endure\nthis mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it?' That's what\nhe will exclaim.\n\n\"Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild but grateful heart, gentlemen of\nthe jury! It will bow before your mercy; it thirsts for a great and loving\naction, it will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which, in their\nlimitation, blame the whole world. But subdue such a soul with mercy, show\nit love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in\nit. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful and that men are\ngood and just. He will be horror-stricken; he will be crushed by remorse\nand the vast obligation laid upon him henceforth. And he will not say\nthen, 'I am quits,' but will say, 'I am guilty in the sight of all men and\nam more unworthy than all.' With tears of penitence and poignant, tender\nanguish, he will exclaim: 'Others are better than I, they wanted to save\nme, not to ruin me!' Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you, for in the\nabsence of anything like real evidence it will be too awful for you to\npronounce: 'Yes, he is guilty.'\n\n\"Better acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man! Do you hear,\ndo you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious\nhistory? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that\nthe Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the\nsalvation of the criminal! Let other nations think of retribution and the\nletter of the law, we will cling to the spirit and the meaning--the\nsalvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and\nher justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer! Do not try to\nscare us with your frenzied troikas from which all the nations stand aside\nin disgust. Not a runaway troika, but the stately chariot of Russia will\nmove calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my\nclient, in your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it,\nyou will save it, you will prove that there are men to watch over it, that\nit is in good hands!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV. The Peasants Stand Firm\n\n\nThis was how Fetyukovitch concluded his speech, and the enthusiasm of the\naudience burst like an irresistible storm. It was out of the question to\nstop it: the women wept, many of the men wept too, even two important\npersonages shed tears. The President submitted, and even postponed ringing\nhis bell. The suppression of such an enthusiasm would be the suppression\nof something sacred, as the ladies cried afterwards. The orator himself\nwas genuinely touched.\n\nAnd it was at this moment that Ippolit Kirillovitch got up to make certain\nobjections. People looked at him with hatred. \"What? What's the meaning of\nit? He positively dares to make objections,\" the ladies babbled. But if\nthe whole world of ladies, including his wife, had protested he could not\nhave been stopped at that moment. He was pale, he was shaking with\nemotion, his first phrases were even unintelligible, he gasped for breath,\ncould hardly speak clearly, lost the thread. But he soon recovered\nhimself. Of this new speech of his I will quote only a few sentences.\n\n\"... I am reproached with having woven a romance. But what is this defense\nif not one romance on the top of another? All that was lacking was poetry.\nFyodor Pavlovitch, while waiting for his mistress, tears open the envelope\nand throws it on the floor. We are even told what he said while engaged in\nthis strange act. Is not this a flight of fancy? And what proof have we\nthat he had taken out the money? Who heard what he said? The weak-minded\nidiot, Smerdyakov, transformed into a Byronic hero, avenging society for\nhis illegitimate birth--isn't this a romance in the Byronic style? And the\nson who breaks into his father's house and murders him without murdering\nhim is not even a romance--this is a sphinx setting us a riddle which he\ncannot solve himself. If he murdered him, he murdered him, and what's the\nmeaning of his murdering him without having murdered him--who can make head\nor tail of this?\n\n\"Then we are admonished that our tribune is a tribune of true and sound\nideas and from this tribune of 'sound ideas' is heard a solemn declaration\nthat to call the murder of a father 'parricide' is nothing but a\nprejudice! But if parricide is a prejudice, and if every child is to ask\nhis father why he is to love him, what will become of us? What will become\nof the foundations of society? What will become of the family? Parricide,\nit appears, is only a bogy of Moscow merchants' wives. The most precious,\nthe most sacred guarantees for the destiny and future of Russian justice\nare presented to us in a perverted and frivolous form, simply to attain an\nobject--to obtain the justification of something which cannot be justified.\n'Oh, crush him by mercy,' cries the counsel for the defense; but that's\nall the criminal wants, and to-morrow it will be seen how much he is\ncrushed. And is not the counsel for the defense too modest in asking only\nfor the acquittal of the prisoner? Why not found a charity in the honor of\nthe parricide to commemorate his exploit among future generations?\nReligion and the Gospel are corrected--that's all mysticism, we are told,\nand ours is the only true Christianity which has been subjected to the\nanalysis of reason and common sense. And so they set up before us a false\nsemblance of Christ! 'What measure ye mete so it shall be meted unto you\nagain,' cried the counsel for the defense, and instantly deduces that\nChrist teaches us to measure as it is measured to us--and this from the\ntribune of truth and sound sense! We peep into the Gospel only on the eve\nof making speeches, in order to dazzle the audience by our acquaintance\nwith what is, anyway, a rather original composition, which may be of use\nto produce a certain effect--all to serve the purpose! But what Christ\ncommands us is something very different: He bids us beware of doing this,\nbecause the wicked world does this, but we ought to forgive and to turn\nthe other cheek, and not to measure to our persecutors as they measure to\nus. This is what our God has taught us and not that to forbid children to\nmurder their fathers is a prejudice. And we will not from the tribune of\ntruth and good sense correct the Gospel of our Lord, Whom the counsel for\nthe defense deigns to call only 'the crucified lover of humanity,' in\nopposition to all orthodox Russia, which calls to Him, 'For Thou art our\nGod!' \"\n\nAt this the President intervened and checked the over-zealous speaker,\nbegging him not to exaggerate, not to overstep the bounds, and so on, as\npresidents always do in such cases. The audience, too, was uneasy. The\npublic was restless: there were even exclamations of indignation.\nFetyukovitch did not so much as reply; he only mounted the tribune to lay\nhis hand on his heart and, with an offended voice, utter a few words full\nof dignity. He only touched again, lightly and ironically, on \"romancing\"\nand \"psychology,\" and in an appropriate place quoted, \"Jupiter, you are\nangry, therefore you are wrong,\" which provoked a burst of approving\nlaughter in the audience, for Ippolit Kirillovitch was by no means like\nJupiter. Then, _a propos_ of the accusation that he was teaching the young\ngeneration to murder their fathers, Fetyukovitch observed, with great\ndignity, that he would not even answer. As for the prosecutor's charge of\nuttering unorthodox opinions, Fetyukovitch hinted that it was a personal\ninsinuation and that he had expected in this court to be secure from\naccusations \"damaging to my reputation as a citizen and a loyal subject.\"\nBut at these words the President pulled him up, too, and Fetyukovitch\nconcluded his speech with a bow, amid a hum of approbation in the court.\nAnd Ippolit Kirillovitch was, in the opinion of our ladies, \"crushed for\ngood.\"\n\nThen the prisoner was allowed to speak. Mitya stood up, but said very\nlittle. He was fearfully exhausted, physically and mentally. The look of\nstrength and independence with which he had entered in the morning had\nalmost disappeared. He seemed as though he had passed through an\nexperience that day, which had taught him for the rest of his life\nsomething very important he had not understood till then. His voice was\nweak, he did not shout as before. In his words there was a new note of\nhumility, defeat and submission.\n\n\"What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury? The hour of judgment has come\nfor me, I feel the hand of God upon me! The end has come to an erring man!\nBut, before God, I repeat to you, I am innocent of my father's blood! For\nthe last time I repeat, it wasn't I killed him! I was erring, but I loved\nwhat is good. Every instant I strove to reform, but I lived like a wild\nbeast. I thank the prosecutor, he told me many things about myself that I\ndid not know; but it's not true that I killed my father, the prosecutor is\nmistaken. I thank my counsel, too. I cried listening to him; but it's not\ntrue that I killed my father, and he needn't have supposed it. And don't\nbelieve the doctors. I am perfectly sane, only my heart is heavy. If you\nspare me, if you let me go, I will pray for you. I will be a better man. I\ngive you my word before God I will! And if you will condemn me, I'll break\nmy sword over my head myself and kiss the pieces. But spare me, do not rob\nme of my God! I know myself, I shall rebel! My heart is heavy, gentlemen\n... spare me!\"\n\nHe almost fell back in his place: his voice broke: he could hardly\narticulate the last phrase. Then the judges proceeded to put the questions\nand began to ask both sides to formulate their conclusions.\n\nBut I will not describe the details. At last the jury rose to retire for\nconsultation. The President was very tired, and so his last charge to the\njury was rather feeble. \"Be impartial, don't be influenced by the\neloquence of the defense, but yet weigh the arguments. Remember that there\nis a great responsibility laid upon you,\" and so on and so on.\n\nThe jury withdrew and the court adjourned. People could get up, move\nabout, exchange their accumulated impressions, refresh themselves at the\nbuffet. It was very late, almost one o'clock in the night, but nobody went\naway: the strain was so great that no one could think of repose. All\nwaited with sinking hearts; though that is, perhaps, too much to say, for\nthe ladies were only in a state of hysterical impatience and their hearts\nwere untroubled. An acquittal, they thought, was inevitable. They all\nprepared themselves for a dramatic moment of general enthusiasm. I must\nown there were many among the men, too, who were convinced that an\nacquittal was inevitable. Some were pleased, others frowned, while some\nwere simply dejected, not wanting him to be acquitted. Fetyukovitch\nhimself was confident of his success. He was surrounded by people\ncongratulating him and fawning upon him.\n\n\"There are,\" he said to one group, as I was told afterwards, \"there are\ninvisible threads binding the counsel for the defense with the jury. One\nfeels during one's speech if they are being formed. I was aware of them.\nThey exist. Our cause is won. Set your mind at rest.\"\n\n\"What will our peasants say now?\" said one stout, cross-looking, pock-\nmarked gentleman, a landowner of the neighborhood, approaching a group of\ngentlemen engaged in conversation.\n\n\"But they are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among\nthem.\"\n\n\"Yes, there are clerks,\" said a member of the district council, joining\nthe group.\n\n\"And do you know that Nazaryev, the merchant with the medal, a juryman?\"\n\n\"What of him?\"\n\n\"He is a man with brains.\"\n\n\"But he never speaks.\"\n\n\"He is no great talker, but so much the better. There's no need for the\nPetersburg man to teach him: he could teach all Petersburg himself. He's\nthe father of twelve children. Think of that!\"\n\n\"Upon my word, you don't suppose they won't acquit him?\" one of our young\nofficials exclaimed in another group.\n\n\"They'll acquit him for certain,\" said a resolute voice.\n\n\"It would be shameful, disgraceful, not to acquit him!\" cried the\nofficial. \"Suppose he did murder him--there are fathers and fathers! And,\nbesides, he was in such a frenzy.... He really may have done nothing but\nswing the pestle in the air, and so knocked the old man down. But it was a\npity they dragged the valet in. That was simply an absurd theory! If I'd\nbeen in Fetyukovitch's place, I should simply have said straight out: 'He\nmurdered him; but he is not guilty, hang it all!' \"\n\n\"That's what he did, only without saying, 'Hang it all!' \"\n\n\"No, Mihail Semyonovitch, he almost said that, too,\" put in a third voice.\n\n\"Why, gentlemen, in Lent an actress was acquitted in our town who had cut\nthe throat of her lover's lawful wife.\"\n\n\"Oh, but she did not finish cutting it.\"\n\n\"That makes no difference. She began cutting it.\"\n\n\"What did you think of what he said about children? Splendid, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Splendid!\"\n\n\"And about mysticism, too!\"\n\n\"Oh, drop mysticism, do!\" cried some one else; \"think of Ippolit and his\nfate from this day forth. His wife will scratch his eyes out to-morrow for\nMitya's sake.\"\n\n\"Is she here?\"\n\n\"What an idea! If she'd been here she'd have scratched them out in court.\nShe is at home with toothache. He he he!\"\n\n\"He he he!\"\n\nIn a third group:\n\n\"I dare say they will acquit Mitenka, after all.\"\n\n\"I should not be surprised if he turns the 'Metropolis' upside down to-\nmorrow. He will be drinking for ten days!\"\n\n\"Oh, the devil!\"\n\n\"The devil's bound to have a hand in it. Where should he be if not here?\"\n\n\"Well, gentlemen, I admit it was eloquent. But still it's not the thing to\nbreak your father's head with a pestle! Or what are we coming to?\"\n\n\"The chariot! Do you remember the chariot?\"\n\n\"Yes; he turned a cart into a chariot!\"\n\n\"And to-morrow he will turn a chariot into a cart, just to suit his\npurpose.\"\n\n\"What cunning chaps there are nowadays! Is there any justice to be had in\nRussia?\"\n\nBut the bell rang. The jury deliberated for exactly an hour, neither more\nnor less. A profound silence reigned in the court as soon as the public\nhad taken their seats. I remember how the jurymen walked into the court.\nAt last! I won't repeat the questions in order, and, indeed, I have\nforgotten them. I remember only the answer to the President's first and\nchief question: \"Did the prisoner commit the murder for the sake of\nrobbery and with premeditation?\" (I don't remember the exact words.) There\nwas a complete hush. The foreman of the jury, the youngest of the clerks,\npronounced, in a clear, loud voice, amidst the deathlike stillness of the\ncourt:\n\n\"Yes, guilty!\"\n\nAnd the same answer was repeated to every question: \"Yes, guilty!\" and\nwithout the slightest extenuating comment. This no one had expected;\nalmost every one had reckoned upon a recommendation to mercy, at least.\nThe deathlike silence in the court was not broken--all seemed petrified:\nthose who desired his conviction as well as those who had been eager for\nhis acquittal. But that was only for the first instant, and it was\nfollowed by a fearful hubbub. Many of the men in the audience were\npleased. Some were rubbing their hands with no attempt to conceal their\njoy. Those who disagreed with the verdict seemed crushed, shrugged their\nshoulders, whispered, but still seemed unable to realize this. But how\nshall I describe the state the ladies were in? I thought they would create\na riot. At first they could scarcely believe their ears. Then suddenly the\nwhole court rang with exclamations: \"What's the meaning of it? What next?\"\nThey leapt up from their places. They seemed to fancy that it might be at\nonce reconsidered and reversed. At that instant Mitya suddenly stood up\nand cried in a heartrending voice, stretching his hands out before him:\n\n\"I swear by God and the dreadful Day of Judgment I am not guilty of my\nfather's blood! Katya, I forgive you! Brothers, friends, have pity on the\nother woman!\"\n\nHe could not go on, and broke into a terrible sobbing wail that was heard\nall over the court in a strange, unnatural voice unlike his own. From the\nfarthest corner at the back of the gallery came a piercing shriek--it was\nGrushenka. She had succeeded in begging admittance to the court again\nbefore the beginning of the lawyers' speeches. Mitya was taken away. The\npassing of the sentence was deferred till next day. The whole court was in\na hubbub but I did not wait to hear. I only remember a few exclamations I\nheard on the steps as I went out.\n\n\"He'll have a twenty years' trip to the mines!\"\n\n\"Not less.\"\n\n\"Well, our peasants have stood firm.\"\n\n\"And have done for our Mitya.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEPILOGUE Chapter I. Plans For Mitya's Escape\n\n\nVery early, at nine o'clock in the morning, five days after the trial,\nAlyosha went to Katerina Ivanovna's to talk over a matter of great\nimportance to both of them, and to give her a message. She sat and talked\nto him in the very room in which she had once received Grushenka. In the\nnext room Ivan Fyodorovitch lay unconscious in a high fever. Katerina\nIvanovna had immediately after the scene at the trial ordered the sick and\nunconscious man to be carried to her house, disregarding the inevitable\ngossip and general disapproval of the public. One of the two relations who\nlived with her had departed to Moscow immediately after the scene in\ncourt, the other remained. But if both had gone away, Katerina Ivanovna\nwould have adhered to her resolution, and would have gone on nursing the\nsick man and sitting by him day and night. Varvinsky and Herzenstube were\nattending him. The famous doctor had gone back to Moscow, refusing to give\nan opinion as to the probable end of the illness. Though the doctors\nencouraged Katerina Ivanovna and Alyosha, it was evident that they could\nnot yet give them positive hopes of recovery.\n\nAlyosha came to see his sick brother twice a day. But this time he had\nspecially urgent business, and he foresaw how difficult it would be to\napproach the subject, yet he was in great haste. He had another engagement\nthat could not be put off for that same morning, and there was need of\nhaste.\n\nThey had been talking for a quarter of an hour. Katerina Ivanovna was pale\nand terribly fatigued, yet at the same time in a state of hysterical\nexcitement. She had a presentiment of the reason why Alyosha had come to\nher.\n\n\"Don't worry about his decision,\" she said, with confident emphasis to\nAlyosha. \"One way or another he is bound to come to it. He must escape.\nThat unhappy man, that hero of honor and principle--not he, not Dmitri\nFyodorovitch, but the man lying the other side of that door, who has\nsacrificed himself for his brother,\" Katya added, with flashing eyes--\"told\nme the whole plan of escape long ago. You know he has already entered into\nnegotiations.... I've told you something already.... You see, it will\nprobably come off at the third _etape_ from here, when the party of\nprisoners is being taken to Siberia. Oh, it's a long way off yet. Ivan\nFyodorovitch has already visited the superintendent of the third _etape_.\nBut we don't know yet who will be in charge of the party, and it's\nimpossible to find that out so long beforehand. To-morrow perhaps I will\nshow you in detail the whole plan which Ivan Fyodorovitch left me on the\neve of the trial in case of need.... That was when--do you remember?--you\nfound us quarreling. He had just gone down-stairs, but seeing you I made\nhim come back; do you remember? Do you know what we were quarreling about\nthen?\"\n\n\"No, I don't,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Of course he did not tell you. It was about that plan of escape. He had\ntold me the main idea three days before, and we began quarreling about it\nat once and quarreled for three days. We quarreled because, when he told\nme that if Dmitri Fyodorovitch were convicted he would escape abroad with\nthat creature, I felt furious at once--I can't tell you why, I don't know\nmyself why.... Oh, of course, I was furious then about that creature, and\nthat she, too, should go abroad with Dmitri!\" Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed\nsuddenly, her lips quivering with anger. \"As soon as Ivan Fyodorovitch saw\nthat I was furious about that woman, he instantly imagined I was jealous\nof Dmitri and that I still loved Dmitri. That is how our first quarrel\nbegan. I would not give an explanation, I could not ask forgiveness. I\ncould not bear to think that such a man could suspect me of still loving\nthat ... and when I myself had told him long before that I did not love\nDmitri, that I loved no one but him! It was only resentment against that\ncreature that made me angry with him. Three days later, on the evening you\ncame, he brought me a sealed envelope, which I was to open at once, if\nanything happened to him. Oh, he foresaw his illness! He told me that the\nenvelope contained the details of the escape, and that if he died or was\ntaken dangerously ill, I was to save Mitya alone. Then he left me money,\nnearly ten thousand--those notes to which the prosecutor referred in his\nspeech, having learnt from some one that he had sent them to be changed. I\nwas tremendously impressed to find that Ivan Fyodorovitch had not given up\nhis idea of saving his brother, and was confiding this plan of escape to\nme, though he was still jealous of me and still convinced that I loved\nMitya. Oh, that was a sacrifice! No, you cannot understand the greatness\nof such self-sacrifice, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I wanted to fall at his feet\nin reverence, but I thought at once that he would take it only for my joy\nat the thought of Mitya's being saved (and he certainly would have\nimagined that!), and I was so exasperated at the mere possibility of such\nan unjust thought on his part that I lost my temper again, and instead of\nkissing his feet, flew into a fury again! Oh, I am unhappy! It's my\ncharacter, my awful, unhappy character! Oh, you will see, I shall end by\ndriving him, too, to abandon me for another with whom he can get on\nbetter, like Dmitri. But ... no, I could not bear it, I should kill\nmyself. And when you came in then, and when I called to you and told him\nto come back, I was so enraged by the look of contempt and hatred he\nturned on me that--do you remember?--I cried out to you that it was he, he\nalone who had persuaded me that his brother Dmitri was a murderer! I said\nthat malicious thing on purpose to wound him again. He had never, never\npersuaded me that his brother was a murderer. On the contrary, it was I\nwho persuaded him! Oh, my vile temper was the cause of everything! I paved\nthe way to that hideous scene at the trial. He wanted to show me that he\nwas an honorable man, and that, even if I loved his brother, he would not\nruin him for revenge or jealousy. So he came to the court ... I am the\ncause of it all, I alone am to blame!\"\n\nKatya never had made such confessions to Alyosha before, and he felt that\nshe was now at that stage of unbearable suffering when even the proudest\nheart painfully crushes its pride and falls vanquished by grief. Oh,\nAlyosha knew another terrible reason of her present misery, though she had\ncarefully concealed it from him during those days since the trial; but it\nwould have been for some reason too painful to him if she had been brought\nso low as to speak to him now about that. She was suffering for her\n\"treachery\" at the trial, and Alyosha felt that her conscience was\nimpelling her to confess it to him, to him, Alyosha, with tears and cries\nand hysterical writhings on the floor. But he dreaded that moment and\nlonged to spare her. It made the commission on which he had come even more\ndifficult. He spoke of Mitya again.\n\n\"It's all right, it's all right, don't be anxious about him!\" she began\nagain, sharply and stubbornly. \"All that is only momentary, I know him, I\nknow his heart only too well. You may be sure he will consent to escape.\nIt's not as though it would be immediately; he will have time to make up\nhis mind to it. Ivan Fyodorovitch will be well by that time and will\nmanage it all himself, so that I shall have nothing to do with it. Don't\nbe anxious; he will consent to run away. He has agreed already: do you\nsuppose he would give up that creature? And they won't let her go to him,\nso he is bound to escape. It's you he's most afraid of, he is afraid you\nwon't approve of his escape on moral grounds. But you must generously\n_allow_ it, if your sanction is so necessary,\" Katya added viciously. She\npaused and smiled.\n\n\"He talks about some hymn,\" she went on again, \"some cross he has to bear,\nsome duty; I remember Ivan Fyodorovitch told me a great deal about it, and\nif you knew how he talked!\" Katya cried suddenly, with feeling she could\nnot repress, \"if you knew how he loved that wretched man at the moment he\ntold me, and how he hated him, perhaps, at the same moment. And I heard\nhis story and his tears with sneering disdain. Brute! Yes, I am a brute. I\nam responsible for his fever. But that man in prison is incapable of\nsuffering,\" Katya concluded irritably. \"Can such a man suffer? Men like\nhim never suffer!\"\n\nThere was a note of hatred and contemptuous repulsion in her words. And\nyet it was she who had betrayed him. \"Perhaps because she feels how she's\nwronged him she hates him at moments,\" Alyosha thought to himself. He\nhoped that it was only \"at moments.\" In Katya's last words he detected a\nchallenging note, but he did not take it up.\n\n\"I sent for you this morning to make you promise to persuade him yourself.\nOr do you, too, consider that to escape would be dishonorable, cowardly,\nor something ... unchristian, perhaps?\" Katya added, even more defiantly.\n\n\"Oh, no. I'll tell him everything,\" muttered Alyosha. \"He asks you to come\nand see him to-day,\" he blurted out suddenly, looking her steadily in the\nface. She started, and drew back a little from him on the sofa.\n\n\"Me? Can that be?\" she faltered, turning pale.\n\n\"It can and ought to be!\" Alyosha began emphatically, growing more\nanimated. \"He needs you particularly just now. I would not have opened the\nsubject and worried you, if it were not necessary. He is ill, he is beside\nhimself, he keeps asking for you. It is not to be reconciled with you that\nhe wants you, but only that you would go and show yourself at his door. So\nmuch has happened to him since that day. He realizes that he has injured\nyou beyond all reckoning. He does not ask your forgiveness--'It's\nimpossible to forgive me,' he says himself--but only that you would show\nyourself in his doorway.\"\n\n\"It's so sudden....\" faltered Katya. \"I've had a presentiment all these\ndays that you would come with that message. I knew he would ask me to\ncome. It's impossible!\"\n\n\"Let it be impossible, but do it. Only think, he realizes for the first\ntime how he has wounded you, the first time in his life; he had never\ngrasped it before so fully. He said, 'If she refuses to come I shall be\nunhappy all my life.' Do you hear? though he is condemned to penal\nservitude for twenty years, he is still planning to be happy--is not that\npiteous? Think--you must visit him; though he is ruined, he is innocent,\"\nbroke like a challenge from Alyosha. \"His hands are clean, there is no\nblood on them! For the sake of his infinite sufferings in the future visit\nhim now. Go, greet him on his way into the darkness--stand at his door,\nthat is all.... You ought to do it, you ought to!\" Alyosha concluded,\nlaying immense stress on the word \"ought.\"\n\n\"I ought to ... but I cannot....\" Katya moaned. \"He will look at me.... I\ncan't.\"\n\n\"Your eyes ought to meet. How will you live all your life, if you don't\nmake up your mind to do it now?\"\n\n\"Better suffer all my life.\"\n\n\"You ought to go, you ought to go,\" Alyosha repeated with merciless\nemphasis.\n\n\"But why to-day, why at once?... I can't leave our patient--\"\n\n\"You can for a moment. It will only be a moment. If you don't come, he\nwill be in delirium by to-night. I would not tell you a lie; have pity on\nhim!\"\n\n\"Have pity on _me!_\" Katya said, with bitter reproach, and she burst into\ntears.\n\n\"Then you will come,\" said Alyosha firmly, seeing her tears. \"I'll go and\ntell him you will come directly.\"\n\n\"No, don't tell him so on any account,\" cried Katya in alarm. \"I will\ncome, but don't tell him beforehand, for perhaps I may go, but not go\nin.... I don't know yet--\"\n\nHer voice failed her. She gasped for breath. Alyosha got up to go.\n\n\"And what if I meet any one?\" she said suddenly, in a low voice, turning\nwhite again.\n\n\"That's just why you must go now, to avoid meeting any one. There will be\nno one there, I can tell you that for certain. We will expect you,\" he\nconcluded emphatically, and went out of the room.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter II. For A Moment The Lie Becomes Truth\n\n\nHe hurried to the hospital where Mitya was lying now. The day after his\nfate was determined, Mitya had fallen ill with nervous fever, and was sent\nto the prison division of the town hospital. But at the request of several\npersons (Alyosha, Madame Hohlakov, Lise, etc.), Doctor Varvinsky had put\nMitya not with other prisoners, but in a separate little room, the one\nwhere Smerdyakov had been. It is true that there was a sentinel at the\nother end of the corridor, and there was a grating over the window, so\nthat Varvinsky could be at ease about the indulgence he had shown, which\nwas not quite legal, indeed; but he was a kind-hearted and compassionate\nyoung man. He knew how hard it would be for a man like Mitya to pass at\nonce so suddenly into the society of robbers and murderers, and that he\nmust get used to it by degrees. The visits of relations and friends were\ninformally sanctioned by the doctor and overseer, and even by the police\ncaptain. But only Alyosha and Grushenka had visited Mitya. Rakitin had\ntried to force his way in twice, but Mitya persistently begged Varvinsky\nnot to admit him.\n\nAlyosha found him sitting on his bed in a hospital dressing-gown, rather\nfeverish, with a towel, soaked in vinegar and water, on his head. He\nlooked at Alyosha as he came in with an undefined expression, but there\nwas a shade of something like dread discernible in it. He had become\nterribly preoccupied since the trial; sometimes he would be silent for\nhalf an hour together, and seemed to be pondering something heavily and\npainfully, oblivious of everything about him. If he roused himself from\nhis brooding and began to talk, he always spoke with a kind of abruptness\nand never of what he really wanted to say. He looked sometimes with a face\nof suffering at his brother. He seemed to be more at ease with Grushenka\nthan with Alyosha. It is true, he scarcely spoke to her at all, but as\nsoon as she came in, his whole face lighted up with joy.\n\nAlyosha sat down beside him on the bed in silence. This time Mitya was\nwaiting for Alyosha in suspense, but he did not dare ask him a question.\nHe felt it almost unthinkable that Katya would consent to come, and at the\nsame time he felt that if she did not come, something inconceivable would\nhappen. Alyosha understood his feelings.\n\n\"Trifon Borissovitch,\" Mitya began nervously, \"has pulled his whole inn to\npieces, I am told. He's taken up the flooring, pulled apart the planks,\nsplit up all the gallery, I am told. He is seeking treasure all the\ntime--the fifteen hundred roubles which the prosecutor said I'd hidden\nthere. He began playing these tricks, they say, as soon as he got home.\nServe him right, the swindler! The guard here told me yesterday; he comes\nfrom there.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" began Alyosha. \"She will come, but I don't know when. Perhaps\nto-day, perhaps in a few days, that I can't tell. But she will come, she\nwill, that's certain.\"\n\nMitya started, would have said something, but was silent. The news had a\ntremendous effect on him. It was evident that he would have liked terribly\nto know what had been said, but he was again afraid to ask. Something\ncruel and contemptuous from Katya would have cut him like a knife at that\nmoment.\n\n\"This was what she said among other things; that I must be sure to set\nyour conscience at rest about escaping. If Ivan is not well by then she\nwill see to it all herself.\"\n\n\"You've spoken of that already,\" Mitya observed musingly.\n\n\"And you have repeated it to Grusha,\" observed Alyosha.\n\n\"Yes,\" Mitya admitted. \"She won't come this morning.\" He looked timidly at\nhis brother. \"She won't come till the evening. When I told her yesterday\nthat Katya was taking measures, she was silent, but she set her mouth. She\nonly whispered, 'Let her!' She understood that it was important. I did not\ndare to try her further. She understands now, I think, that Katya no\nlonger cares for me, but loves Ivan.\"\n\n\"Does she?\" broke from Alyosha.\n\n\"Perhaps she does not. Only she is not coming this morning,\" Mitya\nhastened to explain again; \"I asked her to do something for me. You know,\nIvan is superior to all of us. He ought to live, not us. He will recover.\"\n\n\"Would you believe it, though Katya is alarmed about him, she scarcely\ndoubts of his recovery,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"That means that she is convinced he will die. It's because she is\nfrightened she's so sure he will get well.\"\n\n\"Ivan has a strong constitution, and I, too, believe there's every hope\nthat he will get well,\" Alyosha observed anxiously.\n\n\"Yes, he will get well. But she is convinced that he will die. She has a\ngreat deal of sorrow to bear...\" A silence followed. A grave anxiety was\nfretting Mitya.\n\n\"Alyosha, I love Grusha terribly,\" he said suddenly in a shaking voice,\nfull of tears.\n\n\"They won't let her go out there to you,\" Alyosha put in at once.\n\n\"And there is something else I wanted to tell you,\" Mitya went on, with a\nsudden ring in his voice. \"If they beat me on the way or out there, I\nwon't submit to it. I shall kill some one, and shall be shot for it. And\nthis will be going on for twenty years! They speak to me rudely as it is.\nI've been lying here all night, passing judgment on myself. I am not\nready! I am not able to resign myself. I wanted to sing a 'hymn'; but if a\nguard speaks rudely to me, I have not the strength to bear it. For Grusha\nI would bear anything ... anything except blows.... But she won't be\nallowed to come there.\"\n\nAlyosha smiled gently.\n\n\"Listen, brother, once for all,\" he said. \"This is what I think about it.\nAnd you know that I would not tell you a lie. Listen: you are not ready,\nand such a cross is not for you. What's more, you don't need such a\nmartyr's cross when you are not ready for it. If you had murdered our\nfather, it would grieve me that you should reject your punishment. But you\nare innocent, and such a cross is too much for you. You wanted to make\nyourself another man by suffering. I say, only remember that other man\nalways, all your life and wherever you go; and that will be enough for\nyou. Your refusal of that great cross will only serve to make you feel all\nyour life an even greater duty, and that constant feeling will do more to\nmake you a new man, perhaps, than if you went there. For there you would\nnot endure it and would repine, and perhaps at last would say: 'I am\nquits.' The lawyer was right about that. Such heavy burdens are not for\nall men. For some they are impossible. These are my thoughts about it, if\nyou want them so much. If other men would have to answer for your escape,\nofficers or soldiers, then I would not have 'allowed' you,\" smiled\nAlyosha. \"But they declare--the superintendent of that _etape_ told Ivan\nhimself--that if it's well managed there will be no great inquiry, and that\nthey can get off easily. Of course, bribing is dishonest even in such a\ncase, but I can't undertake to judge about it, because if Ivan and Katya\ncommissioned me to act for you, I know I should go and give bribes. I must\ntell you the truth. And so I can't judge of your own action. But let me\nassure you that I shall never condemn you. And it would be a strange thing\nif I could judge you in this. Now I think I've gone into everything.\"\n\n\"But I do condemn myself!\" cried Mitya. \"I shall escape, that was settled\napart from you; could Mitya Karamazov do anything but run away? But I\nshall condemn myself, and I will pray for my sin for ever. That's how the\nJesuits talk, isn't it? Just as we are doing?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Alyosha smiled gently.\n\n\"I love you for always telling the whole truth and never hiding anything,\"\ncried Mitya, with a joyful laugh. \"So I've caught my Alyosha being\nJesuitical. I must kiss you for that. Now listen to the rest; I'll open\nthe other side of my heart to you. This is what I planned and decided. If\nI run away, even with money and a passport, and even to America, I should\nbe cheered up by the thought that I am not running away for pleasure, not\nfor happiness, but to another exile as bad, perhaps, as Siberia. It is as\nbad, Alyosha, it is! I hate that America, damn it, already. Even though\nGrusha will be with me. Just look at her; is she an American? She is\nRussian, Russian to the marrow of her bones; she will be homesick for the\nmother country, and I shall see every hour that she is suffering for my\nsake, that she has taken up that cross for me. And what harm has she done?\nAnd how shall I, too, put up with the rabble out there, though they may be\nbetter than I, every one of them? I hate that America already! And though\nthey may be wonderful at machinery, every one of them, damn them, they are\nnot of my soul. I love Russia, Alyosha, I love the Russian God, though I\nam a scoundrel myself. I shall choke there!\" he exclaimed, his eyes\nsuddenly flashing. His voice was trembling with tears. \"So this is what\nI've decided, Alyosha, listen,\" he began again, mastering his emotion. \"As\nsoon as I arrive there with Grusha, we will set to work at once on the\nland, in solitude, somewhere very remote, with wild bears. There must be\nsome remote parts even there. I am told there are still Redskins there,\nsomewhere, on the edge of the horizon. So to the country of the _Last of\nthe Mohicans_, and there we'll tackle the grammar at once, Grusha and I.\nWork and grammar--that's how we'll spend three years. And by that time we\nshall speak English like any Englishman. And as soon as we've learnt\nit--good-by to America! We'll run here to Russia as American citizens.\nDon't be uneasy--we would not come to this little town. We'd hide\nsomewhere, a long way off, in the north or in the south. I shall be\nchanged by that time, and she will, too, in America. The doctors shall\nmake me some sort of wart on my face--what's the use of their being so\nmechanical!--or else I'll put out one eye, let my beard grow a yard, and I\nshall turn gray, fretting for Russia. I dare say they won't recognize us.\nAnd if they do, let them send us to Siberia. I don't care. It will show\nit's our fate. We'll work on the land here, too, somewhere in the wilds,\nand I'll make up as an American all my life. But we shall die on our own\nsoil. That's my plan, and it shan't be altered. Do you approve?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Alyosha, not wanting to contradict him. Mitya paused for a\nminute and said suddenly:\n\n\"And how they worked it up at the trial! Didn't they work it up!\"\n\n\"If they had not, you would have been convicted just the same,\" said\nAlyosha, with a sigh.\n\n\"Yes, people are sick of me here! God bless them, but it's hard,\" Mitya\nmoaned miserably. Again there was silence for a minute.\n\n\"Alyosha, put me out of my misery at once!\" he exclaimed suddenly. \"Tell\nme, is she coming now, or not? Tell me? What did she say? How did she say\nit?\"\n\n\"She said she would come, but I don't know whether she will come to-day.\nIt's hard for her, you know,\" Alyosha looked timidly at his brother.\n\n\"I should think it is hard for her! Alyosha, it will drive me out of my\nmind. Grusha keeps looking at me. She understands. My God, calm my heart:\nwhat is it I want? I want Katya! Do I understand what I want? It's the\nheadstrong, evil Karamazov spirit! No, I am not fit for suffering. I am a\nscoundrel, that's all one can say.\"\n\n\"Here she is!\" cried Alyosha.\n\nAt that instant Katya appeared in the doorway. For a moment she stood\nstill, gazing at Mitya with a dazed expression. He leapt impulsively to\nhis feet, and a scared look came into his face. He turned pale, but a\ntimid, pleading smile appeared on his lips at once, and with an\nirresistible impulse he held out both hands to Katya. Seeing it, she flew\nimpetuously to him. She seized him by the hands, and almost by force made\nhim sit down on the bed. She sat down beside him, and still keeping his\nhands pressed them violently. Several times they both strove to speak, but\nstopped short and again gazed speechless with a strange smile, their eyes\nfastened on one another. So passed two minutes.\n\n\"Have you forgiven me?\" Mitya faltered at last, and at the same moment\nturning to Alyosha, his face working with joy, he cried, \"Do you hear what\nI am asking, do you hear?\"\n\n\"That's what I loved you for, that you are generous at heart!\" broke from\nKatya. \"My forgiveness is no good to you, nor yours to me; whether you\nforgive me or not, you will always be a sore place in my heart, and I in\nyours--so it must be....\" She stopped to take breath. \"What have I come\nfor?\" she began again with nervous haste: \"to embrace your feet, to press\nyour hands like this, till it hurts--you remember how in Moscow I used to\nsqueeze them--to tell you again that you are my god, my joy, to tell you\nthat I love you madly,\" she moaned in anguish, and suddenly pressed his\nhand greedily to her lips. Tears streamed from her eyes. Alyosha stood\nspeechless and confounded; he had never expected what he was seeing.\n\n\"Love is over, Mitya!\" Katya began again, \"but the past is painfully dear\nto me. Know that you will always be so. But now let what might have been\ncome true for one minute,\" she faltered, with a drawn smile, looking into\nhis face joyfully again. \"You love another woman, and I love another man,\nand yet I shall love you for ever, and you will love me; do you know that?\nDo you hear? Love me, love me all your life!\" she cried, with a quiver\nalmost of menace in her voice.\n\n\"I shall love you, and ... do you know, Katya,\" Mitya began, drawing a\ndeep breath at each word, \"do you know, five days ago, that same evening,\nI loved you.... When you fell down and were carried out ... All my life!\nSo it will be, so it will always be--\"\n\nSo they murmured to one another frantic words, almost meaningless, perhaps\nnot even true, but at that moment it was all true, and they both believed\nwhat they said implicitly.\n\n\"Katya,\" cried Mitya suddenly, \"do you believe I murdered him? I know you\ndon't believe it now, but then ... when you gave evidence.... Surely,\nsurely you did not believe it!\"\n\n\"I did not believe it even then. I've never believed it. I hated you, and\nfor a moment I persuaded myself. While I was giving evidence I persuaded\nmyself and believed it, but when I'd finished speaking I left off\nbelieving it at once. Don't doubt that! I have forgotten that I came here\nto punish myself,\" she said, with a new expression in her voice, quite\nunlike the loving tones of a moment before.\n\n\"Woman, yours is a heavy burden,\" broke, as it were, involuntarily from\nMitya.\n\n\"Let me go,\" she whispered. \"I'll come again. It's more than I can bear\nnow.\"\n\nShe was getting up from her place, but suddenly uttered a loud scream and\nstaggered back. Grushenka walked suddenly and noiselessly into the room.\nNo one had expected her. Katya moved swiftly to the door, but when she\nreached Grushenka, she stopped suddenly, turned as white as chalk and\nmoaned softly, almost in a whisper:\n\n\"Forgive me!\"\n\nGrushenka stared at her and, pausing for an instant, in a vindictive,\nvenomous voice, answered:\n\n\"We are full of hatred, my girl, you and I! We are both full of hatred! As\nthough we could forgive one another! Save him, and I'll worship you all my\nlife.\"\n\n\"You won't forgive her!\" cried Mitya, with frantic reproach.\n\n\"Don't be anxious, I'll save him for you!\" Katya whispered rapidly, and\nshe ran out of the room.\n\n\"And you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your forgiveness\nherself?\" Mitya exclaimed bitterly again.\n\n\"Mitya, don't dare to blame her; you have no right to!\" Alyosha cried\nhotly.\n\n\"Her proud lips spoke, not her heart,\" Grushenka brought out in a tone of\ndisgust. \"If she saves you I'll forgive her everything--\"\n\nShe stopped speaking, as though suppressing something. She could not yet\nrecover herself. She had come in, as appeared afterwards, accidentally,\nwith no suspicion of what she would meet.\n\n\"Alyosha, run after her!\" Mitya cried to his brother; \"tell her ... I\ndon't know ... don't let her go away like this!\"\n\n\"I'll come to you again at nightfall,\" said Alyosha, and he ran after\nKatya. He overtook her outside the hospital grounds. She was walking fast,\nbut as soon as Alyosha caught her up she said quickly:\n\n\"No, before that woman I can't punish myself! I asked her forgiveness\nbecause I wanted to punish myself to the bitter end. She would not forgive\nme.... I like her for that!\" she added, in an unnatural voice, and her\neyes flashed with fierce resentment.\n\n\"My brother did not expect this in the least,\" muttered Alyosha. \"He was\nsure she would not come--\"\n\n\"No doubt. Let us leave that,\" she snapped. \"Listen: I can't go with you\nto the funeral now. I've sent them flowers. I think they still have money.\nIf necessary, tell them I'll never abandon them.... Now leave me, leave\nme, please. You are late as it is--the bells are ringing for the\nservice.... Leave me, please!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter III. Ilusha's Funeral. The Speech At The Stone\n\n\nHe really was late. They had waited for him and had already decided to\nbear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church without him. It\nwas the coffin of poor little Ilusha. He had died two days after Mitya was\nsentenced. At the gate of the house Alyosha was met by the shouts of the\nboys, Ilusha's schoolfellows. They had all been impatiently expecting him\nand were glad that he had come at last. There were about twelve of them,\nthey all had their school-bags or satchels on their shoulders. \"Father\nwill cry, be with father,\" Ilusha had told them as he lay dying, and the\nboys remembered it. Kolya Krassotkin was the foremost of them.\n\n\"How glad I am you've come, Karamazov!\" he cried, holding out his hand to\nAlyosha. \"It's awful here. It's really horrible to see it. Snegiryov is\nnot drunk, we know for a fact he's had nothing to drink to-day, but he\nseems as if he were drunk ... I am always manly, but this is awful.\nKaramazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before you go in?\"\n\n\"What is it, Kolya?\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your father or was\nit the valet? As you say, so it will be. I haven't slept for the last four\nnights for thinking of it.\"\n\n\"The valet killed him, my brother is innocent,\" answered Alyosha.\n\n\"That's what I said,\" cried Smurov.\n\n\"So he will perish an innocent victim!\" exclaimed Kolya; \"though he is\nruined he is happy! I could envy him!\"\n\n\"What do you mean? How can you? Why?\" cried Alyosha surprised.\n\n\"Oh, if I, too, could sacrifice myself some day for truth!\" said Kolya\nwith enthusiasm.\n\n\"But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horror!\" said\nAlyosha.\n\n\"Of course ... I should like to die for all humanity, and as for disgrace,\nI don't care about that--our names may perish. I respect your brother!\"\n\n\"And so do I!\" the boy, who had once declared that he knew who had founded\nTroy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to his ears like\na peony as he had done on that occasion.\n\nAlyosha went into the room. Ilusha lay with his hands folded and his eyes\nclosed in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin face was\nhardly changed at all, and strange to say there was no smell of decay from\nthe corpse. The expression of his face was serious and, as it were,\nthoughtful. His hands, crossed over his breast, looked particularly\nbeautiful, as though chiseled in marble. There were flowers in his hands\nand the coffin, inside and out, was decked with flowers, which had been\nsent early in the morning by Lise Hohlakov. But there were flowers too\nfrom Katerina Ivanovna, and when Alyosha opened the door, the captain had\na bunch in his trembling hands and was strewing them again over his dear\nboy. He scarcely glanced at Alyosha when he came in, and he would not look\nat any one, even at his crazy weeping wife, \"mamma,\" who kept trying to\nstand on her crippled legs to get a nearer look at her dead boy. Nina had\nbeen pushed in her chair by the boys close up to the coffin. She sat with\nher head pressed to it and she too was no doubt quietly weeping.\nSnegiryov's face looked eager, yet bewildered and exasperated. There was\nsomething crazy about his gestures and the words that broke from him. \"Old\nman, dear old man!\" he exclaimed every minute, gazing at Ilusha. It was\nhis habit to call Ilusha \"old man,\" as a term of affection when he was\nalive.\n\n\"Father, give me a flower, too; take that white one out of his hand and\ngive it me,\" the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either because the\nlittle white rose in Ilusha's hand had caught her fancy or that she wanted\none from his hand to keep in memory of him, she moved restlessly,\nstretching out her hands for the flower.\n\n\"I won't give it to any one, I won't give you anything,\" Snegiryov cried\ncallously. \"They are his flowers, not yours! Everything is his, nothing is\nyours!\"\n\n\"Father, give mother a flower!\" said Nina, lifting her face wet with\ntears.\n\n\"I won't give away anything and to her less than any one! She didn't love\nIlusha. She took away his little cannon and he gave it to her,\" the\ncaptain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Ilusha had given up his\ncannon to his mother. The poor, crazy creature was bathed in noiseless\ntears, hiding her face in her hands.\n\nThe boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin and that it\nwas time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle and began to\nlift it up.\n\n\"I don't want him to be buried in the churchyard,\" Snegiryov wailed\nsuddenly; \"I'll bury him by the stone, by our stone! Ilusha told me to. I\nwon't let him be carried out!\"\n\nHe had been saying for the last three days that he would bury him by the\nstone, but Alyosha, Krassotkin, the landlady, her sister and all the boys\ninterfered.\n\n\"What an idea, bury him by an unholy stone, as though he had hanged\nhimself!\" the old landlady said sternly. \"There in the churchyard the\nground has been crossed. He'll be prayed for there. One can hear the\nsinging in church and the deacon reads so plainly and verbally that it\nwill reach him every time just as though it were read over his grave.\"\n\nAt last the captain made a gesture of despair as though to say, \"Take him\nwhere you will.\" The boys raised the coffin, but as they passed the\nmother, they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she might say good-\nby to Ilusha. But on seeing that precious little face, which for the last\nthree days she had only looked at from a distance, she trembled all over\nand her gray head began twitching spasmodically over the coffin.\n\n\"Mother, make the sign of the cross over him, give him your blessing, kiss\nhim,\" Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched like an automaton and\nwith a face contorted with bitter grief she began, without a word, beating\nher breast with her fist. They carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed\nher lips to her brother's for the last time as they bore the coffin by\nher. As Alyosha went out of the house he begged the landlady to look after\nthose who were left behind, but she interrupted him before he had\nfinished.\n\n\"To be sure, I'll stay with them, we are Christians, too.\" The old woman\nwept as she said it.\n\nThey had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more than three\nhundred paces. It was a still, clear day, with a slight frost. The church\nbells were still ringing. Snegiryov ran fussing and distracted after the\ncoffin, in his short old summer overcoat, with his head bare and his soft,\nold, wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He seemed in a state of bewildered\nanxiety. At one minute he stretched out his hand to support the head of\nthe coffin and only hindered the bearers, at another he ran alongside and\ntried to find a place for himself there. A flower fell on the snow and he\nrushed to pick it up as though everything in the world depended on the\nloss of that flower.\n\n\"And the crust of bread, we've forgotten the crust!\" he cried suddenly in\ndismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had taken the crust of\nbread already and that it was in his pocket. He instantly pulled it out\nand was reassured.\n\n\"Ilusha told me to, Ilusha,\" he explained at once to Alyosha. \"I was\nsitting by him one night and he suddenly told me: 'Father, when my grave\nis filled up crumble a piece of bread on it so that the sparrows may fly\ndown, I shall hear and it will cheer me up not to be lying alone.' \"\n\n\"That's a good thing,\" said Alyosha, \"we must often take some.\"\n\n\"Every day, every day!\" said the captain quickly, seeming cheered at the\nthought.\n\nThey reached the church at last and set the coffin in the middle of it.\nThe boys surrounded it and remained reverently standing so, all through\nthe service. It was an old and rather poor church; many of the ikons were\nwithout settings; but such churches are the best for praying in. During\nthe mass Snegiryov became somewhat calmer, though at times he had\noutbursts of the same unconscious and, as it were, incoherent anxiety. At\none moment he went up to the coffin to set straight the cover or the\nwreath, when a candle fell out of the candlestick he rushed to replace it\nand was a fearful time fumbling over it, then he subsided and stood\nquietly by the coffin with a look of blank uneasiness and perplexity.\nAfter the Epistle he suddenly whispered to Alyosha, who was standing\nbeside him, that the Epistle had not been read properly but did not\nexplain what he meant. During the prayer, \"Like the Cherubim,\" he joined\nin the singing but did not go on to the end. Falling on his knees, he\npressed his forehead to the stone floor and lay so for a long while.\n\nAt last came the funeral service itself and candles were distributed. The\ndistracted father began fussing about again, but the touching and\nimpressive funeral prayers moved and roused his soul. He seemed suddenly\nto shrink together and broke into rapid, short sobs, which he tried at\nfirst to smother, but at last he sobbed aloud. When they began taking\nleave of the dead and closing the coffin, he flung his arms about, as\nthough he would not allow them to cover Ilusha, and began greedily and\npersistently kissing his dead boy on the lips. At last they succeeded in\npersuading him to come away from the step, but suddenly he impulsively\nstretched out his hand and snatched a few flowers from the coffin. He\nlooked at them and a new idea seemed to dawn upon him, so that he\napparently forgot his grief for a minute. Gradually he seemed to sink into\nbrooding and did not resist when the coffin was lifted up and carried to\nthe grave. It was an expensive one in the churchyard close to the church,\nKaterina Ivanovna had paid for it. After the customary rites the grave-\ndiggers lowered the coffin. Snegiryov with his flowers in his hands bent\ndown so low over the open grave that the boys caught hold of his coat in\nalarm and pulled him back. He did not seem to understand fully what was\nhappening. When they began filling up the grave, he suddenly pointed\nanxiously at the falling earth and began trying to say something, but no\none could make out what he meant, and he stopped suddenly. Then he was\nreminded that he must crumble the bread and he was awfully excited,\nsnatched up the bread and began pulling it to pieces and flinging the\nmorsels on the grave.\n\n\"Come, fly down, birds, fly down, sparrows!\" he muttered anxiously.\n\nOne of the boys observed that it was awkward for him to crumble the bread\nwith the flowers in his hands and suggested he should give them to some\none to hold for a time. But he would not do this and seemed indeed\nsuddenly alarmed for his flowers, as though they wanted to take them from\nhim altogether. And after looking at the grave, and as it were, satisfying\nhimself that everything had been done and the bread had been crumbled, he\nsuddenly, to the surprise of every one, turned, quite composedly even, and\nmade his way homewards. But his steps became more and more hurried, he\nalmost ran. The boys and Alyosha kept up with him.\n\n\"The flowers are for mamma, the flowers are for mamma! I was unkind to\nmamma,\" he began exclaiming suddenly.\n\nSome one called to him to put on his hat as it was cold. But he flung the\nhat in the snow as though he were angry and kept repeating, \"I won't have\nthe hat, I won't have the hat.\" Smurov picked it up and carried it after\nhim. All the boys were crying, and Kolya and the boy who discovered about\nTroy most of all. Though Smurov, with the captain's hat in his hand, was\ncrying bitterly too, he managed, as he ran, to snatch up a piece of red\nbrick that lay on the snow of the path, to fling it at the flock of\nsparrows that was flying by. He missed them, of course, and went on crying\nas he ran. Half-way, Snegiryov suddenly stopped, stood still for half a\nminute, as though struck by something, and suddenly turning back to the\nchurch, ran towards the deserted grave. But the boys instantly overtook\nhim and caught hold of him on all sides. Then he fell helpless on the snow\nas though he had been knocked down, and struggling, sobbing, and wailing,\nhe began crying out, \"Ilusha, old man, dear old man!\" Alyosha and Kolya\ntried to make him get up, soothing and persuading him.\n\n\"Captain, give over, a brave man must show fortitude,\" muttered Kolya.\n\n\"You'll spoil the flowers,\" said Alyosha, \"and mamma is expecting them,\nshe is sitting crying because you would not give her any before. Ilusha's\nlittle bed is still there--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, mamma!\" Snegiryov suddenly recollected, \"they'll take away the\nbed, they'll take it away,\" he added as though alarmed that they really\nwould. He jumped up and ran homewards again. But it was not far off and\nthey all arrived together. Snegiryov opened the door hurriedly and called\nto his wife with whom he had so cruelly quarreled just before:\n\n\"Mamma, poor crippled darling, Ilusha has sent you these flowers,\" he\ncried, holding out to her a little bunch of flowers that had been frozen\nand broken while he was struggling in the snow. But at that instant he saw\nin the corner, by the little bed, Ilusha's little boots, which the\nlandlady had put tidily side by side. Seeing the old, patched, rusty-\nlooking, stiff boots he flung up his hands and rushed to them, fell on his\nknees, snatched up one boot and, pressing his lips to it, began kissing it\ngreedily, crying, \"Ilusha, old man, dear old man, where are your little\nfeet?\"\n\n\"Where have you taken him away? Where have you taken him?\" the lunatic\ncried in a heartrending voice. Nina, too, broke into sobs. Kolya ran out\nof the room, the boys followed him. At last Alyosha too went out.\n\n\"Let them weep,\" he said to Kolya, \"it's no use trying to comfort them\njust now. Let us wait a minute and then go back.\"\n\n\"No, it's no use, it's awful,\" Kolya assented. \"Do you know, Karamazov,\"\nhe dropped his voice so that no one could hear them, \"I feel dreadfully\nsad, and if it were only possible to bring him back, I'd give anything in\nthe world to do it.\"\n\n\"Ah, so would I,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"What do you think, Karamazov? Had we better come back here to-night?\nHe'll be drunk, you know.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will. Let us come together, you and I, that will be enough, to\nspend an hour with them, with the mother and Nina. If we all come together\nwe shall remind them of everything again,\" Alyosha suggested.\n\n\"The landlady is laying the table for them now--there'll be a funeral\ndinner or something, the priest is coming; shall we go back to it,\nKaramazov?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Alyosha.\n\n\"It's all so strange, Karamazov, such sorrow and then pancakes after it,\nit all seems so unnatural in our religion.\"\n\n\"They are going to have salmon, too,\" the boy who had discovered about\nTroy observed in a loud voice.\n\n\"I beg you most earnestly, Kartashov, not to interrupt again with your\nidiotic remarks, especially when one is not talking to you and doesn't\ncare to know whether you exist or not!\" Kolya snapped out irritably. The\nboy flushed crimson but did not dare to reply.\n\nMeantime they were strolling slowly along the path and suddenly Smurov\nexclaimed:\n\n\"There's Ilusha's stone, under which they wanted to bury him.\"\n\nThey all stood still by the big stone. Alyosha looked and the whole\npicture of what Snegiryov had described to him that day, how Ilusha,\nweeping and hugging his father, had cried, \"Father, father, how he\ninsulted you,\" rose at once before his imagination.\n\nA sudden impulse seemed to come into his soul. With a serious and earnest\nexpression he looked from one to another of the bright, pleasant faces of\nIlusha's schoolfellows, and suddenly said to them:\n\n\"Boys, I should like to say one word to you, here at this place.\"\n\nThe boys stood round him and at once bent attentive and expectant eyes\nupon him.\n\n\"Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers,\nof whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door.\nBut soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall\npart. Let us make a compact here, at Ilusha's stone, that we will never\nforget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life,\nif we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how\nwe buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by\nthe bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy,\na kind-hearted, brave boy, he felt for his father's honor and resented the\ncruel insult to him and stood up for him. And so in the first place, we\nwill remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with\nmost important things, if we attain to honor or fall into great\nmisfortune--still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were\nall together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the\ntime we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. My little\ndoves--let me call you so, for you are very like them, those pretty blue\nbirds, at this minute as I look at your good dear faces. My dear children,\nperhaps you won't understand what I am saying to you, because I often\nspeak very unintelligibly, but you'll remember it all the same and will\nagree with my words some time. You must know that there is nothing higher\nand stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some\ngood memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you\na great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved\nfrom childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such\nmemories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one\nhas only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be\nthe means of saving us. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, may be\nunable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at men's tears and at those\npeople who say as Kolya did just now, 'I want to suffer for all men,' and\nmay even jeer spitefully at such people. But however bad we may\nbecome--which God forbid--yet, when we recall how we buried Ilusha, how we\nloved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends all\ntogether, at this stone, the cruelest and most mocking of us--if we do\nbecome so--will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at\nthis moment! What's more, perhaps, that one memory may keep him from great\nevil and he will reflect and say, 'Yes, I was good and brave and honest\nthen!' Let him laugh to himself, that's no matter, a man often laughs at\nwhat's good and kind. That's only from thoughtlessness. But I assure you,\nboys, that as he laughs he will say at once in his heart, 'No, I do wrong\nto laugh, for that's not a thing to laugh at.' \"\n\n\"That will be so, I understand you, Karamazov!\" cried Kolya, with flashing\neyes.\n\nThe boys were excited and they, too, wanted to say something, but they\nrestrained themselves, looking with intentness and emotion at the speaker.\n\n\"I say this in case we become bad,\" Alyosha went on, \"but there's no\nreason why we should become bad, is there, boys? Let us be, first and\nabove all, kind, then honest and then let us never forget each other! I\nsay that again. I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one\nof you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember even for thirty\nyears. Just now Kolya said to Kartashov that we did not care to know\nwhether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists and\nthat he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of\nTroy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys,\nmy dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Ilusha, clever, brave\nand generous like Kolya (though he will be ever so much cleverer when he\nis grown up), and let us all be as modest, as clever and sweet as\nKartashov. But why am I talking about those two? You are all dear to me,\nboys, from this day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I\nbeg you to keep a place in your hearts for me! Well, and who has united us\nin this kind, good feeling which we shall remember and intend to remember\nall our lives? Who, if not Ilusha, the good boy, the dear boy, precious to\nus for ever! Let us never forget him. May his memory live for ever in our\nhearts from this time forth!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, for ever, for ever!\" the boys cried in their ringing voices,\nwith softened faces.\n\n\"Let us remember his face and his clothes and his poor little boots, his\ncoffin and his unhappy, sinful father, and how boldly he stood up for him\nalone against the whole school.\"\n\n\"We will remember, we will remember,\" cried the boys. \"He was brave, he\nwas good!\"\n\n\"Ah, how I loved him!\" exclaimed Kolya.\n\n\"Ah, children, ah, dear friends, don't be afraid of life! How good life is\nwhen one does something good and just!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" the boys repeated enthusiastically.\n\n\"Karamazov, we love you!\" a voice, probably Kartashov's, cried\nimpulsively.\n\n\"We love you, we love you!\" they all caught it up. There were tears in the\neyes of many of them.\n\n\"Hurrah for Karamazov!\" Kolya shouted ecstatically.\n\n\"And may the dead boy's memory live for ever!\" Alyosha added again with\nfeeling.\n\n\"For ever!\" the boys chimed in again.\n\n\"Karamazov,\" cried Kolya, \"can it be true what's taught us in religion,\nthat we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each\nother again, all, Ilusha too?\"\n\n\"Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and\nshall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!\"\nAlyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic.\n\n\"Ah, how splendid it will be!\" broke from Kolya.\n\n\"Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don't be\nput out at our eating pancakes--it's a very old custom and there's\nsomething nice in that!\" laughed Alyosha. \"Well, let us go! And now we go\nhand in hand.\"\n\n\"And always so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!\" Kolya\ncried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his\nexclamation: \"Hurrah for Karamazov!\"\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n    1 In Russian, \"silen.\"\n\n    2 A proverbial expression in Russia.\n\n    3 Grushenka.\n\n    4 i.e. setter dog.\n\n    5 Probably the public event was the Decabrist plot against the Tsar,\n      of December 1825, in which the most distinguished men in Russia were\n      concerned.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.\n\n    6 When a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church and\n      from the church to the graveyard, the canticle \"What earthly joy...\"\n      is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk the canticle\n      \"Our Helper and Defender\" is sung instead.\n\n    7 i.e. a chime of bells.\n\n    8 Literally: \"Did you get off with a long nose made at you?\"--a\n      proverbial expression in Russia for failure.\n\n    9 Gogol is meant.\n\n\n", "summary": [{"source": "gradesaver", "text": "The Brothers Karamazov is a family tragedy centered around a father and his sons. Fyodor, the eldest Karamazov, has three sons: Dmitri, Ivan, and Alyosha. Ivan and Alyosha have the same mother, but Dmitri, the oldest, has a different mother. Fyodor is a greedy landowner, a bawdy lecher, and a neglectful father. Hence, the Karamazov brothers end up growing into young men under the care of various other people. But they all have returned home to visit their father, and it is the first time they all have been together for quite some time. Dmitri has a dispute with Fyodor over his inheritance, and Alyosha, who is living in a monastery, suggests that they see Father Zossima, Alyosha's mentor. Alyosha believes that the wise old man can settle the dispute peacefully. Father Zossima is patient and kind, but Fyodor and Dmitri end up quarreling anyway. After Fyodor drives the men to frustration, they leave the monastery separately, and Alyosha worries about their family's future. Alyosha talks to Dmitri, who confesses his complicated situation with women and money. Dmitri promised to marry a girl named Katerina, and she lent him 3,000 rubles. Instead of paying it back, he spent it on another girl named Grushenka. He wants to run away with Grushenka, but he feels that he needs to pay Katerina back before he can do so. This is why he is so interested in getting the money from Fyodor. Back at Fyodor's house, Smerdyakov is talking to the Karamazovs. Smerdyakov is an epileptic servant who was adopted by Grigory and Marfa, Fyodor's other servants. He was born to a woman named Lizaveta who died in childbirth. She was the town idiot, and she lived off charity from the other townspeople. Everyone called her \"Stinking Lizaveta,\" and when the town found out she was pregnant, they were furious at whoever could do such a thing to a helpless girl. They decided Fyodor must have been the culprit. Grigory and Marfa gave birth to a deformed child, and when they buried the child, they found Lizaveta, who had just given birth to Smerdyakov. They adopted the child immediately, and Fyodor named him. Father Zossima is dying, and Alyosha is distraught. Instead of asking Alyosha to stay with him during his last days, however, Father Zossima tells Alyosha he should leave the monastery to be with his family. His life gets even more complicated when a young crippled girl named Lise expresses that she has feelings for him. Alyosha visits Katerina, the girl who is engaged to marry Dmitri. Ivan is in love with her, but he feels that Dmitri is a better match for her. Frustrated and disgusted with his family's situation, Ivan says he is going to leave town. Alyosha sees a boy being picked on by his schoolmates, and he tries to talk to the boy, but he bites Alyosha's hand and runs away. Later, when Alyosha is bringing money to a man named Captain Snegiryov, who has been beaten by Dmitri, he recognizes the man's son. It is Ilusha, the boy who bit his hand. The family is poor, but Captain Snegiryov refuses to take the money because he feels that he needs to earn his son's respect after being humiliated by Dmitri--and accepting charity, especially from a Karamazov, is out of the question. When Alyosha goes back to see Katerina, he finds Lise, Madame Hohlakov's daughter. The two realize that they love each other, and they decide to get married. Alyosha goes to visit Ivan, and he finds him in a restaurant. Ivan has gone there to get away from his father, and Alyosha sits down with him to have an intimate talk. Ivan tells his brother about his thoughts regarding God and the world. He recites to Alyosha a poem he has written called \"The Great Inquisitor.\" The poem describes Christ returning to earth in the sixteenth century. The Church throws him in jail, and The Great Inquisitor explains to him that his presence is problematic for the world. The Church has spent years trying to replace the sense of freedom Christ gave man with security. He talks about how cruel the world is, especially to innocent children. After their meal, Alyosha and Ivan part ways, feeling closer than ever. Ivan sees Smerdyakov when he goes back to his father's house, and Smerdyakov tells him he is worried about Fyodor. He is worried Dmitri will come to kill him and the old man will be helpless to save himself. Ivan goes to sleep very troubled. Father Zossima is on his deathbed, and Alyosha goes to visit him. The Elder tells those around him how much Alyosha reminds him of his older brother, a boy who died when he was a youth. He talks about being a profligate youth in the army. One day, he challenged another man to a duel because of a girl. Before the duel, however, he had a change of heart. He did not shoot and, after the duel, he retired from the army and joined a monastery. He talks about how much the Bible has affected him and says that everyone should embrace the world and the people in it. He dies. Many predicted that a miracle would happen upon Father Zossima's death, but his body begins to putrefy, filling the monastery with an awful smell. This fills the other monks with doubt that Father Zossima was the saintly man they thought he was. Alyosha is shaken by the news. He goes to see Grushenka, who has sent for him, and she admits to wanting to \"ruin\" him. When he tells her that Father Zossima has died, however, she becomes contrite about her callousness. She says she thinks she is a wicked person, and the two comfort each other. When Alyosha leaves, he has a renewed faith in Father Zossima and his teachings because Alyosha feels how wonderful it is to love and be loved in return. Meanwhile, Dmitri has become desperate. He wants to be with Grushenka, but he wants to pay Katerina back first. He goes on an odyssey, hoping that he can depend on the charity of others. He visits a man named Samsanov, a man who used to pursue Grushenka, and he hates Dmitri. He sends Karamazov to see a surly drunk, tricking Dmitri into thinking this man may be helpful. The man is practically incoherent, however, and Dmitri goes to find Madame Hohlakov. She tells Dmitri that the only way he will find 3,000 rubles is in the gold mines. In confusion, Dmitri concludes that Grushenka has gone to visit his father, and he goes to his father's house in a rage, carrying a brass pestle. When he arrives, he does not find Grushenka, but as he is leaving, Grigory, his father's servant, thinks he has come to murder Fyodor. The two scuffle, and Dmitri hits Grigory on the head with the pestle. After determining that the man is not dead, Dmitri flees the scene and looks for Grushenka. She is with Kalganov, a former lover who had treated her poorly. Dmitri decides that he will not end up with Grushenka and decides to kill himself after seeing her one more time. He crashes her party and sits down with her gentleman friend and some other men. The situation becomes tense, and after the gentlemen make some disparaging remarks about Russians and Dmitri, Grushenka decides she does not want to be with such an insulting and vicious man. She decides that she loves Dmitri, and as the two are coming to terms with their love, the police come to arrest him for the murder of Fyodor. As the police question Dmitri, it becomes clear that the facts all support the conclusion that he did indeed murder his father, even though he did not commit the crime. He was at the scene of the crime, wielding a weapon, the night of the murder. He had said he would kill his father on several occasions. He publicly announced he was looking for 3,000 rubles and was desperate to find them, and Fyodor reportedly had an envelope with 3,000 rubles that was stolen the night of the murder. Dmitri is carried away, and very few people believe that he is innocent of Fyodor's murder. Meanwhile, Alyosha is visiting Ilusha, the boy who bit his hand, in the hospital. The boy has fallen quite ill, and Alyosha has gotten to know many of the boy's friends, who are also visiting him. One boy, Kolya Krassotkin, is a leader among the boys. He and Ilusha were friends, but they had a falling out because Ilusha fed a pin to a dog, and Kolya did not approve of his cruelty. When Alyosha comes to visit, he and Kolya talk for quite some time. The boy looks up to this wise man about which he has heard so much from the other boys, and he wants to impress him. The two become friends, and Alyosha treats all the boys as equals. When Kolya goes in to see Ilusha, he gives him a dog as a present. He reveals that the dog is none other but the dog Ilusha gave the piece of bread with a pin in it. Kolya has nursed the dog back to health and has fully trained him as a gesture of friendship to Ilusha. The mood is dampened, however, when the doctors go in to see Ilusha. Without even saying it, everyone understands that the boy does not have much time left. Ilusha is brave, and he tries to lift the spirits of those around him. Later, Alyosha visits his brother in jail. Dmitri tells Alyosha that Ivan has concocted a plan for his escape from jail. Alyosha goes to talk to Ivan, who feels strangely guilty about his father's death. Alyosha tells his brother that he should not feel responsible for a crime that he did not commit, but Ivan stalks off angrily. He meets Smerdyakov, who tells Ivan he thinks the Karamazov brother is guilty as an accomplice to the murder. He says that Ivan wanted his father dead and left the night of the murder to try to free himself of the responsibility of protecting his father. Ivan is angry and troubled by this, and when he talks to Smerdyakov later, Smerdyakov flatly admits to hilling Fyodor. He says that Ivan's theories and ideas were the basis for his crime and that Ivan's talks with Smerdyakov basically rationalized the deed. When Ivan returns home after this meeting, he sees a devil in his room. The devil chastises him for being a wicked person with weaknesses and foibles that have led to disastrous circumstances. Alyosha bangs on the door and finds his brother in a feverish state, muttering about a devil and Smerdyakov. Alyosha stays the night with his brother to take care of him. Dmitri's trial begins. Many people from all around come to see the spectacle of the parricide trial. Dmitri has an excellent lawyer, but it is a hard case to win. The prosecution brings many witnesses who testify to seemingly damning evidence against Dmitri. The defense, however, discredits one after another of these witnesses, showing ulterior motives or mitigating circumstances. Alyosha defends his brother from the stand, and Katerina gives a moving account of Dmitri's honorable nature. Then Ivan comes into the courtroom, waving money and implicating Smerdyakov. Since he is yelling nonsense, disrupting the trial, and generally acting crazy, the court does not believe him. Suddenly, at the end of the trial, Katerina stands up again, showing a letter from Dmitri that clearly states Dmitri's intention to kill Fyodor as a last resort. She has a change of heart and no longer wants to lie to protect a man who has hurt her so much. Word comes to the courtoom that Smerdyakov has hanged himself. After final statements are made, the verdict comes back: guilty. Dmitri is sentenced to jail. Dmitri welcomes this chance to become a new man, but he does not want to be in exile in Siberia for the rest of his life; he wants to return to his home country before he dies. Ivan is still sick, and Katerina takes care of him. Alyosha visits the boys with whom he has become friends. They are sad because Ilusha has died. Alyosha passes along Father Zossima's teachings of love and understanding, and they all embrace his words, cheering him.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "shmoop", "text": "The novel opens with the Karamazov brothers returning to their hometown after being raised largely away from home by distant relatives. Now young men, they each have their own reasons for being there: Dmitri seeks to settle an inheritance dispute with their father, Fyodor Karamazov; Alyosha is a novice at the local monastery; and Ivan ostensibly has returned to assist Dmitri. The dispute between Dmitri and his father has been aggravated by their romantic rivalry over Grushenka, despite the fact that Dmitri is already engaged to Katerina Ivanovna. The Karamazovs meet with the elder Zosima at the monastery in an attempt to resolve their differences, but scandal ensues when Fyodor causes a scene. After the scandal, Alyosha seeks out Dmitri, who is spying on Fyodor from a neighboring garden. Dmitri spills the details of his sordid affair with Grushenka and his shameful theft of Katerina's money in order to woo Grushenka. Leaving Dmitri, Alyosha enters his father's house, where he finds his father, Ivan, Smerdyakov, and Grigory engaged in a religious dispute over dinner. Suddenly Dmitri enters in a rage and beats Fyodor, then runs out the door. After the attack, Alyosha seeks out Katerina, who, to his surprise, is entertaining Grushenka. Grushenka insults Katerina and is thrown out. Katerina's maid hands Alyosha a note, which he opens when he finally returns to the monastery. The note is from Lise Khokhlakov, who declares her love for him. The next morning, the elder Zosima sends Alyosha to check on his brothers and his father. Alyosha first visits his father, who is angry and suspicions about Dmitri and Ivan. On leaving his father, Alyosha heads off to the Khokhlakov residence, but his journey is interrupted by a group of schoolboys who are attacking another schoolboy. When Alyosha attempts to aid the defenseless schoolboy, the boy bites his hand and runs off. At the Khokhlakovs', Alyosha is taken aside by Lise and proposes marriage to her. After his chat with Lise, Alyosha enters the drawing room, where Ivan and Katerina have a dispute. After Ivan leaves, Katerina gives Alyosha 200 roubles to give to a Captain Snegiryov, who was insulted by Dmitri. Alyosha heads to the Snegiryovs' cottage, where he meets the entire Snegiryov family, including the young boy, Ilyusha, who bit him earlier in the day. Captain Snegiryov proudly rejects Alyosha's offer of charity. After another brief visit to the Khokhlakovs, Alyosha seeks out Dmitri again. In his father's neighbor's garden, Alyosha meets Smerdyakov, who tells him that Dmitri has gone off to visit Ivan at the village tavern. At the tavern, Alyosha finds Ivan alone. As they dine together, Ivan defends his religious skepticism to Alyosha by way of a long poetic fantasy entitled \"The Grand Inquisitor.\" At the end of their meal, they part ways. At this point, the novel shifts to Ivan's perspective. He heads back to his father's, where he meets up with Smerdyakov. Smerdyakov's sly insinuations about a possible murder of Fyodor trouble Ivan. During the night, Ivan finds himself checking on his father for no reason, and feels ashamed. The next morning, Fyodor convinces Ivan to go to Chermashnya, but on the way to the train station Ivan changes his mind and heads to Moscow. The novel then shifts gears back to Alyosha, who is in the elder Zosima's cell where other monks have gathered to share his last moments. Zosima relates stories from his life and elaborates his religious teachings. Then suddenly he falls to the floor, praying, and dies. The next morning Zosima's body is put on display at his wake. But despite everyone's expectations that some miracle might occur, his body begins to decay, much to the delight of his detractors. This scandal troubles Alyosha, and Rakitin, sensing Alyosha's state, invites him to visit Grushenka. Grushenka happily announces to them both that a former lover of hers, a Pole, has finally returned to her, and she awaits his call to join him. Alyosha is grateful that Grushenka has not seduced him and returns that evening to Zosima's wake, where he prays and feels his faith revived. The novel shifts perspective to Dmitri, who runs around town looking for someone to loan him 3,000 roubles, the amount he stole from Katerina. Both Kuzma Samsonov and Madame Khokhlakov turn him down. Dmitri at first believes that Grushenka is at Samsonov's, but when he realizes that she isn't, he immediately suspects her of going to his father's. Dmitri is tempted to attack his father, but refrains. As he escapes over the garden wall, he is caught by Grigory. In an attempt to free himself, he hits Grigory on the head. Dmitri returns to Grushenka's, and finally learns from her servants that she is off at Mokroye to meet her Polish lover. He rushes off to Mokroye, where Grushenka rejects her Polish lover and declares her love for Dmitri. They throw a party to celebrate, but the festivities come to an end when officials arrive to arrest Dmitri for the murder of his father. At this point, the novel moves several months ahead to the days leading up to Dmitri's trial, and turns to the story of Kolya Krasotkin and Ilyusha Snegiryov. After the incident with Alyosha, Ilyusha takes seriously ill. Alyosha rallies the other boys to cheer Ilyusha. Kolya, who was reluctant to visit at first, finally visits Ilyusha with the gift of a dog which Ilyusha was convinced he had killed. Despite Ilyusha's excitement and joy, a Moscow doctor, on a visit paid by Katerina's charitable generosity, announces that Ilyusha has very little time left to live. Meanwhile Dmitri's case has caused quite a stir throughout Russia, helped in part by Rakitin's sensationalist journalism. Ivan attempts to convince Dmitri to escape a trial he surely can't win, but Ivan's own certainty about his behavior during the murder are put to the test by his conversations with the sly Smerdyakov. In their last conversation, Smerdyakov confesses that he murdered Fyodor. When Ivan returns home after his conversation with Smerdyakov, he imagines that he meets the devil in his own room. The hallucination is interrupted by a visit from Alyosha, who informs Ivan that Smerdyakov has committed suicide. Dmitri's trial begins the next morning. Just as the witness testimony seems to be going Dmitri's way, Ivan makes a scene at the trial, which in turn stirs Katerina to reveal some damning evidence against Dmitri. Despite his defense lawyer's brilliant closing argument, Dmitri is found guilty. The novel ends in the days following Dmitri's trial. Dmitri contemplates escaping with Grushenka to America, and Katerina nurses Ivan, who took ill immediately after he caused a scene at Dmitri's trial. Alyosha attends the funeral of little Ilyusha, and the novel closes with Alyosha and his young friends at Ilyusha's wake.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "cliffnotes", "text": "By his first wife, Fyodor Karamazov sired one son -- Dmitri -- and by his second wife, two sons -- Ivan and Alyosha. None of the Karamazov, boys, however, was reared in the family home. Their mothers dead and their father a drunken fornicator, they were parceled out to various relatives. Fyodor could not have been more grateful; he could devote all energy and time to his notorious orgies. Those were the early years. Dmitri comes of age, as the novel opens, and asks his father for an inheritance that, he has long been told, his mother left him. His request is scoffed at. Old Karamazov feigns ignorance of any mythical monies or properties that are rightfully Dmitri's. The matter is far from ended, though, for Dmitri and his father find themselves instinctive enemies, and besides quarreling over the inheritance, they vie for Grushenka, a woman of questionable reputation. Finally it is suggested that if there is to be peace in the Karamazov household, the family must go together to the monastery and allow Alyosha's elder, Father Zossima, to arbitrate and resolve the quarrels. Ivan, Karamazov's intellectual son, accompanies them to the meeting. At the monastery, there seems to be little hope for a successful reconciliation. Fyodor parades his usual disgusting vulgarities, makes a dreadful scene, and when Dmitri arrives late, he accuses his son of all sorts of degeneracy. Dmitri then retorts that his father has tried to lure Grushenka into a liaison by promising her 3,000 rubles, and in the midst of their shouting, Father Zossima bows and kisses Dmitri's feet. This act ends the interview. All are shocked into silence. Later, old Karamazov recovers from his astonishment and once again he makes a disgraceful scene in the dining room of the Father Superior. He then leaves the monastery and commands Alyosha to leave also. It is now that Dostoevsky reveals that Karamazov perhaps has fathered another son. Years ago, a raggle-taggle moron girl who roamed the town was seduced and bore a child; everyone, naturally, assumed that the satyr-like Karamazov was responsible. The child grew up to be an epileptic and now cooks for Karamazov. He is a strange sort, this Smerdyakov, and lately his epileptic seizures have become more frequent. Curiously, he enjoys talking philosophy with Ivan. The day after the explosive scene in the monastery, Alyosha comes to visit his father and is stopped midway by Dmitri. The emotional, impulsive Karamazov son explains to Alyosha that he is sick with grief -- that some time ago, he became engaged to a girl named Katerina, and has recently borrowed 3,000 rubles from her to finance an orgy with Grushenka. He pleads for Alyosha to speak to Katerina, to break the engagement, and to help him find some way to repay the squandered money so that he can feel free to elope with Grushenka. Alyosha promises to help if he is able. The young man reaches his father's house and finds more confusion: Smerdyakov is loudly arguing with another servant about religion, spouting many of Ivan's ideas. Later, when the servants are ordered away, Karamazov taunts Ivan and Alyosha about God and immortality, and Ivan answers that he believes in neither. Alyosha quietly affirms the existence of both. Dmitri then bursts into the room crying for Grushenka and when he cannot find her, attacks his father and threatens to kill him. Alyosha tends his father's wounds, then goes back to the monastery for the night. The next day he goes to see Katerina, as he promised Dmitri, and tries to convince her that she and Ivan love each other and that she should not concern herself with Dmitri and his problems. He is unsuccessful. Later that same day, Alyosha comes upon Ivan in a restaurant, and they continue the conversation about God and immortality that they began at their father's house. Ivan says that he cannot accept a world in which God allows so many innocent people to suffer and Alyosha says that, although Ivan cannot comprehend the logic of God, there is One who can comprehend all: Jesus. Ivan then explains, with his poem \"The Grand Inquisitor,\" that Jesus is neither a ready nor an easy answer-all for his questionings -- that He placed an intolerable burden on man by giving him total freedom of choice. When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Father Zossima near death. The elder rallies a bit and lives long enough to expound his religious beliefs to his small audience, stressing, above all, a life of simplicity, a life in which every man shall love all people and all things, and shall refrain from condemning others. This is Zossima's final wisdom, and when he finishes, he dies. Next day many people gather to view the holy man's corpse, for popular rumor has whispered for years that upon Zossima's death, a miracle would occur. No miracle occurs, however. Instead, a foul and putrid odor fills the room, and all of the mourners are horrified. Even Alyosha questions God's justice and, momentarily yielding to temptation, he flees to Grushenka's house. But after he has talked with the girl, he discovers that she is not the sinful woman he sought; she is remarkably sensitive and quite understanding and compassionate. Alyosha's faith is restored and, later, in a dream of Jesus' coming to the wedding of Cana, he realizes that life is meant to be joyously shared. Now he is absolutely certain of his faith in God and in immortality. Dmitri has meanwhile been frantically searching for a way to raise the money to repay Katerina. He has even gone to a neighboring town to try and borrow the sum, but even there he fails. Returning, lie discovers that Grushenka is no longer at home and panics, sure that she has succumbed to Fyodor's rubles. He goes first to his father's house; then, after discovering that she is not there, he tries to escape but is cornered by an old servant. He strikes him aside, leaving him bloody and unconscious, and returns to Grushenka's house. He demands to know her whereabouts and at last is told that she has gone to join a former lover, one who deserted her five years before. Dmitri makes a final decision: he will see Grushenka once more, for the last time, and then kill himself. He travels to the couple's rendezvous, finds Grushenka celebrating with her lover, and joins them. There is resentment and arguing, and finally Grushenka is convinced that her former lover is a scoundrel and that it is Dmitri whom she really loves. The two lovers are not to be reunited, however, for the police arrive and accuse Dmitri of murdering his father. Both are stunned by the circumstantial evidence, for the accusation is weighty. Dmitri indeed seems guilty and is indicted to stand trial. Alyosha, in the meantime, has made friends with a young schoolboy, the son of a man brutally beaten by Dmitri in a rage of passion and gradually the youth has proven his sincere desire to help the frightened, avenging boy. Now that the youngster is dying, Alyosha remains at his bedside, where he hopes to help the family and also to reconcile the young boy with many of his schoolmates. Ivan, the intellectual, has neither the romantic passion of Dmitri nor the wide, spiritual interests of Alyosha, and when he learns of his father's murder, he broods, then decides to discuss his theories with Smerdyakov. He is astonished at the bastard servant's open confession that he is responsible for the murder. But Smerdyakov is clever; he disavows total responsibility and maintains that Ivan gave him the intellectual and moral justification for the murder and, furthermore, that he actually permitted the act by leaving town so that Smerdyakov would be free to accomplish the deed. Ivan is slow to accept the argument but after he does, he is absolutely convinced of Smerdyakov's logic. The transition is disastrous. His newfound guilt makes him a madman and the night before Dmitri's trial, he is devoured with burning brain fever. That same night, Smerdyakov commits suicide. Dmitri's situation becomes increasingly perilous. During the trial, the circumstantial evidence is presented in so thorough a manner that Dmitri is logically convicted as Fyodor's murderer. He has the motive, the passion, and was at the scene of the crime. Perhaps the most damning bit of evidence, however, is presented by Katerina. She shows the court a letter of Dmitri's in which he says that he fears he might be driven to murder his father. After the conviction, Dmitri agrees to certain plans for his escape but says that it will be great torture and suffering for him to flee from Mother Russia, from Russian soil, and to live in exile. As for Alyosha, his future holds the promise of hope and goodness , for after young Ilusha dies and all his schoolmates attend the funeral, Alyosha gathers them together and deeply impresses them with his explanation of love and of friendship. Spontaneously, the boys rise and cheer Alyosha and his wisdom.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "sparknotes", "text": "In his youth, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov is a coarse, vulgar man whose main concerns are making money and seducing young women. He marries twice and has three sons: Dmitri, the child of his first wife, and Ivan and Alyosha, children of his second wife. Fyodor Pavlovich never has any interest in his sons, and when their mothers die, he sends them away to be brought up by relatives and friends. At the beginning of the novel, Dmitri Karamazov, who is now a twenty-eight-year-old soldier, has just returned to Fyodor Pavlovich's town. Fyodor Pavlovich is unhappy to see Dmitri because Dmitri has come to claim an inheritance left to him by his mother. Fyodor Pavlovich plans to keep the inheritance for himself. The two men swiftly fall into conflict over the money, and the coldly intellectual Ivan, who knows neither his father nor his brother well, is eventually called in to help settle their dispute. The kind, faithful Alyosha, who is about twenty, also lives in the town, where he is an acolyte, or apprentice, at the monastery, studying with the renowned elder Zosima. Eventually Dmitri and Fyodor Pavlovich agree that perhaps Zosima could help resolve the Karamazovs' quarrel, and Alyosha tentatively consents to arrange a meeting. At the monastery, Alyosha's worst fears are realized. After Fyodor Pavlovich makes a fool of himself by mocking the monks and telling vulgar stories, Dmitri arrives late, and Dmitri and Fyodor Pavlovich become embroiled in a shouting match. It turns out that they have more to quarrel about than money: they are both in love with Grushenka, a beautiful young woman in the town. Dmitri has left his fiancee, Katerina, to pursue Grushenka, while Fyodor Pavlovich has promised to give Grushenka 3,000 rubles if she becomes his lover. This sum is significant, as Dmitri recently stole 3,000 rubles from Katerina in order to finance a lavish trip with Grushenka, and he is now desperate to pay the money back. As father and son shout at each other at the monastery, the wise old Zosima unexpectedly kneels and bows his head to the ground at Dmitri's feet. He later explains to Alyosha that he could see that Dmitri is destined to suffer greatly. Many years previously, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov fathered a fourth son with a retarded mute girl who lived in town as the village idiot. The girl died as she gave birth to the baby, who was taken in by servants of Fyodor Pavlovich and forced to work as a servant for him as well. Fyodor Pavlovich never treats the child, Smerdyakov, as a son, and Smerdyakov develops a strange and malicious personality. He also suffers from epilepsy. Despite the limitations of his upbringing, however, Smerdyakov is not stupid. He enjoys nothing more than listening to Ivan discuss philosophy, and in his own conversations, he frequently invokes many of Ivan's ideas--specifically that the soul is not immortal, and that therefore morality does not exist and the categories of good and evil are irrelevant to human experience. After the humiliating scene in the monastery, the rest of Alyosha's day is only slightly less trying. Dmitri sends Alyosha to break off Dmitri's engagement with Katerina. Alyosha then argues about religion with Ivan in front of the smirking Fyodor Pavlovich. Alyosha also gets caught in the middle of another explosion between Dmitri and Fyodor Pavlovich over Grushenka, in the course of which Dmitri throws Fyodor Pavlovich to the ground and threatens to kill him. But despite the hardships of his day, Alyosha is so gentle and loving that he is concerned only with how he might help his family. After tending his father's wounds, he returns to the monastery for the night. The next day, Alyosha visits Katerina. To his surprise, Ivan is with Katerina, and Alyosha immediately perceives that Ivan and Katerina are in love. Alyosha tries to convince them that they should act on their love for one another, but they are both too proud and cold to listen. Alyosha has dinner with Ivan, and Ivan explains to him the source of his religious doubt: he cannot reconcile the idea of a loving God with the needless suffering of innocent people, particularly children. Any God that would allow such suffering, he says, does not love mankind. He recites a poem he has written called \"The Grand Inquisitor,\" in which he accuses Christ of placing an intolerable burden upon humanity by guaranteeing that people have free will and the ability to choose whether or not to believe in God. That evening, Alyosha again returns to the monastery, where the frail Zosima is now on his deathbed. Alyosha hurries to Zosima's cell, and arrives just in time to hear his final lesson, which emphasizes the importance of love and forgiveness in all human affairs. Zosima dies stretching his arms out before him, as though to embrace the world. Many of the monks are optimistic that Zosima's death will be accompanied by a miracle, but no miracle takes place. If anything, Zosima's corpse begins to stink more quickly than might have been expected, which is taken by Zosima's critics to mean that he was corrupt and unreliable in life. Sickened by the injustice of seeing the wise and loving Zosima humiliated after his death, Alyosha allows his friend Rakitin to take him to see Grushenka. Although Rakitin and Grushenka hope to corrupt Alyosha, just the opposite happens, and a bond of sympathy and understanding springs up between Grushenka and Alyosha. Their friendship renews Alyosha's faith, and Alyosha helps Grushenka to begin her own spiritual redemption. That night, Alyosha has a dream in which Zosima tells him that he has done a good deed in helping Grushenka. This dream further strengthens Alyosha's love and resolve, and he goes outside to kiss the ground to show his passion for doing good on Earth. Dmitri has spent two days unsuccessfully trying to raise the money to pay Katerina the 3,000 rubles he owes her. No one will lend him the money, and he has nothing to sell. At last he goes to Grushenka's house, and when she is not there, he is suddenly convinced that she has gone to be with Fyodor Pavlovich. He rushes to Fyodor Pavlovich's house, but finds that Grushenka is not there. While prowling on the grounds, Dmitri strikes Fyodor Pavlovich's old servant, Grigory, leaving him bloody and unconscious. Then he flees. He returns to Grushenka's house, and learns from her maid that Grushenka has gone to rejoin a lover who abandoned her several years ago. Dmitri now decides that his only course of action is to kill himself. But he decides to see Grushenka one last time before he does so. A few minutes later, Dmitri strides into a shop, with his shirt bloody and a large wad of cash in his hand. He buys food and wine, and travels out to see Grushenka and her lover. When Grushenka sees the two men together, she realizes that she really loves Dmitri. Dmitri locks the other man in a closet, and Dmitri and Grushenka begin to plan their wedding. But the police suddenly burst in and arrest Dmitri. He is accused of the murder of his father, who has been found dead. Due to the large amount of evidence against Dmitri, including the money suddenly found in his possession, he will be made to stand trial. Dmitri says that the money was what he had left after spending half of the 3,000 rubles he stole from Katerina, but no one believes him. Dmitri is imprisoned. Meanwhile, Alyosha befriends some of the local schoolboys. He meets a dying boy named Ilyusha, and arranges for the other boys to come visit him every day. Alyosha helps Ilyusha's family as the young boy nears death, and he is universally adored by all the schoolboys, who look to him for guidance. Ivan talks to Smerdyakov about Fyodor Pavlovich's death, and Smerdyakov confesses to Ivan that he, and not Dmitri, committed the murder. But he says that Ivan is also implicated in the crime because the philosophical lessons Smerdyakov learned from Ivan, regarding the impossibility of evil in a world without a God, made Smerdyakov capable of committing murder. This statement causes Ivan to become consumed with guilt. After returning home, Ivan suffers a nervous breakdown in which he sees a devil that relentlessly taunts him. The apparition vanishes when Alyosha arrives with the news that Smerdyakov has hung himself. At the trial, Dmitri's case seems to be going well until Ivan is called upon to testify. Ivan madly asserts that he himself is guilty of the murder, throwing the courtroom into confusion. To clear Ivan's name, Katerina leaps up and shows a letter she received from Dmitri in which he wrote that he was afraid he might one day murder his father. Even after the letter is read, most of the people in the courtroom are convinced of Dmitri's innocence. But the peasants on the jury find him guilty, and he is taken back to prison to await his exile in Siberia. After the trial, Katerina takes Ivan to her house, where she plans to nurse him through his illness. She and Dmitri forgive one another, and she arranges for Dmitri to escape from prison and flee to America with Grushenka. Alyosha's friend Ilyusha dies, and Alyosha gives a speech to the schoolboys at his funeral. In plain language, he says that they must all remember the love they feel for one another and treasure their memories of one another. The schoolboys, moved, give Alyosha an enthusiastic cheer.", "analysis": ""}]}
{"bid": "2833", "title": "The Portrait of a Lady", "text": "\nUnder certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable\nthan the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There\nare circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not--some\npeople of course never do,--the situation is in itself delightful. Those\nthat I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered\nan admirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of\nthe little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English\ncountry-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid\nsummer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much of it was\nleft, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality. Real dusk\nwould not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun\nto ebb, the air had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth,\ndense turf. They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressed\nthat sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief source\nof one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o'clock to\neight is on certain occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion\nas this the interval could be only an eternity of pleasure. The persons\nconcerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not\nof the sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the\nceremony I have mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn were straight\nand angular; they were the shadows of an old man sitting in a deep\nwicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and\nof two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of\nhim. The old man had his cup in his hand; it was an unusually large cup,\nof a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted in brilliant\ncolours. He disposed of its contents with much circumspection, holding\nit for a long time close to his chin, with his face turned to the house.\nHis companions had either finished their tea or were indifferent to\ntheir privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll.\nOne of them, from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certain\nattention at the elder man, who, unconscious of observation, rested his\neyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that rose beyond\nthe lawn was a structure to repay such consideration and was the most\ncharacteristic object in the peculiarly English picture I have attempted\nto sketch.\n\nIt stood upon a low hill, above the river--the river being the Thames at\nsome forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red brick, with\nthe complexion of which time and the weather had played all sorts of\npictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented\nto the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows\nsmothered in creepers. The house had a name and a history; the old\ngentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these\nthings: how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a\nnight's hospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august person had\nextended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular bed which\nstill formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had been\na good deal bruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the\nRestoration, repaired and much enlarged; and how, finally, after having\nbeen remodelled and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed\ninto the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it\noriginally because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth)\nit was offered at a great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at its\nugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of\ntwenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it,\nso that he knew all its points and would tell you just where to stand\nto see them in combination and just the hour when the shadows of\nits various protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary\nbrickwork--were of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said,\nhe could have counted off most of the successive owners and occupants,\nseveral of whom were known to general fame; doing so, however, with an\nundemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was not\nthe least honourable. The front of the house overlooking that portion\nof the lawn with which we are concerned was not the entrance-front; this\nwas in quite another quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and the wide\ncarpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension\nof a luxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down a\nshade as dense as that of velvet curtains; and the place was furnished,\nlike a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs, with\nthe books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at some\ndistance; where the ground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking,\nceased. But it was none the less a charming walk down to the water.\n\nThe old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty\nyears before, had brought with him, at the top of his baggage, his\nAmerican physiognomy; and he had not only brought it with him, but he\nhad kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have\ntaken it back to his own country with perfect confidence. At present,\nobviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to displace himself; his\njourneys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes the\ngreat rest. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly\ndistributed and an expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently a\nface in which the range of representation was not large, so that the air\nof contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell\nthat he had been successful in life, yet it seemed to tell also that his\nsuccess had not been exclusive and invidious, but had had much of the\ninoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience of\nmen, but there was an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that\nplayed upon his lean, spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye\nas he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the\ntable. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was\nfolded upon his knees, and his feet were encased in thick, embroidered\nslippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near his chair,\nwatching the master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in the\nstill more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling,\nbustling terrier bestowed a desultory attendance upon the other\ngentlemen.\n\nOne of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a\nface as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched was\nsomething else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair and\nfrank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich\nadornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate,\nbrilliant exceptional look--the air of a happy temperament fertilised by\na high civilisation--which would have made almost any observer envy him\nat a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from a\nlong ride; he wore a white hat, which looked too large for him; he\nheld his two hands behind him, and in one of them--a large, white,\nwell-shaped fist--was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.\n\nHis companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person\nof quite a different pattern, who, although he might have excited\ngrave curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked you to wish\nyourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly\nput together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished,\nbut by no means decorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. He\nlooked clever and ill--a combination by no means felicitous; and he wore\na brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there\nwas something in the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate.\nHis gait had a shambling, wandering quality; he was not very firm on\nhis legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in the chair he\nrested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces brought\ninto relation, you would easily have seen they were father and son.\nThe father caught his son's eye at last and gave him a mild, responsive\nsmile.\n\n\"I'm getting on very well,\" he said.\n\n\"Have you drunk your tea?\" asked the son.\n\n\"Yes, and enjoyed it.\"\n\n\"Shall I give you some more?\"\n\nThe old man considered, placidly. \"Well, I guess I'll wait and see.\" He\nhad, in speaking, the American tone.\n\n\"Are you cold?\" the son enquired.\n\nThe father slowly rubbed his legs. \"Well, I don't know. I can't tell\ntill I feel.\"\n\n\"Perhaps some one might feel for you,\" said the younger man, laughing.\n\n\"Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me,\nLord Warburton?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, immensely,\" said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton,\npromptly. \"I'm bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose I am, in most respects.\" And the old man looked down at\nhis green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. \"The fact is I've been\ncomfortable so many years that I suppose I've got so used to it I don't\nknow it.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the bore of comfort,\" said Lord Warburton. \"We only know\nwhen we're uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"It strikes me we're rather particular,\" his companion remarked.\n\n\"Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular,\" Lord Warburton murmured.\nAnd then the three men remained silent a while; the two younger ones\nstanding looking down at the other, who presently asked for more tea. \"I\nshould think you would be very unhappy with that shawl,\" Lord Warburton\nresumed while his companion filled the old man's cup again.\n\n\"Oh no, he must have the shawl!\" cried the gentleman in the velvet coat.\n\"Don't put such ideas as that into his head.\"\n\n\"It belongs to my wife,\" said the old man simply.\n\n\"Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons--\" And Lord Warburton made a\ngesture of apology.\n\n\"I suppose I must give it to her when she comes,\" the old man went on.\n\n\"You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover your\npoor old legs.\"\n\n\"Well, you mustn't abuse my legs,\" said the old man. \"I guess they are\nas good as yours.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine,\" his son replied, giving him\nhis tea.\n\n\"Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference.\"\n\n\"I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?\"\n\n\"Well, it's rather hot.\"\n\n\"That's intended to be a merit.\"\n\n\"Ah, there's a great deal of merit,\" murmured the old man, kindly. \"He's\na very good nurse, Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"Isn't he a bit clumsy?\" asked his lordship.\n\n\"Oh no, he's not clumsy--considering that he's an invalid himself. He's\na very good nurse--for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because\nhe's sick himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, daddy!\" the ugly young man exclaimed.\n\n\"Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it.\"\n\n\"I might try: that's an idea,\" said the young man.\n\n\"Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?\" his father asked.\n\nLord Warburton considered a moment. \"Yes, sir, once, in the Persian\nGulf.\"\n\n\"He's making light of you, daddy,\" said the other young man. \"That's a\nsort of joke.\"\n\n\"Well, there seem to be so many sorts now,\" daddy replied, serenely.\n\"You don't look as if you had been sick, anyway, Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about\nit,\" said Lord Warburton's friend.\n\n\"Is that true, sir?\" asked the old man gravely.\n\n\"If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow to\ntalk to--a regular cynic. He doesn't seem to believe in anything.\"\n\n\"That's another sort of joke,\" said the person accused of cynicism.\n\n\"It's because his health is so poor,\" his father explained to Lord\nWarburton. \"It affects his mind and colours his way of looking at\nthings; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it's\nalmost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect his\nspirits. I've hardly ever seen him when he wasn't cheerful--about as he\nis at present. He often cheers me up.\"\n\nThe young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. \"Is it\na glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should you like me to carry\nout my theories, daddy?\"\n\n\"By Jove, we should see some queer things!\" cried Lord Warburton.\n\n\"I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm not\nin the least bored; I find life only too interesting.\"\n\n\"Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!\"\n\n\"I'm never bored when I come here,\" said Lord Warburton. \"One gets such\nuncommonly good talk.\"\n\n\"Is that another sort of joke?\" asked the old man. \"You've no excuse for\nbeing bored anywhere. When I was your age I had never heard of such a\nthing.\"\n\n\"You must have developed very late.\"\n\n\"No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twenty\nyears old I was very highly developed indeed. I was working tooth and\nnail. You wouldn't be bored if you had something to do; but all you\nyoung men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You're too\nfastidious, and too indolent, and too rich.\"\n\n\"Oh, I say,\" cried Lord Warburton, \"you're hardly the person to accuse a\nfellow-creature of being too rich!\"\n\n\"Do you mean because I'm a banker?\" asked the old man.\n\n\"Because of that, if you like; and because you have--haven't you?--such\nunlimited means.\"\n\n\"He isn't very rich,\" the other young man mercifully pleaded. \"He has\ngiven away an immense deal of money.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose it was his own,\" said Lord Warburton; \"and in that case\ncould there be a better proof of wealth? Let not a public benefactor\ntalk of one's being too fond of pleasure.\"\n\n\"Daddy's very fond of pleasure--of other people's.\"\n\nThe old man shook his head. \"I don't pretend to have contributed\nanything to the amusement of my contemporaries.\"\n\n\"My dear father, you're too modest!\"\n\n\"That's a kind of joke, sir,\" said Lord Warburton.\n\n\"You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you've\nnothing left.\"\n\n\"Fortunately there are always more jokes,\" the ugly young man remarked.\n\n\"I don't believe it--I believe things are getting more serious. You\nyoung men will find that out.\"\n\n\"The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great opportunity\nof jokes.\"\n\n\"They'll have to be grim jokes,\" said the old man. \"I'm convinced there\nwill be great changes, and not all for the better.\"\n\n\"I quite agree with you, sir,\" Lord Warburton declared. \"I'm very sure\nthere will be great changes, and that all sorts of queer things will\nhappen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying your advice;\nyou know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold' of\nsomething. One hesitates to take hold of a thing that may the next\nmoment be knocked sky-high.\"\n\n\"You ought to take hold of a pretty woman,\" said his companion. \"He's\ntrying hard to fall in love,\" he added, by way of explanation, to his\nfather.\n\n\"The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!\" Lord Warburton\nexclaimed.\n\n\"No, no, they'll be firm,\" the old man rejoined; \"they'll not be\naffected by the social and political changes I just referred to.\"\n\n\"You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay hands on\none as soon as possible and tie her round my neck as a life-preserver.\"\n\n\"The ladies will save us,\" said the old man; \"that is the best of them\nwill--for I make a difference between them. Make up to a good one and\nmarry her, and your life will become much more interesting.\"\n\nA momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a sense\nof the magnanimity of this speech, for it was a secret neither for his\nson nor for his visitor that his own experiment in matrimony had not\nbeen a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and these\nwords may have been intended as a confession of personal error; though\nof course it was not in place for either of his companions to remark\nthat apparently the lady of his choice had not been one of the best.\n\n\"If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what you\nsay?\" Lord Warburton asked. \"I'm not at all keen about marrying--your\nson misrepresented me; but there's no knowing what an interesting woman\nmight do with me.\"\n\n\"I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman,\" said his\nfriend.\n\n\"My dear fellow, you can't see ideas--especially such highly ethereal\nones as mine. If I could only see it myself--that would be a great step\nin advance.\"\n\n\"Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn't\nfall in love with my niece,\" said the old man.\n\nHis son broke into a laugh. \"He'll think you mean that as a provocation!\nMy dear father, you've lived with the English for thirty years, and\nyou've picked up a good many of the things they say. But you've never\nlearned the things they don't say!\"\n\n\"I say what I please,\" the old man returned with all his serenity.\n\n\"I haven't the honour of knowing your niece,\" Lord Warburton said. \"I\nthink it's the first time I've heard of her.\"\n\n\"She's a niece of my wife's; Mrs. Touchett brings her to England.\"\n\nThen young Mr. Touchett explained. \"My mother, you know, has been\nspending the winter in America, and we're expecting her back. She writes\nthat she has discovered a niece and that she has invited her to come out\nwith her.\"\n\n\"I see,--very kind of her,\" said Lord Warburton. Is the young lady\ninteresting?\"\n\n\"We hardly know more about her than you; my mother has not gone into\ndetails. She chiefly communicates with us by means of telegrams, and her\ntelegrams are rather inscrutable. They say women don't know how to write\nthem, but my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of condensation.\n'Tired America, hot weather awful, return England with niece, first\nsteamer decent cabin.' That's the sort of message we get from her--that\nwas the last that came. But there had been another before, which I think\ncontained the first mention of the niece. 'Changed hotel, very bad,\nimpudent clerk, address here. Taken sister's girl, died last year, go to\nEurope, two sisters, quite independent.' Over that my father and I\nhave scarcely stopped puzzling; it seems to admit of so many\ninterpretations.\"\n\n\"There's one thing very clear in it,\" said the old man; \"she has given\nthe hotel-clerk a dressing.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the field. We\nthought at first that the sister mentioned might be the sister of the\nclerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece seems to prove that the\nallusion is to one of my aunts. Then there was a question as to whose\nthe two other sisters were; they are probably two of my late aunt's\ndaughters. But who's 'quite independent,' and in what sense is the term\nused?--that point's not yet settled. Does the expression apply more\nparticularly to the young lady my mother has adopted, or does it\ncharacterise her sisters equally?--and is it used in a moral or in a\nfinancial sense? Does it mean that they've been left well off, or\nthat they wish to be under no obligations? or does it simply mean that\nthey're fond of their own way?\"\n\n\"Whatever else it means, it's pretty sure to mean that,\" Mr. Touchett\nremarked.\n\n\"You'll see for yourself,\" said Lord Warburton. \"When does Mrs. Touchett\narrive?\"\n\n\"We're quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decent cabin.\nShe may be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she may already have\ndisembarked in England.\"\n\n\"In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you.\"\n\n\"She never telegraphs when you would expect it--only when you don't,\"\nsaid the old man. \"She likes to drop on me suddenly; she thinks she'll\nfind me doing something wrong. She has never done so yet, but she's not\ndiscouraged.\"\n\n\"It's her share in the family trait, the independence she speaks of.\"\nHer son's appreciation of the matter was more favourable. \"Whatever the\nhigh spirit of those young ladies may be, her own is a match for it. She\nlikes to do everything for herself and has no belief in any one's power\nto help her. She thinks me of no more use than a postage-stamp without\ngum, and she would never forgive me if I should presume to go to\nLiverpool to meet her.\"\n\n\"Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?\" Lord Warburton\nasked.\n\n\"Only on the condition I've mentioned--that you don't fall in love with\nher!\" Mr. Touchett replied.\n\n\"That strikes me as hard, don't you think me good enough?\"\n\n\"I think you too good--because I shouldn't like her to marry you. She\nhasn't come here to look for a husband, I hope; so many young ladies are\ndoing that, as if there were no good ones at home. Then she's probably\nengaged; American girls are usually engaged, I believe. Moreover I'm not\nsure, after all, that you'd be a remarkable husband.\"\n\n\"Very likely she's engaged; I've known a good many American girls, and\nthey always were; but I could never see that it made any difference,\nupon my word! As for my being a good husband,\" Mr. Touchett's visitor\npursued, \"I'm not sure of that either. One can but try!\"\n\n\"Try as much as you please, but don't try on my niece,\" smiled the old\nman, whose opposition to the idea was broadly humorous.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still, \"perhaps,\nafter all, she's not worth trying on!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nWhile this exchange of pleasantries took place between the two Ralph\nTouchett wandered away a little, with his usual slouching gait, his\nhands in his pockets and his little rowdyish terrier at his heels. His\nface was turned toward the house, but his eyes were bent musingly on the\nlawn; so that he had been an object of observation to a person who had\njust made her appearance in the ample doorway for some moments before\nhe perceived her. His attention was called to her by the conduct of\nhis dog, who had suddenly darted forward with a little volley of shrill\nbarks, in which the note of welcome, however, was more sensible than\nthat of defiance. The person in question was a young lady, who seemed\nimmediately to interpret the greeting of the small beast. He advanced\nwith great rapidity and stood at her feet, looking up and barking hard;\nwhereupon, without hesitation, she stooped and caught him in her hands,\nholding him face to face while he continued his quick chatter. His\nmaster now had had time to follow and to see that Bunchie's new friend\nwas a tall girl in a black dress, who at first sight looked pretty.\nShe was bareheaded, as if she were staying in the house--a fact which\nconveyed perplexity to the son of its master, conscious of that immunity\nfrom visitors which had for some time been rendered necessary by the\nlatter's ill-health. Meantime the two other gentlemen had also taken\nnote of the new-comer.\n\n\"Dear me, who's that strange woman?\" Mr. Touchett had asked.\n\n\"Perhaps it's Mrs. Touchett's niece--the independent young lady,\" Lord\nWarburton suggested. \"I think she must be, from the way she handles the\ndog.\"\n\nThe collie, too, had now allowed his attention to be diverted, and he\ntrotted toward the young lady in the doorway, slowly setting his tail in\nmotion as he went.\n\n\"But where's my wife then?\" murmured the old man.\n\n\"I suppose the young lady has left her somewhere: that's a part of the\nindependence.\"\n\nThe girl spoke to Ralph, smiling, while she still held up the terrier.\n\"Is this your little dog, sir?\"\n\n\"He was mine a moment ago; but you've suddenly acquired a remarkable air\nof property in him.\"\n\n\"Couldn't we share him?\" asked the girl. \"He's such a perfect little\ndarling.\"\n\nRalph looked at her a moment; she was unexpectedly pretty. \"You may have\nhim altogether,\" he then replied.\n\nThe young lady seemed to have a great deal of confidence, both in\nherself and in others; but this abrupt generosity made her blush. \"I\nought to tell you that I'm probably your cousin,\" she brought out,\nputting down the dog. \"And here's another!\" she added quickly, as the\ncollie came up.\n\n\"Probably?\" the young man exclaimed, laughing. \"I supposed it was quite\nsettled! Have you arrived with my mother?\"\n\n\"Yes, half an hour ago.\"\n\n\"And has she deposited you and departed again?\"\n\n\"No, she went straight to her room, and she told me that, if I should\nsee you, I was to say to you that you must come to her there at a\nquarter to seven.\"\n\nThe young man looked at his watch. \"Thank you very much; I shall be\npunctual.\" And then he looked at his cousin. \"You're very welcome here.\nI'm delighted to see you.\"\n\nShe was looking at everything, with an eye that denoted clear\nperception--at her companion, at the two dogs, at the two gentlemen\nunder the trees, at the beautiful scene that surrounded her. \"I've never\nseen anything so lovely as this place. I've been all over the house;\nit's too enchanting.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry you should have been here so long without our knowing it.\"\n\n\"Your mother told me that in England people arrived very quietly; so I\nthought it was all right. Is one of those gentlemen your father?\"\n\n\"Yes, the elder one--the one sitting down,\" said Ralph.\n\nThe girl gave a laugh. \"I don't suppose it's the other. Who's the\nother?\"\n\n\"He's a friend of ours--Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!\" And then,\n\"Oh you adorable creature!\" she suddenly cried, stooping down and\npicking up the small dog again.\n\nShe remained standing where they had met, making no offer to advance or\nto speak to Mr. Touchett, and while she lingered so near the threshold,\nslim and charming, her interlocutor wondered if she expected the old man\nto come and pay her his respects. American girls were used to a great\ndeal of deference, and it had been intimated that this one had a high\nspirit. Indeed Ralph could see that in her face.\n\n\"Won't you come and make acquaintance with my father?\" he nevertheless\nventured to ask. \"He's old and infirm--he doesn't leave his chair.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor man, I'm very sorry!\" the girl exclaimed, immediately moving\nforward. \"I got the impression from your mother that he was rather\nintensely active.\"\n\nRalph Touchett was silent a moment. \"She hasn't seen him for a year.\"\n\n\"Well, he has a lovely place to sit. Come along, little hound.\"\n\n\"It's a dear old place,\" said the young man, looking sidewise at his\nneighbour.\n\n\"What's his name?\" she asked, her attention having again reverted to the\nterrier.\n\n\"My father's name?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the young lady with amusement; \"but don't tell him I asked\nyou.\"\n\nThey had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was sitting, and he\nslowly got up from his chair to introduce himself.\n\n\"My mother has arrived,\" said Ralph, \"and this is Miss Archer.\"\n\nThe old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, looked at her a\nmoment with extreme benevolence and then gallantly kissed her. \"It's\na great pleasure to me to see you here; but I wish you had given us a\nchance to receive you.\"\n\n\"Oh, we were received,\" said the girl. \"There were about a dozen\nservants in the hall. And there was an old woman curtseying at the\ngate.\"\n\n\"We can do better than that--if we have notice!\" And the old man stood\nthere smiling, rubbing his hands and slowly shaking his head at her.\n\"But Mrs. Touchett doesn't like receptions.\"\n\n\"She went straight to her room.\"\n\n\"Yes--and locked herself in. She always does that. Well, I suppose I\nshall see her next week.\" And Mrs. Touchett's husband slowly resumed his\nformer posture.\n\n\"Before that,\" said Miss Archer. \"She's coming down to dinner--at eight\no'clock. Don't you forget a quarter to seven,\" she added, turning with a\nsmile to Ralph.\n\n\"What's to happen at a quarter to seven?\"\n\n\"I'm to see my mother,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Ah, happy boy!\" the old man commented. \"You must sit down--you must\nhave some tea,\" he observed to his wife's niece.\n\n\"They gave me some tea in my room the moment I got there,\" this young\nlady answered. \"I'm sorry you're out of health,\" she added, resting her\neyes upon her venerable host.\n\n\"Oh, I'm an old man, my dear; it's time for me to be old. But I shall be\nthe better for having you here.\"\n\nShe had been looking all round her again--at the lawn, the great trees,\nthe reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house; and while engaged\nin this survey she had made room in it for her companions; a\ncomprehensiveness of observation easily conceivable on the part of a\nyoung woman who was evidently both intelligent and excited. She had\nseated herself and had put away the little dog; her white hands, in\nher lap, were folded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye\nlighted, her flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that, in\nsympathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught impressions.\nHer impressions were numerous, and they were all reflected in a clear,\nstill smile. \"I've never seen anything so beautiful as this.\"\n\n\"It's looking very well,\" said Mr. Touchett. \"I know the way it strikes\nyou. I've been through all that. But you're very beautiful yourself,\" he\nadded with a politeness by no means crudely jocular and with the happy\nconsciousness that his advanced age gave him the privilege of saying\nsuch things--even to young persons who might possibly take alarm at\nthem.\n\nWhat degree of alarm this young person took need not be exactly\nmeasured; she instantly rose, however, with a blush which was not a\nrefutation. \"Oh yes, of course I'm lovely!\" she returned with a quick\nlaugh. \"How old is your house? Is it Elizabethan?\"\n\n\"It's early Tudor,\" said Ralph Touchett.\n\nShe turned toward him, watching his face. \"Early Tudor? How very\ndelightful! And I suppose there are a great many others.\"\n\n\"There are many much better ones.\"\n\n\"Don't say that, my son!\" the old man protested. \"There's nothing better\nthan this.\"\n\n\"I've got a very good one; I think in some respects it's rather better,\"\nsaid Lord Warburton, who as yet had not spoken, but who had kept an\nattentive eye upon Miss Archer. He slightly inclined himself, smiling;\nhe had an excellent manner with women. The girl appreciated it in an\ninstant; she had not forgotten that this was Lord Warburton. \"I should\nlike very much to show it to you,\" he added.\n\n\"Don't believe him,\" cried the old man; \"don't look at it! It's a\nwretched old barrack--not to be compared with this.\"\n\n\"I don't know--I can't judge,\" said the girl, smiling at Lord Warburton.\n\nIn this discussion Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever; he stood\nwith his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if he should like to\nrenew his conversation with his new-found cousin.\n\n\"Are you very fond of dogs?\" he enquired by way of beginning. He seemed\nto recognise that it was an awkward beginning for a clever man.\n\n\"Very fond of them indeed.\"\n\n\"You must keep the terrier, you know,\" he went on, still awkwardly.\n\n\"I'll keep him while I'm here, with pleasure.\"\n\n\"That will be for a long time, I hope.\"\n\n\"You're very kind. I hardly know. My aunt must settle that.\"\n\n\"I'll settle it with her--at a quarter to seven.\" And Ralph looked at\nhis watch again.\n\n\"I'm glad to be here at all,\" said the girl.\n\n\"I don't believe you allow things to be settled for you.\"\n\n\"Oh yes; if they're settled as I like them.\"\n\n\"I shall settle this as I like it,\" said Ralph. \"It's most unaccountable\nthat we should never have known you.\"\n\n\"I was there--you had only to come and see me.\"\n\n\"There? Where do you mean?\"\n\n\"In the United States: in New York and Albany and other American\nplaces.\"\n\n\"I've been there--all over, but I never saw you. I can't make it out.\"\n\nMiss Archer just hesitated. \"It was because there had been some\ndisagreement between your mother and my father, after my mother's death,\nwhich took place when I was a child. In consequence of it we never\nexpected to see you.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I don't embrace all my mother's quarrels--heaven forbid!\"\nthe young man cried. \"You've lately lost your father?\" he went on more\ngravely.\n\n\"Yes; more than a year ago. After that my aunt was very kind to me; she\ncame to see me and proposed that I should come with her to Europe.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Ralph. \"She has adopted you.\"\n\n\"Adopted me?\" The girl stared, and her blush came back to her, together\nwith a momentary look of pain which gave her interlocutor some alarm. He\nhad underestimated the effect of his words. Lord Warburton, who appeared\nconstantly desirous of a nearer view of Miss Archer, strolled toward the\ntwo cousins at the moment, and as he did so she rested her wider eyes on\nhim.\n\n\"Oh no; she has not adopted me. I'm not a candidate for adoption.\"\n\n\"I beg a thousand pardons,\" Ralph murmured. \"I meant--I meant--\" He\nhardly knew what he meant.\n\n\"You meant she has taken me up. Yes; she likes to take people up.\nShe has been very kind to me; but,\" she added with a certain visible\neagerness of desire to be explicit, \"I'm very fond of my liberty.\"\n\n\"Are you talking about Mrs. Touchett?\" the old man called out from his\nchair. \"Come here, my dear, and tell me about her. I'm always thankful\nfor information.\"\n\nThe girl hesitated again, smiling. \"She's really very benevolent,\"\nshe answered; after which she went over to her uncle, whose mirth was\nexcited by her words.\n\nLord Warburton was left standing with Ralph Touchett, to whom in a\nmoment he said: \"You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting\nwoman. There it is!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nMrs. Touchett was certainly a person of many oddities, of which her\nbehaviour on returning to her husband's house after many months was a\nnoticeable specimen. She had her own way of doing all that she did, and\nthis is the simplest description of a character which, although by no\nmeans without liberal motions, rarely succeeded in giving an impression\nof suavity. Mrs. Touchett might do a great deal of good, but she\nnever pleased. This way of her own, of which she was so fond, was not\nintrinsically offensive--it was just unmistakeably distinguished from\nthe ways of others. The edges of her conduct were so very clear-cut that\nfor susceptible persons it sometimes had a knife-like effect. That hard\nfineness came out in her deportment during the first hours of her return\nfrom America, under circumstances in which it might have seemed that\nher first act would have been to exchange greetings with her husband\nand son. Mrs. Touchett, for reasons which she deemed excellent, always\nretired on such occasions into impenetrable seclusion, postponing the\nmore sentimental ceremony until she had repaired the disorder of dress\nwith a completeness which had the less reason to be of high importance\nas neither beauty nor vanity were concerned in it. She was a plain-faced\nold woman, without graces and without any great elegance, but with an\nextreme respect for her own motives. She was usually prepared to explain\nthese--when the explanation was asked as a favour; and in such a case\nthey proved totally different from those that had been attributed to\nher. She was virtually separated from her husband, but she appeared to\nperceive nothing irregular in the situation. It had become clear, at an\nearly stage of their community, that they should never desire the same\nthing at the same moment, and this appearance had prompted her to rescue\ndisagreement from the vulgar realm of accident. She did what she could\nto erect it into a law--a much more edifying aspect of it--by going to\nlive in Florence, where she bought a house and established herself; and\nby leaving her husband to take care of the English branch of his bank.\nThis arrangement greatly pleased her; it was so felicitously definite.\nIt struck her husband in the same light, in a foggy square in London,\nwhere it was at times the most definite fact he discerned; but he\nwould have preferred that such unnatural things should have a greater\nvagueness. To agree to disagree had cost him an effort; he was ready to\nagree to almost anything but that, and saw no reason why either assent\nor dissent should be so terribly consistent. Mrs. Touchett indulged in\nno regrets nor speculations, and usually came once a year to spend a\nmonth with her husband, a period during which she apparently took pains\nto convince him that she had adopted the right system. She was not fond\nof the English style of life, and had three or four reasons for it to\nwhich she currently alluded; they bore upon minor points of that ancient\norder, but for Mrs. Touchett they amply justified non-residence. She\ndetested bread-sauce, which, as she said, looked like a poultice\nand tasted like soap; she objected to the consumption of beer by\nher maid-servants; and she affirmed that the British laundress (Mrs.\nTouchett was very particular about the appearance of her linen) was not\na mistress of her art. At fixed intervals she paid a visit to her own\ncountry; but this last had been longer than any of its predecessors.\n\nShe had taken up her niece--there was little doubt of that. One wet\nafternoon, some four months earlier than the occurrence lately narrated,\nthis young lady had been seated alone with a book. To say she was so\noccupied is to say that her solitude did not press upon her; for her\nlove of knowledge had a fertilising quality and her imagination was\nstrong. There was at this time, however, a want of fresh taste in\nher situation which the arrival of an unexpected visitor did much to\ncorrect. The visitor had not been announced; the girl heard her at last\nwalking about the adjoining room. It was in an old house at Albany, a\nlarge, square, double house, with a notice of sale in the windows of one\nof the lower apartments. There were two entrances, one of which had\nlong been out of use but had never been removed. They were exactly\nalike--large white doors, with an arched frame and wide side-lights,\nperched upon little \"stoops\" of red stone, which descended sidewise\nto the brick pavement of the street. The two houses together formed a\nsingle dwelling, the party-wall having been removed and the rooms placed\nin communication. These rooms, above-stairs, were extremely numerous,\nand were painted all over exactly alike, in a yellowish white which had\ngrown sallow with time. On the third floor there was a sort of arched\npassage, connecting the two sides of the house, which Isabel and her\nsisters used in their childhood to call the tunnel and which, though it\nwas short and well lighted, always seemed to the girl to be strange and\nlonely, especially on winter afternoons. She had been in the house,\nat different periods, as a child; in those days her grandmother lived\nthere. Then there had been an absence of ten years, followed by a return\nto Albany before her father's death. Her grandmother, old Mrs. Archer,\nhad exercised, chiefly within the limits of the family, a large\nhospitality in the early period, and the little girls often spent weeks\nunder her roof--weeks of which Isabel had the happiest memory. The\nmanner of life was different from that of her own home--larger, more\nplentiful, practically more festal; the discipline of the nursery was\ndelightfully vague and the opportunity of listening to the conversation\nof one's elders (which with Isabel was a highly-valued pleasure) almost\nunbounded. There was a constant coming and going; her grandmother's\nsons and daughters and their children appeared to be in the enjoyment of\nstanding invitations to arrive and remain, so that the house offered to\na certain extent the appearance of a bustling provincial inn kept by a\ngentle old landlady who sighed a great deal and never presented a bill.\nIsabel of course knew nothing about bills; but even as a child she\nthought her grandmother's home romantic. There was a covered piazza\nbehind it, furnished with a swing which was a source of tremulous\ninterest; and beyond this was a long garden, sloping down to the stable\nand containing peach-trees of barely credible familiarity. Isabel had\nstayed with her grandmother at various seasons, but somehow all her\nvisits had a flavour of peaches. On the other side, across the street,\nwas an old house that was called the Dutch House--a peculiar structure\ndating from the earliest colonial time, composed of bricks that had been\npainted yellow, crowned with a gable that was pointed out to strangers,\ndefended by a rickety wooden paling and standing sidewise to the street.\nIt was occupied by a primary school for children of both sexes, kept\nor rather let go, by a demonstrative lady of whom Isabel's chief\nrecollection was that her hair was fastened with strange bedroomy combs\nat the temples and that she was the widow of some one of consequence.\nThe little girl had been offered the opportunity of laying a foundation\nof knowledge in this establishment; but having spent a single day in it,\nshe had protested against its laws and had been allowed to stay at home,\nwhere, in the September days, when the windows of the Dutch House\nwere open, she used to hear the hum of childish voices repeating the\nmultiplication table--an incident in which the elation of liberty and\nthe pain of exclusion were indistinguishably mingled. The foundation\nof her knowledge was really laid in the idleness of her grandmother's\nhouse, where, as most of the other inmates were not reading people,\nshe had uncontrolled use of a library full of books with frontispieces,\nwhich she used to climb upon a chair to take down. When she had found\none to her taste--she was guided in the selection chiefly by the\nfrontispiece--she carried it into a mysterious apartment which lay\nbeyond the library and which was called, traditionally, no one knew\nwhy, the office. Whose office it had been and at what period it had\nflourished, she never learned; it was enough for her that it contained\nan echo and a pleasant musty smell and that it was a chamber of disgrace\nfor old pieces of furniture whose infirmities were not always apparent\n(so that the disgrace seemed unmerited and rendered them victims\nof injustice) and with which, in the manner of children, she had\nestablished relations almost human, certainly dramatic. There was an old\nhaircloth sofa in especial, to which she had confided a hundred childish\nsorrows. The place owed much of its mysterious melancholy to the fact\nthat it was properly entered from the second door of the house, the\ndoor that had been condemned, and that it was secured by bolts which a\nparticularly slender little girl found it impossible to slide. She\nknew that this silent, motionless portal opened into the street; if the\nsidelights had not been filled with green paper she might have looked\nout upon the little brown stoop and the well-worn brick pavement. But\nshe had no wish to look out, for this would have interfered with her\ntheory that there was a strange, unseen place on the other side--a place\nwhich became to the child's imagination, according to its different\nmoods, a region of delight or of terror.\n\nIt was in the \"office\" still that Isabel was sitting on that melancholy\nafternoon of early spring which I have just mentioned. At this time\nshe might have had the whole house to choose from, and the room she had\nselected was the most depressed of its scenes. She had never opened the\nbolted door nor removed the green paper (renewed by other hands) from\nits sidelights; she had never assured herself that the vulgar street lay\nbeyond. A crude, cold rain fell heavily; the spring-time was indeed an\nappeal--and it seemed a cynical, insincere appeal--to patience. Isabel,\nhowever, gave as little heed as possible to cosmic treacheries; she kept\nher eyes on her book and tried to fix her mind. It had lately occurred\nto her that her mind was a good deal of a vagabond, and she had spent\nmuch ingenuity in training it to a military step and teaching it\nto advance, to halt, to retreat, to perform even more complicated\nmanoeuvres, at the word of command. Just now she had given it marching\norders and it had been trudging over the sandy plains of a history of\nGerman Thought. Suddenly she became aware of a step very different from\nher own intellectual pace; she listened a little and perceived that some\none was moving in the library, which communicated with the office. It\nstruck her first as the step of a person from whom she was looking for a\nvisit, then almost immediately announced itself as the tread of a\nwoman and a stranger--her possible visitor being neither. It had an\ninquisitive, experimental quality which suggested that it would not stop\nshort of the threshold of the office; and in fact the doorway of this\napartment was presently occupied by a lady who paused there and looked\nvery hard at our heroine. She was a plain, elderly woman, dressed in\na comprehensive waterproof mantle; she had a face with a good deal of\nrather violent point.\n\n\"Oh,\" she began, \"is that where you usually sit?\" She looked about at\nthe heterogeneous chairs and tables.\n\n\"Not when I have visitors,\" said Isabel, getting up to receive the\nintruder.\n\nShe directed their course back to the library while the visitor\ncontinued to look about her. \"You seem to have plenty of other rooms;\nthey're in rather better condition. But everything's immensely worn.\"\n\n\"Have you come to look at the house?\" Isabel asked. \"The servant will\nshow it to you.\"\n\n\"Send her away; I don't want to buy it. She has probably gone to\nlook for you and is wandering about upstairs; she didn't seem at all\nintelligent. You had better tell her it's no matter.\" And then, since\nthe girl stood there hesitating and wondering, this unexpected critic\nsaid to her abruptly: \"I suppose you're one of the daughters?\"\n\nIsabel thought she had very strange manners. \"It depends upon whose\ndaughters you mean.\"\n\n\"The late Mr. Archer's--and my poor sister's.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel slowly, \"you must be our crazy Aunt Lydia!\"\n\n\"Is that what your father told you to call me? I'm your Aunt Lydia, but\nI'm not at all crazy: I haven't a delusion! And which of the daughters\nare you?\"\n\n\"I'm the youngest of the three, and my name's Isabel.\"\n\n\"Yes; the others are Lilian and Edith. And are you the prettiest?\"\n\n\"I haven't the least idea,\" said the girl.\n\n\"I think you must be.\" And in this way the aunt and the niece made\nfriends. The aunt had quarrelled years before with her brother-in-law,\nafter the death of her sister, taking him to task for the manner in\nwhich he brought up his three girls. Being a high-tempered man he had\nrequested her to mind her own business, and she had taken him at his\nword. For many years she held no communication with him and after his\ndeath had addressed not a word to his daughters, who had been bred in\nthat disrespectful view of her which we have just seen Isabel betray.\nMrs. Touchett's behaviour was, as usual, perfectly deliberate. She\nintended to go to America to look after her investments (with which her\nhusband, in spite of his great financial position, had nothing to\ndo) and would take advantage of this opportunity to enquire into the\ncondition of her nieces. There was no need of writing, for she should\nattach no importance to any account of them she should elicit by letter;\nshe believed, always, in seeing for one's self. Isabel found, however,\nthat she knew a good deal about them, and knew about the marriage of the\ntwo elder girls; knew that their poor father had left very little money,\nbut that the house in Albany, which had passed into his hands, was to\nbe sold for their benefit; knew, finally, that Edmund Ludlow,\nLilian's husband, had taken upon himself to attend to this matter, in\nconsideration of which the young couple, who had come to Albany during\nMr. Archer's illness, were remaining there for the present and, as well\nas Isabel herself, occupying the old place.\n\n\"How much money do you expect for it?\" Mrs. Touchett asked of her\ncompanion, who had brought her to sit in the front parlour, which she\nhad inspected without enthusiasm.\n\n\"I haven't the least idea,\" said the girl.\n\n\"That's the second time you have said that to me,\" her aunt rejoined.\n\"And yet you don't look at all stupid.\"\n\n\"I'm not stupid; but I don't know anything about money.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's the way you were brought up--as if you were to inherit a\nmillion. What have you in point of fact inherited?\"\n\n\"I really can't tell you. You must ask Edmund and Lilian; they'll be\nback in half an hour.\"\n\n\"In Florence we should call it a very bad house,\" said Mrs. Touchett;\n\"but here, I dare say, it will bring a high price. It ought to make\na considerable sum for each of you. In addition to that you must have\nsomething else; it's most extraordinary your not knowing. The position's\nof value, and they'll probably pull it down and make a row of shops.\nI wonder you don't do that yourself; you might let the shops to great\nadvantage.\"\n\nIsabel stared; the idea of letting shops was new to her. \"I hope they\nwon't pull it down,\" she said; \"I'm extremely fond of it.\"\n\n\"I don't see what makes you fond of it; your father died here.\"\n\n\"Yes; but I don't dislike it for that,\" the girl rather strangely\nreturned. \"I like places in which things have happened--even if they're\nsad things. A great many people have died here; the place has been full\nof life.\"\n\n\"Is that what you call being full of life?\"\n\n\"I mean full of experience--of people's feelings and sorrows. And not of\ntheir sorrows only, for I've been very happy here as a child.\"\n\n\"You should go to Florence if you like houses in which things have\nhappened--especially deaths. I live in an old palace in which three\npeople have been murdered; three that were known and I don't know how\nmany more besides.\"\n\n\"In an old palace?\" Isabel repeated.\n\n\"Yes, my dear; a very different affair from this. This is very\nbourgeois.\"\n\nIsabel felt some emotion, for she had always thought highly of her\ngrandmother's house. But the emotion was of a kind which led her to say:\n\"I should like very much to go to Florence.\"\n\n\"Well, if you'll be very good, and do everything I tell you I'll take\nyou there,\" Mrs. Touchett declared.\n\nOur young woman's emotion deepened; she flushed a little and smiled at\nher aunt in silence. \"Do everything you tell me? I don't think I can\npromise that.\"\n\n\"No, you don't look like a person of that sort. You're fond of your own\nway; but it's not for me to blame you.\"\n\n\"And yet, to go to Florence,\" the girl exclaimed in a moment, \"I'd\npromise almost anything!\"\n\nEdmund and Lilian were slow to return, and Mrs. Touchett had an\nhour's uninterrupted talk with her niece, who found her a strange and\ninteresting figure: a figure essentially--almost the first she had ever\nmet. She was as eccentric as Isabel had always supposed; and hitherto,\nwhenever the girl had heard people described as eccentric, she had\nthought of them as offensive or alarming. The term had always suggested\nto her something grotesque and even sinister. But her aunt made it a\nmatter of high but easy irony, or comedy, and led her to ask herself\nif the common tone, which was all she had known, had ever been as\ninteresting. No one certainly had on any occasion so held her as this\nlittle thin-lipped, bright-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who retrieved an\ninsignificant appearance by a distinguished manner and, sitting there in\na well-worn waterproof, talked with striking familiarity of the courts\nof Europe. There was nothing flighty about Mrs. Touchett, but she\nrecognised no social superiors, and, judging the great ones of the earth\nin a way that spoke of this, enjoyed the consciousness of making\nan impression on a candid and susceptible mind. Isabel at first had\nanswered a good many questions, and it was from her answers apparently\nthat Mrs. Touchett derived a high opinion of her intelligence. But after\nthis she had asked a good many, and her aunt's answers, whatever turn\nthey took, struck her as food for deep reflexion. Mrs. Touchett waited\nfor the return of her other niece as long as she thought reasonable, but\nas at six o'clock Mrs. Ludlow had not come in she prepared to take her\ndeparture.\n\n\"Your sister must be a great gossip. Is she accustomed to staying out so\nmany hours?\"\n\n\"You've been out almost as long as she,\" Isabel replied; \"she can have\nleft the house but a short time before you came in.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett looked at the girl without resentment; she appeared to\nenjoy a bold retort and to be disposed to be gracious. \"Perhaps she\nhasn't had so good an excuse as I. Tell her at any rate that she must\ncome and see me this evening at that horrid hotel. She may bring her\nhusband if she likes, but she needn't bring you. I shall see plenty of\nyou later.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nMrs. Ludlow was the eldest of the three sisters, and was usually thought\nthe most sensible; the classification being in general that Lilian\nwas the practical one, Edith the beauty and Isabel the \"intellectual\"\nsuperior. Mrs. Keyes, the second of the group, was the wife of an\nofficer of the United States Engineers, and as our history is not\nfurther concerned with her it will suffice that she was indeed very\npretty and that she formed the ornament of those various military\nstations, chiefly in the unfashionable West, to which, to her deep\nchagrin, her husband was successively relegated. Lilian had married a\nNew York lawyer, a young man with a loud voice and an enthusiasm for\nhis profession; the match was not brilliant, any more than Edith's, but\nLilian had occasionally been spoken of as a young woman who might be\nthankful to marry at all--she was so much plainer than her sisters.\nShe was, however, very happy, and now, as the mother of two peremptory\nlittle boys and the mistress of a wedge of brown stone violently driven\ninto Fifty-third Street, seemed to exult in her condition as in a bold\nescape. She was short and solid, and her claim to figure was questioned,\nbut she was conceded presence, though not majesty; she had moreover, as\npeople said, improved since her marriage, and the two things in life\nof which she was most distinctly conscious were her husband's force in\nargument and her sister Isabel's originality. \"I've never kept up with\nIsabel--it would have taken all my time,\" she had often remarked;\nin spite of which, however, she held her rather wistfully in sight;\nwatching her as a motherly spaniel might watch a free greyhound. \"I want\nto see her safely married--that's what I want to see,\" she frequently\nnoted to her husband.\n\n\"Well, I must say I should have no particular desire to marry her,\"\nEdmund Ludlow was accustomed to answer in an extremely audible tone.\n\n\"I know you say that for argument; you always take the opposite ground.\nI don't see what you've against her except that she's so original.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't like originals; I like translations,\" Mr. Ludlow had more\nthan once replied. \"Isabel's written in a foreign tongue. I can't make\nher out. She ought to marry an Armenian or a Portuguese.\"\n\n\"That's just what I'm afraid she'll do!\" cried Lilian, who thought\nIsabel capable of anything.\n\nShe listened with great interest to the girl's account of Mrs.\nTouchett's appearance and in the evening prepared to comply with their\naunt's commands. Of what Isabel then said no report has remained, but\nher sister's words had doubtless prompted a word spoken to her husband\nas the two were making ready for their visit. \"I do hope immensely\nshe'll do something handsome for Isabel; she has evidently taken a great\nfancy to her.\"\n\n\"What is it you wish her to do?\" Edmund Ludlow asked. \"Make her a big\npresent?\"\n\n\"No indeed; nothing of the sort. But take an interest in her--sympathise\nwith her. She's evidently just the sort of person to appreciate her. She\nhas lived so much in foreign society; she told Isabel all about it. You\nknow you've always thought Isabel rather foreign.\"\n\n\"You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh? Don't you think\nshe gets enough at home?\"\n\n\"Well, she ought to go abroad,\" said Mrs. Ludlow. \"She's just the person\nto go abroad.\"\n\n\"And you want the old lady to take her, is that it?\"\n\n\"She has offered to take her--she's dying to have Isabel go. But what\nI want her to do when she gets her there is to give her all the\nadvantages. I'm sure all we've got to do,\" said Mrs. Ludlow, \"is to give\nher a chance.\"\n\n\"A chance for what?\"\n\n\"A chance to develop.\"\n\n\"Oh Moses!\" Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. \"I hope she isn't going to develop\nany more!\"\n\n\"If I were not sure you only said that for argument I should feel very\nbadly,\" his wife replied. \"But you know you love her.\"\n\n\"Do you know I love you?\" the young man said, jocosely, to Isabel a\nlittle later, while he brushed his hat.\n\n\"I'm sure I don't care whether you do or not!\" exclaimed the girl; whose\nvoice and smile, however, were less haughty than her words.\n\n\"Oh, she feels so grand since Mrs. Touchett's visit,\" said her sister.\n\nBut Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of seriousness.\n\"You must not say that, Lily. I don't feel grand at all.\"\n\n\"I'm sure there's no harm,\" said the conciliatory Lily.\n\n\"Ah, but there's nothing in Mrs. Touchett's visit to make one feel\ngrand.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" exclaimed Ludlow, \"she's grander than ever!\"\n\n\"Whenever I feel grand,\" said the girl, \"it will be for a better\nreason.\"\n\nWhether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt different, as if\nsomething had happened to her. Left to herself for the evening she sat\na while under the lamp, her hands empty, her usual avocations unheeded.\nThen she rose and moved about the room, and from one room to another,\npreferring the places where the vague lamplight expired. She was\nrestless and even agitated; at moments she trembled a little. The\nimportance of what had happened was out of proportion to its appearance;\nthere had really been a change in her life. What it would bring with it\nwas as yet extremely indefinite; but Isabel was in a situation that gave\na value to any change. She had a desire to leave the past behind her\nand, as she said to herself, to begin afresh. This desire indeed was not\na birth of the present occasion; it was as familiar as the sound of the\nrain upon the window and it had led to her beginning afresh a great many\ntimes. She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners of the\nquiet parlour; but it was not with a desire for dozing forgetfulness. It\nwas on the contrary because she felt too wide-eyed and wished to check\nthe sense of seeing too many things at once. Her imagination was by\nhabit ridiculously active; when the door was not open it jumped out of\nthe window. She was not accustomed indeed to keep it behind bolts; and\nat important moments, when she would have been thankful to make use\nof her judgement alone, she paid the penalty of having given undue\nencouragement to the faculty of seeing without judging. At present, with\nher sense that the note of change had been struck, came gradually a host\nof images of the things she was leaving behind her. The years and hours\nof her life came back to her, and for a long time, in a stillness broken\nonly by the ticking of the big bronze clock, she passed them in\nreview. It had been a very happy life and she had been a very fortunate\nperson--this was the truth that seemed to emerge most vividly. She had\nhad the best of everything, and in a world in which the circumstances\nof so many people made them unenviable it was an advantage never to have\nknown anything particularly unpleasant. It appeared to Isabel that the\nunpleasant had been even too absent from her knowledge, for she had\ngathered from her acquaintance with literature that it was often a\nsource of interest and even of instruction. Her father had kept it\naway from her--her handsome, much loved father, who always had such\nan aversion to it. It was a great felicity to have been his daughter;\nIsabel rose even to pride in her parentage. Since his death she had\nseemed to see him as turning his braver side to his children and as\nnot having managed to ignore the ugly quite so much in practice as in\naspiration. But this only made her tenderness for him greater; it\nwas scarcely even painful to have to suppose him too generous, too\ngood-natured, too indifferent to sordid considerations. Many persons\nhad held that he carried this indifference too far, especially the large\nnumber of those to whom he owed money. Of their opinions Isabel was\nnever very definitely informed; but it may interest the reader to know\nthat, while they had recognised in the late Mr. Archer a remarkably\nhandsome head and a very taking manner (indeed, as one of them had said,\nhe was always taking something), they had declared that he was making a\nvery poor use of his life. He had squandered a substantial fortune, he\nhad been deplorably convivial, he was known to have gambled freely.\nA few very harsh critics went so far as to say that he had not even\nbrought up his daughters. They had had no regular education and no\npermanent home; they had been at once spoiled and neglected; they had\nlived with nursemaids and governesses (usually very bad ones) or had\nbeen sent to superficial schools, kept by the French, from which, at the\nend of a month, they had been removed in tears. This view of the matter\nwould have excited Isabel's indignation, for to her own sense her\nopportunities had been large. Even when her father had left his\ndaughters for three months at Neufchatel with a French bonne who had\neloped with a Russian nobleman staying at the same hotel--even in this\nirregular situation (an incident of the girl's eleventh year) she had\nbeen neither frightened nor ashamed, but had thought it a romantic\nepisode in a liberal education. Her father had a large way of looking at\nlife, of which his restlessness and even his occasional incoherency\nof conduct had been only a proof. He wished his daughters, even as\nchildren, to see as much of the world as possible; and it was for this\npurpose that, before Isabel was fourteen, he had transported them three\ntimes across the Atlantic, giving them on each occasion, however, but a\nfew months' view of the subject proposed: a course which had whetted\nour heroine's curiosity without enabling her to satisfy it. She ought to\nhave been a partisan of her father, for she was the member of his trio\nwho most \"made up\" to him for the disagreeables he didn't mention. In\nhis last days his general willingness to take leave of a world in which\nthe difficulty of doing as one liked appeared to increase as one grew\nolder had been sensibly modified by the pain of separation from his\nclever, his superior, his remarkable girl. Later, when the journeys to\nEurope ceased, he still had shown his children all sorts of indulgence,\nand if he had been troubled about money-matters nothing ever disturbed\ntheir irreflective consciousness of many possessions. Isabel, though she\ndanced very well, had not the recollection of having been in New York a\nsuccessful member of the choreographic circle; her sister Edith was,\nas every one said, so very much more fetching. Edith was so striking\nan example of success that Isabel could have no illusions as to what\nconstituted this advantage, or as to the limits of her own power to\nfrisk and jump and shriek--above all with rightness of effect. Nineteen\npersons out of twenty (including the younger sister herself) pronounced\nEdith infinitely the prettier of the two; but the twentieth, besides\nreversing this judgement, had the entertainment of thinking all the\nothers aesthetic vulgarians. Isabel had in the depths of her nature an\neven more unquenchable desire to please than Edith; but the depths of\nthis young lady's nature were a very out-of-the-way place, between which\nand the surface communication was interrupted by a dozen capricious\nforces. She saw the young men who came in large numbers to see her\nsister; but as a general thing they were afraid of her; they had a\nbelief that some special preparation was required for talking with her.\nHer reputation of reading a great deal hung about her like the cloudy\nenvelope of a goddess in an epic; it was supposed to engender difficult\nquestions and to keep the conversation at a low temperature. The poor\ngirl liked to be thought clever, but she hated to be thought bookish;\nshe used to read in secret and, though her memory was excellent, to\nabstain from showy reference. She had a great desire for knowledge, but\nshe really preferred almost any source of information to the printed\npage; she had an immense curiosity about life and was constantly staring\nand wondering. She carried within herself a great fund of life, and her\ndeepest enjoyment was to feel the continuity between the movements of\nher own soul and the agitations of the world. For this reason she was\nfond of seeing great crowds and large stretches of country, of reading\nabout revolutions and wars, of looking at historical pictures--a class\nof efforts as to which she had often committed the conscious solecism of\nforgiving them much bad painting for the sake of the subject. While the\nCivil War went on she was still a very young girl; but she passed months\nof this long period in a state of almost passionate excitement, in which\nshe felt herself at times (to her extreme confusion) stirred\nalmost indiscriminately by the valour of either army. Of course the\ncircumspection of suspicious swains had never gone the length of making\nher a social proscript; for the number of those whose hearts, as they\napproached her, beat only just fast enough to remind them they had heads\nas well, had kept her unacquainted with the supreme disciplines of\nher sex and age. She had had everything a girl could have: kindness,\nadmiration, bonbons, bouquets, the sense of exclusion from none of the\nprivileges of the world she lived in, abundant opportunity for dancing,\nplenty of new dresses, the London Spectator, the latest publications,\nthe music of Gounod, the poetry of Browning, the prose of George Eliot.\n\nThese things now, as memory played over them, resolved themselves into a\nmultitude of scenes and figures. Forgotten things came back to her; many\nothers, which she had lately thought of great moment, dropped out of\nsight. The result was kaleidoscopic, but the movement of the instrument\nwas checked at last by the servant's coming in with the name of a\ngentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar Goodwood; he was a\nstraight young man from Boston, who had known Miss Archer for the last\ntwelvemonth and who, thinking her the most beautiful young woman of her\ntime, had pronounced the time, according to the rule I have hinted at,\na foolish period of history. He sometimes wrote to her and had within a\nweek or two written from New York. She had thought it very possible he\nwould come in--had indeed all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him.\nNow that she learned he was there, nevertheless, she felt no eagerness\nto receive him. He was the finest young man she had ever seen, was\nindeed quite a splendid young man; he inspired her with a sentiment of\nhigh, of rare respect. She had never felt equally moved to it by any\nother person. He was supposed by the world in general to wish to marry\nher, but this of course was between themselves. It at least may be\naffirmed that he had travelled from New York to Albany expressly to see\nher; having learned in the former city, where he was spending a few\ndays and where he had hoped to find her, that she was still at the State\ncapital. Isabel delayed for some minutes to go to him; she moved about\nthe room with a new sense of complications. But at last she presented\nherself and found him standing near the lamp. He was tall, strong and\nsomewhat stiff; he was also lean and brown. He was not romantically, he\nwas much rather obscurely, handsome; but his physiognomy had an air of\nrequesting your attention, which it rewarded according to the charm you\nfound in blue eyes of remarkable fixedness, the eyes of a complexion\nother than his own, and a jaw of the somewhat angular mould which is\nsupposed to bespeak resolution. Isabel said to herself that it bespoke\nresolution to-night; in spite of which, in half an hour, Caspar\nGoodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well as resolute, took his way back\nto his lodging with the feeling of a man defeated. He was not, it may be\nadded, a man weakly to accept defeat.\n\n\n\n\n\nRalph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his\nmother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.\nEven philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted\nthat of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the\nsweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to\nhimself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was\npaternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial.\nShe was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted\non his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered\nperfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her\nthoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the\nother nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities of\nperformance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed\nfor dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made\nhim sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about her\nhusband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving no\nvery brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever\nconvinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate.\nIn this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of\nhis mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his\nown infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he\nabsented himself for a considerable part of each year.\n\nHe had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,\na native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as\nsubordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he\ngained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long\nresidence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a\nsimple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had\nno intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his\nonly son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a\nproblem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to\nhim equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on the\ngrey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify\nthis light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph\nspent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an\nAmerican university, after which, as he struck his father on his return\nas even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years in\nresidence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became\nat last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners that\nsurrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed\nits independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,\nnaturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless\nliberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; at\nOxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction,\nand the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a\nfellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career\nby returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in\nuncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with\nhim (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put\na watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he\nregarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father,\nhe admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel\nTouchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself\nhad no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learning\nenough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was\nnot this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface,\npolished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to\npossibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither at\nHarvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his\nson's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full\nof ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for the\nlatter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for\nthe ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr.\nTouchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the ground\nof his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of\nhis marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted with\npleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the\nend of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as he\nwas rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the disposition\nsuperficially to fraternise, and his \"social position,\" on which he had\nnever wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It\nwas perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic\nconsciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English\nlife upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There\nwere certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had\nnever formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these\nlatter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less\nwell of him.\n\nRalph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;\nafter which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father's\nbank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I\nbelieve, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other\nconsiderations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of\nstanding, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise,\nhowever, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end\nof some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out\nof health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs\nand threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply,\nto the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he\nslighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least\nhe was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person\nwith whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved\non acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging\ntolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes\nstrange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something\nat stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation for\nordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of\nwhich note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping\nthe poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other\npromised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather\na dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which\nconsumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of\nLondon, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he\ncursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ\ngrateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand.\nHe wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home\nwhen the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when\nit had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.\n\nA secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse might\nhave slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped to\nreconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught\nbut that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing\nhe had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced the\nfield of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit\nseemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of\npleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading\na good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a young\nman who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good\nwinters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes\nthe sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled\nsome three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this\nhistory opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in\nEngland and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers.\nHe arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between\nlife and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he\nmade of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He\nsaid to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to\nkeep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the\ninterval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation.\nWith the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties became\nan exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had\nnever been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard\nthat he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself;\nan idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the less\ndelightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts\nof inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more\ncheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their\nheads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but\nthe array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.\n\nIt was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing\nin itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interest\nin the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was\nconsideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough\nfor a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the\nimagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--had\nstill a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the\nriot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with a\npassion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one.\n\"And now tell me about the young lady,\" he said to his mother. \"What do\nyou mean to do with her?\"\n\nMrs. Touchett was prompt. \"I mean to ask your father to invite her to\nstay three or four weeks at Gardencourt.\"\n\n\"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that,\" said Ralph. \"My father\nwill ask her as a matter of course.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his.\"\n\n\"Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the more\nreason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months\n(for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four\npaltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?\"\n\n\"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?\"\n\n\"I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence.\"\n\n\"You don't rise above detail, dear mother,\" said Ralph. \"I should like\nto know what you mean to do with her in a general way.\"\n\n\"My duty!\" Mrs. Touchett declared. \"I suppose you pity her very much,\"\nshe added.\n\n\"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting\ncompassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a\nhint of where you see your duty.\"\n\n\"In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice of\ntwo of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in\nFrench, which she already knows very well.\"\n\nRalph frowned a little. \"That sounds rather dry--even allowing her the\nchoice of two of the countries.\"\n\n\"If it's dry,\" said his mother with a laugh, \"you can leave Isabel alone\nto water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day.\"\n\n\"Do you mean she's a gifted being?\"\n\n\"I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever\ngirl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being\nbored.\"\n\n\"I can imagine that,\" said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: \"How do\nyou two get on?\"\n\n\"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one.\nSome girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think I\ngreatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort\nof girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just what\nto expect of each other.\"\n\n\"Ah, dear mother,\" Ralph exclaimed, \"one always knows what to expect\nof you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--in\npresenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never\nsuspected.\"\n\n\"Do you think her so very pretty?\"\n\n\"Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her general\nair of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare\ncreature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make\nher acquaintance?\"\n\n\"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a\nrainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn't\nknow she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very\ngrateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--I\nshould have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted\nconscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It\noccurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and\nintroduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of\nit--like most American girls; but like most American girls she's\nridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me\ncredit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there's\nno greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You\nknow I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapproved\nentirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when\nhe should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be\nfound and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There\nare two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the\nelder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name\nis Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she\nsaid it was just what her sister needed--that some one should take\nan interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young\nperson of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that\nIsabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special\nline. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;\nthey all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a\nrefuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very\nglad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little\ndifficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being\nunder pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes\nherself to be travelling at her own expense.\"\n\nRalph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his\ninterest in the subject of it was not impaired. \"Ah, if she's a genius,\"\nhe said, \"we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for\nflirting?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong.\nYou won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her.\"\n\n\"Warburton's wrong then!\" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. \"He flatters\nhimself he has made that discovery.\"\n\nHis mother shook her head. \"Lord Warburton won't understand her. He\nneedn't try.\"\n\n\"He's very intelligent,\" said Ralph; \"but it's right he should be\npuzzled once in a while.\"\n\n\"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord,\" Mrs. Touchett remarked.\n\nHer son frowned a little. \"What does she know about lords?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more.\"\n\nRalph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.\nThen, \"Are you not going down to see my father?\" he asked.\n\n\"At a quarter to eight,\" said Mrs. Touchett.\n\nHer son looked at his watch. \"You've another quarter of an hour then.\nTell me some more about Isabel.\" After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined\nhis invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, \"Well,\" he\npursued, \"she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give you\ntrouble?\"\n\n\"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do\nthat.\"\n\n\"She strikes me as very natural,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Natural people are not the most trouble.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Ralph; \"you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremely\nnatural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble\nto do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of\nmaking herself disagreeable?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried his mother, \"you ask too many questions! Find that out for\nyourself.\"\n\nHis questions, however, were not exhausted. \"All this time,\" he said,\n\"you've not told me what you intend to do with her.\"\n\n\"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do\nabsolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she\nchooses. She gave me notice of that.\"\n\n\"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's\nindependent.\"\n\n\"I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send from\nAmerica. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father.\"\n\n\"It's not yet a quarter to eight,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"I must allow for his impatience,\" Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew\nwhat to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he\noffered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they\ndescended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the\nstaircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak\nwhich was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. \"You've no\nplan of marrying her?\" he smiled.\n\n\"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart\nfrom that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every\nfacility.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?\"\n\n\"I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!\"\n\nRalph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston.\n\"As my father says, they're always engaged!\"\n\nHis mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the\nsource, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He\nhad a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been\nleft together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over\nfrom his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his\ndeparture before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and\nMrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their\nforms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective\napartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had\nbeen travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was\nreally tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow;\nbut it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest\npoint and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A fine\nhypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as\nshe said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures;\nthere were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing.\nThe best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions,\nwhich had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening\nwas usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures\nto advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow.\nThis suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked\ndisappointed--smiling still, however--and said: \"If you please I should\nlike to see them just a little.\" She was eager, she knew she was eager\nand now seemed so; she couldn't help it. \"She doesn't take suggestions,\"\nRalph said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure\namused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,\nand if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague\nsquares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made\na sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick\nand moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to\none picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs.\nShe was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with\nthat. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there;\nshe lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the\nmiddle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures\nthan on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering\nglances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art.\nShe was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when\npeople had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers\nthey had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark\neven to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light\ngrey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an\nenchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of the\ngallery and down the other, and then she said: \"Well, now I know more\nthan I did when I began!\"\n\n\"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge,\" her cousin\nreturned.\n\n\"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant.\"\n\n\"You strike me as different from most girls.\"\n\n\"Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!\" murmured\nIsabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a\nmoment, to change the subject, \"Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?\"\nshe went on.\n\n\"A ghost?\"\n\n\"A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in\nAmerica.\"\n\n\"So we do here, when we see them.\"\n\n\"You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house.\"\n\n\"It's not a romantic old house,\" said Ralph. \"You'll be disappointed if\nyou count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance here\nbut what you may have brought with you.\"\n\n\"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to the\nright place.\"\n\n\"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here,\nbetween my father and me.\"\n\nIsabel looked at him a moment. \"Is there never any one here but your\nfather and you?\"\n\n\"My mother, of course.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?\"\n\n\"Very few.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people.\"\n\n\"Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Now you're making fun of me,\" the girl answered rather gravely. \"Who\nwas the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?\"\n\n\"A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry for that; I liked him,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him,\" Ralph objected.\n\n\"Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,\nimmensely.\"\n\n\"You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry he is ill,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse.\"\n\n\"I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too many\ntheories. But you haven't told me about the ghost,\" she added.\n\nRalph, however, gave no heed to this observation. \"You like my father\nand you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother.\"\n\n\"I like your mother very much, because--because--\" And Isabel found\nherself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.\nTouchett.\n\n\"Ah, we never know why!\" said her companion, laughing.\n\n\"I always know why,\" the girl answered. \"It's because she doesn't expect\none to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not.\"\n\n\"So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my\nmother,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try\nto make them do it.\"\n\n\"Good heavens, how you see through one!\" he cried with a dismay that was\nnot altogether jocular.\n\n\"But I like you all the same,\" his cousin went on. \"The way to clinch\nthe matter will be to show me the ghost.\"\n\nRalph shook his head sadly. \"I might show it to you, but you'd never see\nit. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It has\nnever been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must\nhave suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable\nknowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,\"\nsaid Ralph.\n\n\"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge,\" Isabel answered.\n\n\"Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't\nsuffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the\nghost!\"\n\nShe had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with\na certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck\nhim as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and he\nwondered what she would say. \"I'm not afraid, you know,\" she said: which\nseemed quite presumptuous enough.\n\n\"You're not afraid of suffering?\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I think\npeople suffer too easily,\" she added.\n\n\"I don't believe you do,\" said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in\nhis pockets.\n\n\"I don't think that's a fault,\" she answered. \"It's not absolutely\nnecessary to suffer; we were not made for that.\"\n\n\"You were not, certainly.\"\n\n\"I'm not speaking of myself.\" And she wandered off a little.\n\n\"No, it isn't a fault,\" said her cousin. \"It's a merit to be strong.\"\n\n\"Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard,\" Isabel remarked.\n\nThey passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had\nreturned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the\nstaircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle,\nwhich he had taken from a niche. \"Never mind what they call you. When\nyou do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happy\nas possible.\"\n\nShe looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot\non the oaken stair. \"Well,\" she said, \"that's what I came to Europe for,\nto be as happy as possible. Good-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to\ncontribute to it!\"\n\nShe turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with\nhis hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.\n\n\n\n\n\nIsabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was\nremarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind\nthan most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger\nperception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was\ntinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries\nshe passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these\nexcellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of\nintellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of\nIsabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read the\nclassic authors--in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once\nspread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book--Mrs. Varian having a\nreverence for books, and averred that the girl would distinguish herself\nin print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she\nentertained that esteem that is connected with a sense of privation.\nHer own large house, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and\ndecorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of\nprinted volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on\na shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs.\nVarian's acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York\nInterviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer\nyou had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather\nto keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was\ndetermined to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her\nimpression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl\nhad never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels\nof authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the\nconsciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were\nright when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or\nno she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought\nher so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly\nthan theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might easily be\nconfounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that\nIsabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often\nsurveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the\nhabit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, that she was right;\nshe treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile her errors and\ndelusions were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving\nthe dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts\nwere a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the\njudgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion\nshe had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous\nzigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then\nshe treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she\nheld her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an\nunquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it\nwas only under this provision life was worth living; that one should\nbe one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (she\ncouldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm\nof light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully\nchronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one's self\nas to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should try to be one's\nown best friend and to give one's self, in this manner, distinguished\ncompany. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered\nher a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent\nhalf her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had\na fixed determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of\nfree expansion, of irresistible action: she held it must be detestable\nto be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never\ndo anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them,\nher mere errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if\nshe had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered\nher) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another\nperson, presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold\nher breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen\nto her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about\nthe things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when\nshe fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be\njealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil\nof the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt\neach other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed\nindecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was\nthe danger of inconsistency--the danger of keeping up the flag after the\nplace has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost\na dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of\nartillery to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such\ncontradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Her life should\nalways be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should\nproduce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she\nwas. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself\nsome day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure\nof being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre\nknowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and\ndogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of\ncuriosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire\nto look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination\nto see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory,\nflame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she\nwould be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended\nto awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely\nexpectant.\n\nIt was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in\nbeing independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use\nof that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of\nsingleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister\nLily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose\nacquaintance she had made shortly before her father's death, who offered\nso high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her\nas a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability;\nshe was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the\nInterviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other\nplaces, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence\n\"ephemeral,\" but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the\nwriter, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three\nof the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their\nschool-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was\nin the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her\ncherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of\nletters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view--an enterprise\nthe less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions\nwould be and to how many objections most European institutions lay\nopen. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once;\nthinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel\ntogether. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise.\nShe thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly\nin some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her\nfriend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular\nstudent of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof\nthat a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were\nof the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and\na genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to\nwant, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation,\nno beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being\nfrivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If\none should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work\nto one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not\nwithout a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on\nthe list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it.\nFrom lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might\nbe delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself,\nin the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly\npossible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded\nperson of another sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered;\nsomething pure and proud that there was in her--something cold and dry\nan unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called\nit--had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the\narticle of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a\nruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them\nshould present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience.\nDeep in her soul--it was the deepest thing there--lay a belief that if\na certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but\nthis image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's\nthoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a\nlittle it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too\nmuch about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the\nyear, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her\ndevelopment, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature\nhad, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of\nperfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas,\nwhich made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise\nin the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was\nharmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was\noften reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of\nher remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places\nwhich were not gardens at all--only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted\nthick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity\non which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this\nbeautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often\nchecked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were\nless happy than herself--a thought which for the moment made her fine,\nfull consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with\nthe misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It\nmust be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too\nyoung, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always\nreturned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one\nthought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life.\nThis impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should\nbe secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject\nof special attention.\n\nEngland was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a\nchild at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had\nseen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not\nLondon, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his\nchildren had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had\ngrown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that\nshe now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a\npicture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon\nIsabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and\ngratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky\ncorners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on\ndark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always\npeeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a\n\"property\"--a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where\nthe tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all\nfriction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk--these\nthings were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a\nconsiderable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her\nuncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the\nlawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like\na placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work\nand received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months\nmade up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected--the\neffect she produced upon people was often different from what she\nsupposed--and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her\nchatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which\nhad much of the \"point\" observable in that of the young ladies of her\ncountry, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to\ntheir sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had\nbeen encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended\nto; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her\nopinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed\naway in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit\nof seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to\nher words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many\npeople had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think\nthat she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was\nbecause she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak--so\nmany characteristics of her niece--that he had fallen in love with Mrs.\nTouchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however;\nfor if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all\nlike Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a\nlong time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house;\nand our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable\nto his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something\nfor her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but\nquestions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had\na great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms\nthat puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the\nBritish constitution, the English character, the state of politics,\nthe manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the\naristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in\nbegging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether\nthey corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always\nlooked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down\nthe shawl spread across his legs.\n\n\"The books?\" he once said; \"well, I don't know much about the books. You\nmust ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself--got my\ninformation in the natural form. I never asked many questions even;\nI just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good\nopportunities--better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm\nof an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you were\nto watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you\nmore. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years,\nand I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable information.\nIt's a very fine country on the whole--finer perhaps than what we give\nit credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to\nsee introduced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generally\nfelt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they\nusually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty\ncomfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among\nthem than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it's because\nI've had a considerable degree of success. When you're successful you\nnaturally feel more at home.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?\" Isabel\nasked.\n\n\"I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful.\nThey like American young ladies very much over here; they show them\na great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much at home, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me,\" Isabel judicially\nemphasised. \"I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like\nthe people.\"\n\n\"The people are very good people; especially if you like them.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt they're good,\" Isabel rejoined; \"but are they pleasant\nin society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves\nagreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't hesitate to\nsay so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe they're very\nnice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels.\"\n\n\"I don't know about the novels,\" said Mr. Touchett. \"I believe the\nnovels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're very accurate.\nWe once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend\nof Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to\neverything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on\nfor evidence. Too free a fancy--I suppose that was it. She afterwards\npublished a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given\na representation--something in the nature of a caricature, as you might\nsay--of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph just handed me\nthe book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be\na description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang,\nYankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate;\nshe couldn't have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her\ngiving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the\nidea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk\nlike an American--I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've\nmade them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the\nold gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't\nhave him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you\nthat they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters,\nand as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance\nto notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young\nwomen in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their\nposition is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle.\"\n\n\"Gracious,\" Isabel exclaimed; \"how many classes have they? About fifty,\nI suppose.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice\nof the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here; you\ndon't belong to any class.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" said Isabel. \"Imagine one's belonging to an English class!\"\n\n\"Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable--especially towards\nthe top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and\nthe people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the\nfirst.\"\n\n\"I'm much obliged to you,\" said the girl quickly. Her way of taking\ncompliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly\nas possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was\nthought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to\nshow how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much.\n\"I'm sure the English are very conventional,\" she added.\n\n\"They've got everything pretty well fixed,\" Mr. Touchett admitted. \"It's\nall settled beforehand--they don't leave it to the last moment.\"\n\n\"I don't like to have everything settled beforehand,\" said the girl. \"I\nlike more unexpectedness.\"\n\nHer uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. \"Well, it's\nsettled beforehand that you'll have great success,\" he rejoined. \"I\nsuppose you'll like that.\"\n\n\"I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional. I'm not\nin the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary. That's what\nthey won't like.\"\n\n\"No, no, you're all wrong,\" said the old man. \"You can't tell what\nthey'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal\ninterest.\"\n\n\"Ah well,\" said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands\nclasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the\nlawn--\"that will suit me perfectly!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nThe two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude\nof the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to\nappeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present\nprofoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped\nher, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty\nuncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having\ncultivated relations with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted\nin expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she\nliked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse\nshe had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find\nher hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She\nflattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the\nsovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had\nplayed no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be\nsupposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be\nkept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she\ndid not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and\nthat her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in\nthe neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions\nto her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the\nsingular situation of defending the British constitution against her\naunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this\nvenerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the\npins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old\nparchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use\nof her sharpness. She was very critical herself--it was incidental to\nher age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as\nwell, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's dryness that set her\nown moral fountains flowing.\n\n\"Now what's your point of view?\" she asked of her aunt. \"When you\ncriticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn't\nseem to be American--you thought everything over there so disagreeable.\nWhen I criticise I have mine; it's thoroughly American!\"\n\n\"My dear young lady,\" said Mrs. Touchett, \"there are as many points of\nview in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may\nsay that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in the world;\nthat's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!\"\n\nIsabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a\ntolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not\nhave sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less\nadvanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett\nsuch a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She\nrisked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a\ngreat deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a\nlarge licence to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to\nchaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating\neverything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges\nsuch a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of\nseriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such\nslender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his\nfather; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his\nfather's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his\nfantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted,\nand his native country, his charming new-found cousin. \"I keep a band\nof music in my ante-room,\" he said once to her. \"It has orders to play\nwithout stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the\nsounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes\nthe world think that dancing's going on within.\" It was dance-music\nindeed that you usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph's\nband; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often\nfound herself irritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked\nto pass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the\nprivate apartments. It mattered little that he had assured her they were\na very dismal place; she would have been glad to undertake to sweep them\nand set them in order. It was but half-hospitality to let her remain\noutside; to punish him for which Isabel administered innumerable taps\nwith the ferule of her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit\nwas exercised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused\nhimself with calling her \"Columbia\" and accusing her of a patriotism so\nheated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was\nrepresented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of the\nprevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner. Isabel's chief\ndread in life at this period of her development was that she should\nappear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she\nshould really be so. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding\nin her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of her\nnative land. She would be as American as it pleased him to regard her,\nand if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of occupation.\nShe defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang its praises\non purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself able to\ndiffer from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this\nsmall ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October\npear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which\nenabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If her\ngood-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself\nill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to\nher he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. \"I\ndon't know what's the matter with you,\" she observed to him once; \"but I\nsuspect you're a great humbug.\"\n\n\"That's your privilege,\" Ralph answered, who had not been used to being\nso crudely addressed.\n\n\"I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for anything.\nYou don't really care for England when you praise it; you don't care for\nAmerica even when you pretend to abuse it.\"\n\n\"I care for nothing but you, dear cousin,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"If I could believe even that, I should be very glad.\"\n\n\"Ah well, I should hope so!\" the young man exclaimed.\n\nIsabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He\nthought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind.\nAt a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her\nsudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of\nfate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something\nto fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy;\nhis outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud.\nHe had grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to\nhis legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had\nbeen gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to\nRalph that another attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now\nhe appeared disburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a\nsuspicion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to\ntake him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would be\nlittle hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted\nthat his father would survive him--that his own name would be the first\ngrimly called. The father and son had been close companions, and the\nidea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his\nhands was not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly\ncounted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poor business.\nAt the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one\ninspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very\nwell; but without the encouragement of his father's society he should\nbarely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive of\nfeeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a rule with his\nmother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had\nbeen a small kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the active\nrather than the passive party should know the felt wound; he remembered\nthat the old man had always treated his own forecast of an early end as\na clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to discredit so far as\nhe might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that of refuting a\nsophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a state of\nbeing which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to\nhope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.\n\nThese were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his\npuzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for\nthe intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether\nhe were harbouring \"love\" for this spontaneous young woman from Albany;\nbut he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for\na week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little\nmore sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really\ninteresting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had\nfound it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his\nfriend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his\ncousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was\nconscious she was an entertainment of a high order. \"A character like\nthat,\" he said to himself--\"a real little passionate force to see at\nplay is the finest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work\nof art--than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic\ncathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where one had least\nlooked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week\nbefore she came; I had never expected less that anything pleasant would\nhappen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall--a\nGreek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful\nedifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. My\npoor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very\nquiet and never grumble again.\" The sentiment of these reflexions was\nvery just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key\nput into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take,\nas he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his\nattitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical,\nwas not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired\nit greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of\nproportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses\nand that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and\nthough he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them\nwould fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature;\nbut what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular,\nfor with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did\nwith themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes more or less\ngracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with\na destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of\nhaving intentions of her own. \"Whenever she executes them,\" said Ralph,\n\"may I be there to see!\"\n\nIt devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr.\nTouchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of\nrather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself\nto Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a\ngreat walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin--a\npastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not\nallowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate;\nand in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of\nher gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little\nriver, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a\npart of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a\nphaeton--a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by\nMr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it\nlargely and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to\nthe groom as \"knowing,\" was never weary of driving her uncle's capital\nhorses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural incidents she\nhad confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered,\npast ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and\nglimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When\nthey reached home they usually found tea had been served on the lawn\nand that Mrs. Touchett had not shrunk from the extremity of handing her\nhusband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old\nman with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her\nknitting and wearing that appearance of rare profundity with which some\nladies consider the movement of their needles.\n\nOne day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after\nspending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived\nLord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of\nwhich even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with\nMrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau\nand had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a\ndinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of\nher arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he\nhad indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and\nshe had thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him\nagain--hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not\ndull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a\nsort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had\never encountered--her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her\nimpressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as\nyet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind\nherself that she was interested in human nature and that her foremost\nhope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people.\nWhen Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, \"I wonder you find\nthis endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of\nour friends, because we have really got a few, though you would never\nsuppose it\"--when he offered to invite what he called a \"lot of people\"\nand make her acquainted with English society, she encouraged the\nhospitable impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into the\nfray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers, and it\nmay be confided to the reader that if the young man delayed to carry\nthem out it was because he found the labour of providing for his\ncompanion by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel\nhad spoken to him very often about \"specimens;\" it was a word that\nplayed a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to\nunderstand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent\ncases.\n\n\"Well now, there's a specimen,\" he said to her as they walked up from\nthe riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton.\n\n\"A specimen of what?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"A specimen of an English gentleman.\"\n\n\"Do you mean they're all like him?\"\n\n\"Oh no; they're not all like him.\"\n\n\"He's a favourable specimen then,\" said Isabel; \"because I'm sure he's\nnice.\"\n\n\"Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate.\"\n\nThe fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine\nand hoped she was very well. \"But I needn't ask that,\" he said, \"since\nyou've been handling the oars.\"\n\n\"I've been rowing a little,\" Isabel answered; \"but how should you know\nit?\"\n\n\"Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy,\" said his lordship,\nindicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.\n\n\"He has a good excuse for his laziness,\" Isabel rejoined, lowering her\nvoice a little.\n\n\"Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!\" cried Lord Warburton, still\nwith his sonorous mirth.\n\n\"My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well,\" said Ralph.\n\"She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!\"\n\n\"It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer,\" Lord Warburton declared.\n\n\"Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for\nit,\" said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her\naccomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such\ncomplacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there\nwere several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of\nherself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be\nsupported by proof.\n\nLord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was\npersuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was\nended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During\nthis period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted\nthis evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself\nliking him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had\nweight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce\nfell short of seeing him--though quite without luridity--as a hero\nof romance. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a\nquickened consciousness of possible felicities. \"It's very nice to know\ntwo such charming people as those,\" she said, meaning by \"those\" her\ncousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an\nincident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good-humour to\nthe test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his\nwife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party.\nShe prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then,\nrising, observed to Isabel that it was time they should bid the\ngentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the\noccasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not\nin the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she\nreplied, very simply--\n\n\"Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour.\"\n\n\"It's impossible I should wait for you,\" Mrs. Touchett answered.\n\n\"Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle,\" Isabel gaily\nengaged.\n\n\"I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!\" Lord\nWarburton exclaimed. \"Only I beg it shall not be before midnight.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and\ntransferred them coldly to her niece. \"You can't stay alone with the\ngentlemen. You're not--you're not at your blest Albany, my dear.\"\n\nIsabel rose, blushing. \"I wish I were,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, I say, mother!\" Ralph broke out.\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Touchett!\" Lord Warburton murmured.\n\n\"I didn't make your country, my lord,\" Mrs. Touchett said majestically.\n\"I must take it as I find it.\"\n\n\"Can't I stay with my own cousin?\" Isabel enquired.\n\n\"I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I had better go to bed!\" the visitor suggested. \"That will\narrange it.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. \"Oh, if\nit's necessary I'll stay up till midnight.\"\n\nRalph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her;\nit had seemed to him her temper was involved--an accident that might\nbe interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was\ndisappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night\nand withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his\nmother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies\nseparated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way\nup.\n\n\"Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you,\" said Mrs. Touchett.\n\nIsabel considered. \"I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised--and a good deal\nmystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. Young girls here--in decent houses--don't sit alone\nwith the gentlemen late at night.\"\n\n\"You were very right to tell me then,\" said Isabel. \"I don't understand\nit, but I'm very glad to know it.\n\n\"I shall always tell you,\" her aunt answered, \"whenever I see you taking\nwhat seems to me too much liberty.\"\n\n\"Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just.\"\n\n\"Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways.\"\n\n\"Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the\nthings one shouldn't do.\"\n\n\"So as to do them?\" asked her aunt.\n\n\"So as to choose,\" said Isabel.\n\n\n\n\n\nAs she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to\nexpress a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very\ncurious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she\nwould bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness\nto attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord\nWarburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would\ncome and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded\nhim, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt,\non many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she\nasked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker\nshe urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he\nhad four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The\nbrothers and sisters were very good people--\"not particularly clever,\nyou know,\" he said, \"but very decent and pleasant;\" and he was so good\nas to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in\nthe Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was\na heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his\nthinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then\nLord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which\nwere opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to\nbe entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of\nthem indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her\nshe was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had\ndoubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that,\nif she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing\nin them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the\nquestions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only\nanother example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that,\nof all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly\nsuperstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them;\nthere were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and\nher cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than\nmany of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were\nashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his\nlordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and\ndangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it\nand owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of\nwhich Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest\npattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other\nbrother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed\nand had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to\npay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. \"I don't\nthink I shall pay any more,\" said her friend; \"he lives a monstrous deal\nbetter than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much\nfiner gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in only for\nequality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers.\"\nTwo of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of\nthem having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so.\nThe husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but\nunfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives,\nwas worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire\nin Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five\nchildren. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his\nyoung American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to\nlay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel\nwas often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he\nseemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. \"He\nthinks I'm a barbarian,\" she said, \"and that I've never seen forks and\nspoons;\" and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of\nhearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap,\n\"It's a pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers,\" she\nremarked; \"if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would\nhave brought over my native costume!\" Lord Warburton had travelled\nthrough the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he\nwas so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the\nworld, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that\nAmericans in England would need to have a great many things explained\nto them. \"If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!\"\nhe said. \"I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite\nbewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me\nmore. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose;\nthey're rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you\ncan trust me; about what I tell you there's no mistake.\" There was no\nmistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and\nknowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most\ninteresting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to\nexhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,\nas she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making\na merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not\nspoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect\nof rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times\nalmost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as\nagreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone\nof responsible kindness.\n\n\"I like your specimen English gentleman very much,\" Isabel said to Ralph\nafter Lord Warburton had gone.\n\n\"I like him too--I love him well,\" Ralph returned. \"But I pity him\nmore.\"\n\nIsabel looked at him askance. \"Why, that seems to me his only\nfault--that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything,\nto know everything, to be everything.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's in a bad way!\" Ralph insisted.\n\n\"I suppose you don't mean in health?\"\n\n\"No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a man\nwith a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He\ndoesn't take himself seriously.\"\n\n\"Does he regard himself as a joke?\"\n\n\"Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps he is,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don't think so. But in that case\nwhat's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by\nother hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?\nFor me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha.\nHe occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great\nresponsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great\nwealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great\ncountry. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position, his\npower, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim of a\ncritical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know\nwhat to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I\nknow very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot.\nI believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don't\nunderstand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who\ncan neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an\ninstitution.\"\n\n\"He doesn't look very wretched,\" Isabel observed.\n\n\"Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I\nthink he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being\nof his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe he is.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Well,\" her cousin rejoined, \"if he isn't he ought to be!\"\n\nIn the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the\nold man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup\nof diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her\nwhat she thought of their late visitor.\n\nIsabel was prompt. \"I think he's charming.\"\n\n\"He's a nice person,\" said Mr. Touchett, \"but I don't recommend you to\nfall in love with him.\"\n\n\"I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your\nrecommendation. Moreover,\" Isabel added, \"my cousin gives me rather a\nsad account of Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must\nremember that Ralph must talk.\"\n\n\"He thinks your friend's too subversive--or not subversive enough! I\ndon't quite understand which,\" said Isabel.\n\nThe old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. \"I don't\nknow which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible he doesn't\ngo far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but\nhe seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's natural, but it's\nrather inconsistent.\"\n\n\"Oh, I hope he'll remain himself,\" said Isabel. \"If he were to be done\naway with his friends would miss him sadly.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the old man, \"I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends.\nI should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always\namuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.\nThere's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very\nfashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do--whether\nthey're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it\noff till after I'm gone. You see they want to disestablish everything;\nbut I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be\ndisestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they\nwere going to behave like that,\" Mr. Touchett went on with expanding\nhilarity. \"I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I\ncall it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable\nchanges; there'll be a large number disappointed in that case.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!\" Isabel exclaimed. \"I should\ndelight in seeing a revolution.\"\n\n\"Let me see,\" said her uncle, with a humorous intention; \"I forget\nwhether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I've\nheard you take such opposite views.\"\n\n\"I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of\neverything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should\nbe a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they've a\nchance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely,\nbut it seems to me that you do that always, my dear.\"\n\n\"Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!\" the girl interrupted.\n\n\"I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going gracefully\nto the guillotine here just now,\" Mr. Touchett went on. \"If you want to\nsee a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come\nto the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at their word.\"\n\n\"Of whom are you speaking?\"\n\n\"Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper\nclass. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the\nchanges, but I don't think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we\nknow what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always\nthought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first.\nAnd then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now\nover here I don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of\nevery day and every hour, and I don't think many of them would find it\nas pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try, it's\ntheir own business; but I expect they won't try very hard.\"\n\n\"Don't you think they're sincere?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Well, they want to FEEL earnest,\" Mr. Touchett allowed; \"but it seems\nas if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a\nkind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and they might\nhave coarser tastes than that. You see they're very luxurious, and these\nprogressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel\nmoral and yet don't damage their position. They think a great deal of\ntheir position; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for\nif you were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up very short.\"\n\nIsabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his quaint\ndistinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the\nBritish aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions\nof human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord\nWarburton's behalf. \"I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't\ncare what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the\ntest.\"\n\n\"Heaven deliver me from my friends!\" Mr. Touchett answered. \"Lord\nWarburton's a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a\nhundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of\nthis little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a\ndozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my\nown dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art,\nfor science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste\nfor the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more\nperhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over\nthere--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don't\nthink it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however--he has\nso many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they\ncertainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he\nwould come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as\nhe is: he's too much liked.\"\n\n\"Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!\" Isabel sighed. \"That's\na very poor position.\"\n\n\"He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one,\" said the old man.\n\nIsabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the\nfact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. \"I shall never make any\none a martyr.\"\n\n\"You'll never be one, I hope.\"\n\n\"I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?\"\n\nHer uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. \"Yes, I do, after\nall!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nThe two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call\nupon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to\nher to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described\nthem to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be\nless applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there\nwere fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them.\nDeprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that\nof an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as\nshe thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of \"ornamental\nwater,\" set, in parterres, among the geraniums.\n\n\"They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are,\" our heroine said\nto herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the\nfriends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they\nwould have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having\noccasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux\nwere not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions\nand something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel\nadmired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a\ngenerous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness\nwas great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they\nseemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the\nworld and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it\nclear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh,\nwhere they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very,\nvery often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep:\nthey were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she\nwould come while the people were there.\n\n\"I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable,\" said the elder sister;\n\"but I dare say you'll take us as you find us.\"\n\n\"I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you\nare,\" replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.\n\nHer visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone,\nthat if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she\nwas in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the\nfirst time they had been called enchanting.\n\n\"I can't help it,\" Isabel answered. \"I think it's lovely to be so quiet\nand reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that.\"\n\n\"Heaven forbid!\" cried Ralph with ardour.\n\n\"I mean to try and imitate them,\" said Isabel. \"I want very much to see\nthem at home.\"\n\nShe had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother,\nshe drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a\nvast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a\nwilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black\nvelveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at\nGardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were\nnot morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was\na want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep\nemotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one\nside of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs.\nTouchett.\n\n\"Is it true your brother's such a great radical?\" Isabel asked. She\nknew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was\nkeen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.\n\n\"Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced,\" said Mildred, the younger\nsister.\n\n\"At the same time Warburton's very reasonable,\" Miss Molyneux observed.\n\nIsabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was\nclearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph\nhad met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the\ntemperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not\nmade an impertinence. \"Do you suppose your brother's sincere?\" Isabel\nenquired with a smile.\n\n\"Oh, he must be, you know!\" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder\nsister gazed at our heroine in silence.\n\n\"Do you think he would stand the test?\"\n\n\"The test?\"\n\n\"I mean for instance having to give up all this.\"\n\n\"Having to give up Lockleigh?\" said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice.\n\n\"Yes, and the other places; what are they called?\"\n\nThe two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. \"Do you mean--do\nyou mean on account of the expense?\" the younger one asked.\n\n\"I dare say he might let one or two of his houses,\" said the other.\n\n\"Let them for nothing?\" Isabel demanded.\n\n\"I can't fancy his giving up his property,\" said Miss Molyneux.\n\n\"Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!\" Isabel returned. \"Don't you think\nit's a false position?\"\n\nHer companions, evidently, had lost themselves. \"My brother's position?\"\nMiss Molyneux enquired.\n\n\"It's thought a very good position,\" said the younger sister. \"It's the\nfirst position in this part of the county.\"\n\n\"I dare say you think me very irreverent,\" Isabel took occasion to\nremark. \"I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of\nhim.\"\n\n\"Of course one looks up to one's brother,\" said Miss Molyneux simply.\n\n\"If you do that he must be very good--because you, evidently, are\nbeautifully good.\"\n\n\"He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does.\"\n\n\"His ability is known,\" Mildred added; \"every one thinks it's immense.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can see that,\" said Isabel. \"But if I were he I should wish to\nfight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold\nit tight.\"\n\n\"I think one ought to be liberal,\" Mildred argued gently. \"We've always\nbeen so, even from the earliest times.\"\n\n\"Ah well,\" said Isabel, \"you've made a great success of it; I don't\nwonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels.\"\n\nWhen Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to\nher a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it\nhad been a good deal modernised--some of its best points had lost their\npurity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the\nsoftest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still\nmoat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was\ncool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck,\nand the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory\ngleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the\nache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come\nto luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him--time enough\nto institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as\nvain. The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure,\na candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to\nindiscriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin\nthat before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he\nwas still, on occasion--in the privacy of the family circle as it\nwere--quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him--she was in\nthe mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal\ntaxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on\nleaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised\nsome ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart\nfrom the others.\n\n\"I wish you to see the place properly, seriously,\" he said. \"You can't\ndo so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip.\" His own\nconversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which\nhad a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted\nat intervals to matters more personal--matters personal to the young\nlady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration,\nreturning for a moment to their ostensible theme, \"Ah, well,\" he said,\n\"I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see\nmore of it--that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an\nimmense fancy to you--if that would be any inducement.\"\n\n\"There's no want of inducements,\" Isabel answered; \"but I'm afraid I\ncan't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands.\"\n\n\"Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty sure\nyou can do whatever you want.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice\nimpression to make.\"\n\n\"It has the merit of permitting me to hope.\" And Lord Warburton paused a\nmoment.\n\n\"To hope what?\"\n\n\"That in future I may see you often.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, \"to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so terribly\nemancipated.\"\n\n\"Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle\nlikes me.\"\n\n\"You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of you.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you have talked about me,\" said Lord Warburton. \"But, I\nnevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt.\"\n\n\"I can't answer for my uncle's tastes,\" the girl rejoined, \"though I\nought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I\nshall be very glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say that.\"\n\n\"You're easily charmed, my lord,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"No, I'm not easily charmed!\" And then he stopped a moment. \"But you've\ncharmed me, Miss Archer.\"\n\nThese words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the\ngirl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the\nsound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for\nthe moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily\nas possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would\nallow her: \"I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come here\nagain.\"\n\n\"Never?\" said Lord Warburton.\n\n\"I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic.\"\n\n\"May I come and see you then some day next week?\"\n\n\"Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?\"\n\n\"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense\nthat you're always summing people up.\"\n\n\"You don't of necessity lose by that.\"\n\n\"It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is\nnot what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?\"\n\n\"I hope so.\"\n\n\"Is England not good enough for you?\"\n\n\"That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I\nwant to see as many countries as I can.\"\n\n\"Then you'll go on judging, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Enjoying, I hope, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to,\"\nsaid Lord Warburton. \"You strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast\ndesigns.\"\n\n\"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill\nout. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and\nexecuted every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of\nmy fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign\ntravel?\"\n\n\"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer,\" her companion declared.\n\"It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it\ndespises us.\"\n\n\"Despises you? You're making fun of me,\" said Isabel seriously.\n\n\"Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought\n'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest.\"\n\n\"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard,\" Isabel\nanswered with a smile.\n\nLord Warburton was briefly silent. \"You judge only from the outside--you\ndon't care,\" he said presently. \"You only care to amuse yourself.\" The\nnote she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed\nwith it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt\nand inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had\noften heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she\nhad even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most\nromantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he\ngoing to make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they\nhad met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good\nmanners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched\nthe furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young\nlady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting\nto his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and\nwithout a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: \"I don't mean of\ncourse that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials;\nthe foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of\nnations!\"\n\n\"As regards that,\" said Isabel, \"I should find in my own nation\nentertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt\nwill soon wish to start.\" She turned back toward the others and Lord\nWarburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the\nothers, \"I shall come and see you next week,\" he said.\n\nShe had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that\nshe couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one.\nNevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, \"Just as\nyou please.\" And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a\ngame she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable\nto many critics. It came from a certain fear.\n\n\n\n\n\nThe day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend\nMiss Stackpole--a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction\nthe postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered\nHenrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. \"Here I am, my lovely\nfriend,\" Miss Stackpole wrote; \"I managed to get off at last. I decided\nonly the night before I left New York--the Interviewer having come round\nto my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist,\nand came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where\ncan we meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have\nalready acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have married a\nlord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first\npeople and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some\nlight on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are\nnot rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know\nthat, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something\nvery particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can;\ncome to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or\nelse let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure;\nfor you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as\npossible of the inner life.\"\n\nIsabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she\nacquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her\ninstantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be\ndelighted to receive her at Gardencourt. \"Though she's a literary lady,\"\nhe said, \"I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as\nthat other one did. She has seen others like me.\"\n\n\"She has seen no other so delightful!\" Isabel answered; but she was\nnot altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which\nbelonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with\nleast complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would\nbe very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman\nlost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to\nLondon, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the\nstation nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting\nto receive her.\n\n\"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?\" Ralph asked while they moved\nalong the platform.\n\n\"Whichever you do will matter very little to her,\" said Isabel. \"She\ndoesn't care a straw what men think of her.\"\n\n\"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster.\nIs she very ugly?\"\n\n\"No, she's decidedly pretty.\"\n\n\"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see\nher,\" Ralph conceded.\n\n\"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as\nshe.\"\n\n\"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person\nrequire more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?\"\n\n\"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance.\"\n\n\"You'll see,\" said Ralph. \"She'll send a description of us all,\nincluding Bunchie, to her newspaper.\"\n\n\"I shall ask her not to,\" Isabel answered.\n\n\"You think she's capable of it then?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\n\"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?\"\n\n\"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her\nfaults.\"\n\n\"Ah well,\" said Ralph, \"I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her\nmerits.\"\n\n\"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days.\"\n\n\"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!\" cried\nthe young man.\n\nThe train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending,\nproved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather\nprovincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature,\nwith a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of\nlight brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open,\nsurprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the\nremarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or\ndefiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon\nevery object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon\nRalph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and\ncomfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had\nassumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,\ndove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp\nand new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top\nto toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a\nvoice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her\ncompanions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the\nlarge type, the type of horrid \"headings,\" that he had expected. She\nanswered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the\nyoung man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the\nlibrary at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr.\nTouchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more\nto give the measure of her confidence in her powers.\n\n\"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American\nor English,\" she broke out. \"If once I knew I could talk to you\naccordingly.\"\n\n\"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful,\" Ralph liberally answered.\n\nShe fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character\nthat reminded him of large polished buttons--buttons that might have\nfixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the\nreflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a\nbutton is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss\nStackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely\nembarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This\nsensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her\ncompany, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. \"I don't\nsuppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an\nAmerican,\" she said.\n\n\"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!\"\n\n\"Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome,\" Miss\nStackpole returned.\n\n\"I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality\nare no barrier to you,\" Ralph went on.\n\nMiss Stackpole gazed at him still. \"Do you mean the foreign languages?\"\n\n\"The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure that I understand you,\" said the correspondent of the\nInterviewer; \"but I expect I shall before I leave.\"\n\n\"He's what's called a cosmopolite,\" Isabel suggested.\n\n\"That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say\nI think patriotism is like charity--it begins at home.\"\n\n\"Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?\" Ralph enquired.\n\n\"I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long\ntime before I got here.\"\n\n\"Don't you like it over here?\" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged,\ninnocent voice.\n\n\"Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take.\nI feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to\nLondon.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage,\" Ralph suggested.\n\n\"Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose\nacquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little\nRock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt something\npressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very\ncommencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But\nI suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way--then you\ncan breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive.\"\n\n\"Ah, we too are a lovely group!\" said Ralph. \"Wait a little and you'll\nsee.\"\n\nMiss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was\nprepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied\nherself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this\nIsabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task\nperformed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found\noccasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their\ncommon sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning\nof Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the\nInterviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible\nhand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at\nschool) was \"Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt.\" Miss\nStackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her\nletter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.\n\n\"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe\nthe place.\"\n\nHenrietta gazed at her as usual. \"Why, it's just what the people want,\nand it's a lovely place.\"\n\n\"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle\nwants.\"\n\n\"Don't you believe that!\" cried Henrietta. \"They're always delighted\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it\na breach of hospitality.\"\n\nMiss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen,\nvery neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the\npurpose, and put away her manuscript. \"Of course if you don't approve I\nwon't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject.\"\n\n\"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you.\nWe'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery.\"\n\n\"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know\nI'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was,\" Miss Stackpole rejoined. \"I was\ngoing to bring in your cousin--the alienated American. There's a\ngreat demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a\nbeautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely.\"\n\n\"He would have died of it!\" Isabel exclaimed. \"Not of the severity, but\nof the publicity.\"\n\n\"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have\ndelighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type--the\nAmerican faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he can\nobject to my paying him honour.\"\n\nIsabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as\nstrange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break\ndown so in spots. \"My poor Henrietta,\" she said, \"you've no sense of\nprivacy.\"\n\nHenrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were\nsuffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. \"You do me\ngreat injustice,\" said Miss Stackpole with dignity. \"I've never written\na word about myself!\"\n\n\"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for\nothers also!\"\n\n\"Ah, that's very good!\" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. \"Just\nlet me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere.\" she was a\nthoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as\ncheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady\nin want of matter. \"I've promised to do the social side,\" she said to\nIsabel; \"and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe\nthis place don't you know some place I can describe?\" Isabel promised\nshe would bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation with her\nfriend, she happened to mention her visit to Lord Warburton's ancient\nhouse. \"Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!\" Miss\nStackpole cried. \"I must get a glimpse of the nobility.\"\n\n\"I can't take you,\" said Isabel; \"but Lord Warburton's coming here, and\nyou'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to\nrepeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning.\"\n\n\"Don't do that,\" her companion pleaded; \"I want him to be natural.\"\n\n\"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue,\"\nIsabel declared.\n\nIt was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had,\naccording to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he\nhad spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the\npark together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was\ndelightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place\nin the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her\npresence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph\nhad expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect\nsolubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the\nInterviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that\nthe crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days.\nHenrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration\nwith regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph\nappeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem,\nwhich it would be almost immoral not to work out.\n\n\"What does he do for a living?\" she asked of Isabel the evening of her\narrival. \"Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?\"\n\n\"He does nothing,\" smiled Isabel; \"he's a gentleman of large leisure.\"\n\n\"Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor,\"\nMiss Stackpole replied. \"I should like to show him up.\"\n\n\"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work,\" Isabel urged.\n\n\"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick,\" cried her friend.\nLater, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she\nremarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown\nher.\n\n\"Ah no,\" said Ralph, \"I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd\nbe such an interesting one!\"\n\n\"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your\nprejudices; that's one comfort.\"\n\n\"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's\nintellectual poverty for you.\"\n\n\"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your\nflirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't\ncare for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She'll\nsee how thin you are.\"\n\n\"Ah, do draw me out!\" Ralph exclaimed. \"So few people will take the\ntrouble.\"\n\nMiss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort;\nresorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural\nexpedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was\nbad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor\namusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through\nthe long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal\nornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked\nat the pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion,\nand Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none\nof the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors\nto Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do\nher justice, was but little addicted to the use of conventional terms;\nthere was something earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times,\nin its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture\nspeaking a foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that\nshe had at one time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other\nworld; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket\nnone of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had\ncalled her attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at\nhim as if he himself had been a picture.\n\n\"Do you always spend your time like this?\" she demanded.\n\n\"I seldom spend it so agreeably.\"\n\n\"Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Ralph, \"I'm the idlest man living.\"\n\nMiss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph\nbespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which\nrepresented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning\nagainst the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing\nthe guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. \"That's my ideal of a\nregular occupation,\" he said.\n\nMiss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested\nupon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking\nof something much more serious. \"I don't see how you can reconcile it to\nyour conscience.\"\n\n\"My dear lady, I have no conscience!\"\n\n\"Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time you\ngo to America.\"\n\n\"I shall probably never go again.\"\n\n\"Are you ashamed to show yourself?\"\n\nRalph meditated with a mild smile. \"I suppose that if one has no\nconscience one has no shame.\"\n\n\"Well, you've got plenty of assurance,\" Henrietta declared. \"Do you\nconsider it right to give up your country?\"\n\n\"Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives UP\none's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice--elements of one's\ncomposition that are not to be eliminated.\"\n\n\"I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do they\nthink of you over here?\"\n\n\"They delight in me.\"\n\n\"That's because you truckle to them.\"\n\n\"Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!\" Ralph sighed.\n\n\"I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any charm\nit's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired--or at least you've tried\nhard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've succeeded. It's\na charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some\nway, and then we'll talk about it.\" \"Well, now, tell me what I shall\ndo,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Go right home, to begin with.\"\n\n\"Yes, I see. And then?\"\n\n\"Take right hold of something.\"\n\n\"Well, now, what sort of thing?\"\n\n\"Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big\nwork.\"\n\n\"Is it very difficult to take hold?\" Ralph enquired.\n\n\"Not if you put your heart into it.\"\n\n\"Ah, my heart,\" said Ralph. \"If it depends upon my heart--!\"\n\n\"Haven't you got a heart?\"\n\n\"I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since.\"\n\n\"You're not serious,\" Miss Stackpole remarked; \"that's what's the matter\nwith you.\" But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to\nfix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause\nto her mysterious perversity. \"I know what's the matter with you, Mr.\nTouchett,\" she said. \"You think you're too good to get married.\"\n\n\"I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole,\" Ralph answered; \"and\nthen I suddenly changed my mind.\"\n\n\"Oh pshaw!\" Henrietta groaned.\n\n\"Then it seemed to me,\" said Ralph, \"that I was not good enough.\"\n\n\"It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the young man, \"one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?\"\n\n\"Of course it is--did you never know that before? It's every one's duty\nto get married.\"\n\nRalph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in\nMiss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she\nwas not a charming woman she was at least a very good \"sort.\" She was\nwanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went\ninto cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had\nnot supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words\nstruck him as a false note. When a marriageable young woman urges\nmatrimony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious explanation of\nher conduct is not the altruistic impulse.\n\n\"Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that,\" Ralph\nrejoined.\n\n\"There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it\nlooks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman\nwas good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one else in\nthe world? In America it's usual for people to marry.\"\n\n\"If it's my duty,\" Ralph asked, \"is it not, by analogy, yours as well?\"\n\nMiss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. \"Have you\nthe fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as good\na right to marry as any one else.\"\n\n\"Well then,\" said Ralph, \"I won't say it vexes me to see you single. It\ndelights me rather.\"\n\n\"You're not serious yet. You never will be.\"\n\n\"Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to\ngive up the practice of going round alone?\"\n\nMiss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to\nannounce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to\nhis great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an\nappearance of alarm and even of resentment. \"No, not even then,\" she\nanswered dryly. After which she walked away.\n\n\"I've not conceived a passion for your friend,\" Ralph said that evening\nto Isabel, \"though we talked some time this morning about it.\"\n\n\"And you said something she didn't like,\" the girl replied.\n\nRalph stared. \"Has she complained of me?\"\n\n\"She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of\nEuropeans towards women.\"\n\n\"Does she call me a European?\"\n\n\"One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an\nAmerican never would have said. But she didn't repeat it.\"\n\nRalph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. \"She's an extraordinary\ncombination. Did she think I was making love to her?\"\n\n\"No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you\nmistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind\nconstruction on it.\"\n\n\"I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that\nunkind?\"\n\nIsabel smiled. \"It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry.\"\n\n\"My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?\" Ralph demanded. \"Miss\nStackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers, in general,\nto see I do mine!\"\n\n\"She has a great sense of duty,\" said Isabel gravely. \"She has indeed,\nand it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like her for.\nShe thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself.\nThat's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to--to\nattract you, you were very wrong.\"\n\n\"It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract\nme. Forgive my depravity.\"\n\n\"You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed\nyou would think she had.\"\n\n\"One must be very modest then to talk with such women,\" Ralph said\nhumbly. \"But it's a very strange type. She's too personal--considering\nthat she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking\nat the door.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Isabel admitted, \"she doesn't sufficiently recognise the\nexistence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't think\nthem rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should stand\najar. But I persist in liking her.\"\n\n\"I persist in thinking her too familiar,\" Ralph rejoined, naturally\nsomewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in\nMiss Stackpole.\n\n\"Well,\" said Isabel, smiling, \"I'm afraid it's because she's rather\nvulgar that I like her.\"\n\n\"She would be flattered by your reason!\"\n\n\"If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should say\nit's because there's something of the 'people' in her.\"\n\n\"What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?\"\n\n\"She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind\nof emanation of the great democracy--of the continent, the country, the\nnation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to\nask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it.\"\n\n\"You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on those very\ngrounds I object to her.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, \"I like so many things! If\na thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don't want to\nswagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like people to be totally\ndifferent from Henrietta--in the style of Lord Warburton's sisters for\ninstance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me\nto answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm\nstraightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in\nrespect to what masses behind her.\"\n\n\"Ah, you mean the back view of her,\" Ralph suggested.\n\n\"What she says is true,\" his cousin answered; \"you'll never be serious.\nI like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across\nthe prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the\ngreen Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it,\nand Henrietta--pardon my simile--has something of that odour in her\ngarments.\"\n\nIsabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush,\ntogether with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so\nbecoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she\nhad ceased speaking. \"I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that,\" he\nsaid; \"but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does\nsmell of the Future--it almost knocks one down!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nHe took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when\nMiss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He\nbethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous\norganisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a\nrepresentative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her\nin strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of\ntact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle\nto the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general\napplication of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,\nappreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation\nherself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered\nIsabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.\nTouchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her\nsituation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she\nnot conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she\nhad at first supposed herself obliged to \"allow\" as mistress of the\nhouse. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of\nthe lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole\nbehaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress\nand a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had\nexpressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,\nyet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own\naffair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict\nthe girl to those she liked.\n\n\"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very\nsmall society,\" Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; \"and I don't think I\nlike any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When\nit comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss\nStackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much\ntoo loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one\ndoesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I\ndetest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I\nprefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell\nyou that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest\nboarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,\nbecause she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a\ngreat deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost\ntoo much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's\nno use trying.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,\nbut she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after\nMiss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on\nAmerican hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part\nof the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her\nprofession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form\nof caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels\nwere the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed\nstruggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.\nRalph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing\nthe breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the\nestablishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This\ncontribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with\nscorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were\nthe worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.\n\n\"We judge from different points of view, evidently,\" said Mrs. Touchett.\n\"I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a\n'party.'\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" Henrietta replied. \"I like to be treated\nas an American lady.\"\n\n\"Poor American ladies!\" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. \"They're the\nslaves of slaves.\"\n\n\"They're the companions of freemen,\" Henrietta retorted.\n\n\"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the\nnegro waiter. They share their work.\"\n\n\"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?\" Miss\nStackpole enquired. \"If that's the way you desire to treat them, no\nwonder you don't like America.\"\n\n\"If you've not good servants you're miserable,\" Mrs. Touchett serenely\nsaid. \"They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in\nFlorence.\"\n\n\"I don't see what you want with five,\" Henrietta couldn't help\nobserving. \"I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding\nme in that menial position.\"\n\n\"I like them in that position better than in some others,\" proclaimed\nMrs. Touchett with much meaning.\n\n\"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?\" her husband\nasked.\n\n\"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue.\"\n\n\"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole,\" said Ralph.\n\"It's a beautiful description.\"\n\n\"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!\"\n\nAnd this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss\nStackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something\ntreasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she\nprivately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was\nperhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered\nsome days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: \"My dear\nfriend, I wonder if you're growing faithless.\"\n\n\"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?\"\n\n\"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that.\"\n\n\"Faithless to my country then?\"\n\n\"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I\nsaid I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what\nit is. Is it because you've suspected?\"\n\n\"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had\nforgotten it. What have you to tell me?\"\n\nHenrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.\n\"You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're\nchanged--you're thinking of other things.\"\n\n\"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that.\"\n\n\"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of.\"\n\n\"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best,\" said\nIsabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried\nIsabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: \"Do you mean that\nyou're going to be married?\"\n\n\"Not till I've seen Europe!\" said Miss Stackpole. \"What are you laughing\nat?\" she went on. \"What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the\nsteamer with me.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" Isabel responded.\n\n\"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come\nafter you.\"\n\n\"Did he tell you so?\"\n\n\"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it,\" said Henrietta cleverly.\n\"He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal.\"\n\nIsabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a\nlittle pale. \"I'm very sorry you did that,\" she observed at last.\n\n\"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have\ntalked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he\ndrank it all in.\"\n\n\"What did you say about me?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't\nto be encouraged.\"\n\n\"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his\nearnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so\nhandsome.\"\n\n\"He's very simple-minded,\" said Isabel. \"And he's not so ugly.\"\n\n\"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion.\"\n\n\"It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that.\"\n\n\"You don't say that as if you were sure.\"\n\nIsabel gave rather a cold smile. \"I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood\nhimself.\"\n\n\"He'll soon give you a chance,\" said Henrietta. Isabel offered no\nanswer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great\nconfidence. \"He'll find you changed,\" the latter pursued. \"You've been\naffected by your new surroundings.\"\n\n\"Very likely. I'm affected by everything.\"\n\n\"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!\" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a\nslightly harsh hilarity.\n\nIsabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: \"Did he ask\nyou to speak to me?\"\n\n\"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he\nbade me good-bye.\"\n\n\"Thank you for doing so.\" And Isabel turned away.\n\n\"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here,\" her friend\ncontinued.\n\n\"I hope so,\" said Isabel; \"one should get as many new ideas as\npossible.\"\n\n\"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones\nhave been the right ones.\"\n\nIsabel turned about again. \"If you mean that I had any idea with regard\nto Mr. Goodwood--!\" But she faltered before her friend's implacable\nglitter.\n\n\"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him.\"\n\nIsabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,\nhowever, she presently answered: \"It's very true. I did encourage him.\"\nAnd then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood\nwhat he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she\ndisliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.\n\n\"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing,\" Miss Stackpole\nanswered. \"But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He\nis a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do\nsomething, and whatever he does will always be right.\"\n\n\"I quite believe that.\" Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it\ntouched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.\n\n\"Ah, you do care for him!\" her visitor rang out.\n\n\"Whatever he does will always be right,\" Isabel repeated. \"When a man's\nof that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?\"\n\n\"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self.\"\n\n\"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing,\" said\nIsabel with a cold smile.\n\nThis time her companion was grave. \"Well, I don't care; you have\nchanged. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.\nGoodwood will see it. I expect him here any day.\"\n\n\"I hope he'll hate me then,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it.\"\n\nTo this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the\nalarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would\npresent himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,\nthat she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her\ndisbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,\nshe stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling\npressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a\nchange of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so\nagreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be\nfor the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She\nhad walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and\nafter strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and\nrestless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the\nhouse, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented\nwith black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful\nand harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with\ntalking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership\ndivided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as\nimpartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies\nwould allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,\nof the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been\nmainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would\ndo well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been\nable, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat\nof consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to\nbe denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had\nreminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete\nset of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,\nshe sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green\nturf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the\narrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the\nLondon postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her\nvision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice\nor his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.\n\nMY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my\ncoming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a\nsurprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at\nAlbany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.\nYou in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the\nright on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would\nlet me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this\nhope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,\nand you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that\nyou were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;\nbut it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you\nare not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is\nthat I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not\ndisagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should\nbe. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.\nI came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home\nafter you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If\nI like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have\nbeen to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come\nand see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of\nyours faithfully,\n\nCASPAR GOODWOOD.\n\n\nIsabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not\nperceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,\nas she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before\nher.\n\n\n\n\n\nShe put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of\nwelcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her\ncoolness.\n\n\"They told me you were out here,\" said Lord Warburton; \"and as there\nwas no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, I\ncame out with no more ado.\"\n\nIsabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not\nsit down beside her. \"I was just going indoors.\"\n\n\"Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from\nLockleigh; it's a lovely day.\" His smile was peculiarly friendly\nand pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of\ngood-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's\nfirst impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June\nweather.\n\n\"We'll walk about a little then,\" said Isabel, who could not divest\nherself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who\nwished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about\nit. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on\nthat occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of\nseveral elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed\nspent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the\npleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's \"making up\" to her from\nthe painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both\nprecipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if\nthe charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of\nthe former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial\nmagnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her\ncharms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with it\nreally more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong\nimpression of his being a \"personage,\" and she had occupied herself in\nexamining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence\nof her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments\nwhen this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her an\naggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree of\nan inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been no\npersonages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such at\nall in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence she\nhad thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what one\nmight like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was a\ncharacter--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto her\nvisions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largely\nwith moral images--things as to which the question would be whether they\npleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely\nand brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not to\nbe measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of\nappreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging\nquickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to\ndemand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to\ndo. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate\nhad conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he\nrather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious,\nbut persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtually\nshe had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things\nbesides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that\na girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it\nwould be very interesting to see something of his system from his own\npoint of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently a\ngreat deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of every\nhour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupid\nwhich would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man lately\ncome from America who had no system at all, but who had a character\nof which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the\nimpression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in\nher pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,\nhowever, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany who\ndebated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offered\nhimself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do\nbetter. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great\ndeal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have the\nsatisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only\nat the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a direct\nappeal to charity.\n\nLord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that\nIsabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air\nof being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was,\nnevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside\nher for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know\nit, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected\nlaughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may return\nto it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people in\nthe world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was\nabout to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displease\na great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommend\nit. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer\ncountry across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents,\nher associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as they\nwere generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant.\nMiss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies\na man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about\ntwenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--the\nperversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the\nmost liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as\nexemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had\nlooked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from\nhis thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his\nbuttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of\na lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable\nto his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not\ndiscredited by irritating associations.\n\n\"I hope you had a pleasant ride,\" said Isabel, who observed her\ncompanion's hesitancy.\n\n\"It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me\nhere.\"\n\n\"Are you so fond of Gardencourt?\" the girl asked, more and more sure\nthat he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him\nif he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he\nproceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a\nfew weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old\nEnglish country-house, with the foreground embellished by a \"great\" (as\nshe supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on\ncareful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with\nherself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded\nscarcely the less in looking at it from the outside.\n\n\"I care nothing for Gardencourt,\" said her companion. \"I care only for\nyou.\"\n\n\"You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I\ncan't believe you're serious.\"\n\nThese words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt\nwhatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of\nwhich she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would\nhave excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if\nanything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton\nwas not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in\nwhich he replied would quite have served the purpose.\n\n\"One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer;\nit's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it\nwould make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I\nam to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression dates\nfrom the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you\nthen. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a\nfancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two\ndays I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I was\ndoing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the greatest possible\nattention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon\nme. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you went\naway--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it\nover and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've\ndone nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a very\njudicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's\nfor life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life,\" Lord Warburton\nrepeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever\nheard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion\nthat had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat,\nthe violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a\nwindless place.\n\nBy tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly,\nand at last they stopped and he took her hand. \"Ah, Lord Warburton, how\nlittle you know me!\" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her\nhand away.\n\n\"Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappy\nenough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seems\nto me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall know\nyou, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be able\nto say it's from ignorance.\"\n\n\"If you know me little I know you even less,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah,\nof course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do,\nhow determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me\nrather, don't you?\"\n\n\"I like you very much, Lord Warburton,\" she answered; and at this moment\nshe liked him immensely.\n\n\"I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a\nstranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life\nvery creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in which\nI offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the\npeople who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me.\"\n\n\"I don't need the recommendation of your friends,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself.\"\n\n\"Completely,\" Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with\nthe pleasure of feeling she did.\n\nThe light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a\nlong exhalation of joy. \"If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose\nall I possess!\"\n\nShe wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and,\non the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as he\nwould have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the\nmemory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering\nhis hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind\nwas tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it\nwas best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What\nshe should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say\nsomething if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His\nwords had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so\nmysteriously, matter to him. \"I thank you more than I can say for your\noffer,\" she returned at last. \"It does me great honour.\"\n\n\"Ah, don't say that!\" he broke out. \"I was afraid you'd say something\nlike that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. I\ndon't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you for\nlistening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such\na thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must tell you that\nI'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you've\nlistened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope.\"\n\n\"Don't hope too much,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"Oh Miss Archer!\" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his\nseriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play\nof high spirits, the exuberance of elation.\n\n\"Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at\nall?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that;\nit would be a feeling very much worse.\"\n\nIsabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. \"I'm very sure\nthat, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should\nknow you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that you\nwouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of\nconventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere.\"\n\n\"I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer,\" her companion replied.\n\n\"It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question.\"\n\n\"I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as\nlong as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait a\nlong time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on\nyour answer.\"\n\n\"I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence\nthan a bad one to-day.\"\n\n\"But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be able\nto give you one that you'd think good.\"\n\n\"Why not, since you really like me?\"\n\n\"Ah, you must never doubt that,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Well then, I don't see what more you ask!\"\n\n\"It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suit\nyou; I really don't think I should.\"\n\n\"You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a better\nroyalist than the king.\"\n\n\"It's not only that,\" said Isabel; \"but I'm not sure I wish to marry any\none.\"\n\n\"Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin that\nway,\" said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least\nbelieve in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. \"But\nthey're frequently persuaded.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's because they want to be!\" And Isabel lightly laughed. Her\nsuitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence.\n\"I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate,\" he\nsaid presently. \"I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own\ncountry.\"\n\nIsabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never\noccurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial\nprospects with Lord Warburton. \"Has he told you that?\"\n\n\"I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans\ngenerally.\"\n\n\"He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England.\"\nIsabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but\nwhich expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outward\nfelicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a\nrestricted view.\n\nIt gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: \"Ah,\nmy dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, you\nknow! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it this\nway.\"\n\n\"Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your\nobjection to what I propose.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I can't make you understand.\"\n\n\"You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you\nafraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.\nYou can pick out your climate, the whole world over.\"\n\nThese words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the\nembrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in her\nface, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange\ngardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at\nthat moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: \"Lord\nWarburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world,\nI think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty.\" But\nthough she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move\nback into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in\na vast cage. The \"splendid\" security so offered her was not the greatest\nshe could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was\nsomething very different--something that deferred the need of really\nfacing her crisis. \"Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more\nabout this to-day.\"\n\n\"Certainly, certainly!\" her companion cried. \"I wouldn't bore you for\nthe world.\"\n\n\"You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it\njustice.\"\n\n\"That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember how\nabsolutely my happiness is in your hands.\"\n\nIsabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said\nafter a minute: \"I must tell you that what I shall think about is some\nway of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting you\nknow it without making you miserable.\"\n\n\"There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuse\nme you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall\nlive to no purpose.\"\n\n\"You'll live to marry a better woman than I.\"\n\n\"Don't say that, please,\" said Lord Warburton very gravely. \"That's fair\nto neither of us.\"\n\n\"To marry a worse one then.\"\n\n\"If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all I\ncan say,\" he went on with the same earnestness. \"There's no accounting\nfor tastes.\"\n\nHis gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again\nrequesting him to drop the subject for the present. \"I'll speak to you\nmyself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you.\"\n\n\"At your convenience, yes,\" he replied. \"Whatever time you take, it must\nseem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that.\"\n\n\"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a\nlittle.\"\n\nHe gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his\nhands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. \"Do\nyou know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?\"\n\nOur heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made\nher start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his\nlook a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have\nappealed to his compassion, \"So am I, my lord!\" she oddly exclaimed.\n\nHis compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty\nof pity was needed at home. \"Ah! be merciful, be merciful,\" he murmured.\n\n\"I think you had better go,\" said Isabel. \"I'll write to you.\"\n\n\"Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know.\" And\nthen he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of\nBunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said\nand of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of\ncuriosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. \"There's one thing more,\"\nhe went on. \"You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's\ndamp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of\nit. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined;\nit's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn't\ndream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; there\nare plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don't\nlike a moat, you know. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"I adore a moat,\" said Isabel. \"Good-bye.\"\n\nHe held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment long\nenough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still\nagitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he\nwalked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.\n\nIsabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would\nhave imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great\ndifficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the\nquestion. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support\nany enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that\nshe had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining.\nShe must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was\ncomparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it\nstruck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so\nlittle to refuse a magnificent \"chance.\" With whatever qualifications\none would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the\nsituation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, might\ncontain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne;\nbut she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of\ntwenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then\nupon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she,\nwhat was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view of\nlife, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that\npretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If she\nwouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she must\ndo something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself from\ntime to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be\nmore sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: the\nisolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a\ndesert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her accepting\nLord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was so\nconscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was the\nvery softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too\nmuch to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there was\na fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he saw\nit--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it;\nand to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to\ncriticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him\nshe would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, she\nwandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself in\nmeditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. But\nthis was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard,\npriggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going rather\nquickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, really\nfrightened at herself.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice--she had no desire\nwhatever for that--that led her to speak to her uncle of what had taken\nplace. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more natural,\nmore human, and her uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in a\nmore attractive light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her\ncousin of course was a possible confidant; but she would have had to do\nherself violence to air this special secret to Ralph. So the next day,\nafter breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never left his\napartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, as he said,\nin his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class\nso designated, which, for the rest, included the old man's son, his\nphysician, his personal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett\ndid not figure in the list, and this was an obstacle the less to\nIsabel's finding her host alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical\nchair, at the open window of his room, looking westward over the park\nand the river, with his newspapers and letters piled up beside him,\nhis toilet freshly and minutely made, and his smooth, speculative face\ncomposed to benevolent expectation.\n\nShe approached her point directly. \"I think I ought to let you know that\nLord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I ought to tell my\naunt; but it seems best to tell you first.\"\n\nThe old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the confidence\nshe showed him. \"Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him?\" he\nthen enquired.\n\n\"I've not answered him definitely yet; I've taken a little time to think\nof it, because that seems more respectful. But I shall not accept him.\"\n\nMr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air of thinking that,\nwhatever interest he might take in the matter from the point of view of\nsociability, he had no active voice in it. \"Well, I told you you'd be a\nsuccess over here. Americans are highly appreciated.\"\n\n\"Very highly indeed,\" said Isabel. \"But at the cost of seeming both\ntasteless and ungrateful, I don't think I can marry Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"Well,\" her uncle went on, \"of course an old man can't judge for a young\nlady. I'm glad you didn't ask me before you made up your mind. I suppose\nI ought to tell you,\" he added slowly, but as if it were not of much\nconsequence, \"that I've known all about it these three days.\"\n\n\"About Lord Warburton's state of mind?\"\n\n\"About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant\nletter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see his letter?\"\nthe old man obligingly asked.\n\n\"Thank you; I don't think I care about that. But I'm glad he wrote to\nyou; it was right that he should, and he would be certain to do what was\nright.\"\n\n\"Ah well, I guess you do like him!\" Mr. Touchett declared. \"You needn't\npretend you don't.\"\n\n\"I like him extremely; I'm very free to admit that. But I don't wish to\nmarry any one just now.\"\n\n\"You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well,\nthat's very likely,\" said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show his\nkindness to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and finding\ncheerful reasons for it.\n\n\"I don't care if I don't meet any one else. I like Lord Warburton quite\nwell enough.\" she fell into that appearance of a sudden change of\npoint of view with which she sometimes startled and even displeased her\ninterlocutors.\n\nHer uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these impressions.\n\"He's a very fine man,\" he resumed in a tone which might have passed\nfor that of encouragement. \"His letter was one of the pleasantest I've\nreceived for some weeks. I suppose one of the reasons I liked it was\nthat it was all about you; that is all except the part that was about\nhimself. I suppose he told you all that.\"\n\n\"He would have told me everything I wished to ask him,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"But you didn't feel curious?\"\n\n\"My curiosity would have been idle--once I had determined to decline his\noffer.\"\n\n\"You didn't find it sufficiently attractive?\" Mr. Touchett enquired.\n\nShe was silent a little. \"I suppose it was that,\" she presently\nadmitted. \"But I don't know why.\"\n\n\"Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons,\" said her uncle.\n\"There's a great deal that's attractive about such an idea; but I don't\nsee why the English should want to entice us away from our native land.\nI know that we try to attract them over there, but that's because our\npopulation is insufficient. Here, you know, they're rather crowded.\nHowever, I presume there's room for charming young ladies everywhere.\"\n\n\"There seems to have been room here for you,\" said Isabel, whose eyes\nhad been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park.\n\nMr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. \"There's room everywhere,\nmy dear, if you'll pay for it. I sometimes think I've paid too much for\nthis. Perhaps you also might have to pay too much.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I might,\" the girl replied.\n\nThat suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she\nhad found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her\nuncle's mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was\nconcerned with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and\nnot altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague\nambitions--ambitions reaching beyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal,\nreaching to something indefinable and possibly not commendable. In so\nfar as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour at this\njuncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, of a union with\nCaspar Goodwood; for however she might have resisted conquest at her\nEnglish suitor's large quiet hands she was at least as far removed\nfrom the disposition to let the young man from Boston take positive\npossession of her. The sentiment in which She sought refuge after\nreading his letter was a critical view of his having come abroad; for it\nwas part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed to deprive her\nof the sense of freedom. There was a disagreeably strong push, a kind\nof hardness of presence, in his way of rising before her. She had been\nhaunted at moments by the image, by the danger, of his disapproval and\nhad wondered--a consideration she had never paid in equal degree to any\none else--whether he would like what she did. The difficulty was that\nmore than any man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she\nhad begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar\nGoodwood expressed for her an energy--and she had already felt it as a\npower that was of his very nature. It was in no degree a matter of\nhis \"advantages\"--it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his\nclear-burning eyes like some tireless watcher at a window. She might\nlike it or not, but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force:\neven in one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that. The\nidea of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at\npresent, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her\nindependence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe and\nyet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed to range\nhimself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest fact she knew;\nshe said to herself at such moments that she might evade him for a time,\nbut that she must make terms with him at last--terms which would be\ncertain to be favourable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail\nherself of the things that helped her to resist such an obligation;\nand this impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her\naunt's invitation, which had come to her at an hour when she expected\nfrom day to day to see Mr. Goodwood and when she was glad to have an\nanswer ready for something she was sure he would say to her. When she\nhad told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that\nshe couldn't then discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by\nthe great immediate opening of her aunt's offer of \"Europe,\" he declared\nthat this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtain a better one\nthat he was following her across the sea. To say to herself that he was\na kind of grim fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was\nable to take much for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a\nnearer and a clearer view.\n\nHe was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in\nMassachusetts--a gentleman who had accumulated a considerable fortune in\nthe exercise of this industry. Caspar at present managed the works, and\nwith a judgement and a temper which, in spite of keen competition and\nlanguid years, had kept their prosperity from dwindling. He had received\nthe better part of his education at Harvard College, where, however, he\nhad gained renown rather as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a gleaner\nof more dispersed knowledge. Later on he had learned that the finer\nintelligence too could vault and pull and strain--might even, breaking\nthe record, treat itself to rare exploits. He had thus discovered in\nhimself a sharp eye for the mystery of mechanics, and had invented an\nimprovement in the cotton-spinning process which was now largely used\nand was known by his name. You might have seen it in the newspapers in\nconnection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he\nhad given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York\nInterviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwood patent--an article not\nprepared by Miss Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his\nmore sentimental interests. There were intricate, bristling things he\nrejoiced in; he liked to organise, to contend, to administer; he could\nmake people work his will, believe in him, march before him and justify\nhim. This was the art, as they said, of managing men--which rested, in\nhim, further, on a bold though brooding ambition. It struck those\nwho knew him well that he might do greater things than carry on a\ncotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and\nhis friends took for granted that he would somehow and somewhere\nwrite himself in bigger letters. But it was as if something large and\nconfused, something dark and ugly, would have to call upon him: he was\nnot after all in harmony with mere smug peace and greed and gain, an\norder of things of which the vital breath was ubiquitous advertisement.\nIt pleased Isabel to believe that he might have ridden, on a plunging\nsteed, the whirlwind of a great war--a war like the Civil strife that\nhad overdarkened her conscious childhood and his ripening youth.\n\nShe liked at any rate this idea of his being by character and in fact a\nmover of men--liked it much better than some other points in his nature\nand aspect. She cared nothing for his cotton-mill--the Goodwood patent\nleft her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him no ounce less of\nhis manhood, but she sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if he\nlooked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too square and\nset and his figure too straight and stiff: these things suggested a want\nof easy consonance with the deeper rhythms of life. Then she viewed with\nreserve a habit he had of dressing always in the same manner; it was\nnot apparently that he wore the same clothes continually, for, on the\ncontrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new. But they all\nseemed of the same piece; the figure, the stuff, was so drearily usual.\nShe had reminded herself more than once that this was a frivolous\nobjection to a person of his importance; and then she had amended the\nrebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection only if she\nwere in love with him. She was not in love with him and therefore might\ncriticise his small defects as well as his great--which latter consisted\nin the collective reproach of his being too serious, or, rather, not of\nhis being so, since one could never be, but certainly of his seeming so.\nHe showed his appetites and designs too simply and artlessly; when one\nwas alone with him he talked too much about the same subject, and when\nother people were present he talked too little about anything. And yet\nhe was of supremely strong, clean make--which was so much she saw the\ndifferent fitted parts of him as she had seen, in museums and portraits,\nthe different fitted parts of armoured warriors--in plates of steel\nhandsomely inlaid with gold. It was very strange: where, ever, was any\ntangible link between her impression and her act? Caspar Goodwood had\nnever corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and she supposed\nthat this was why he left her so harshly critical. When, however, Lord\nWarburton, who not only did correspond with it, but gave an extension to\nthe term, appealed to her approval, she found herself still unsatisfied.\nIt was certainly strange.\n\nThe sense of her incoherence was not a help to answering Mr. Goodwood's\nletter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while unhonoured. If he\nhad determined to persecute her he must take the consequences; foremost\namong which was his being left to perceive how little it charmed her\nthat he should come down to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the\nincursions of one suitor at this place, and though it might be pleasant\nto be appreciated in opposite quarters there was a kind of grossness in\nentertaining two such passionate pleaders at once, even in a case where\nthe entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She made no\nreply to Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord\nWarburton, and the letter belongs to our history.\n\nDEAR LORD WARBURTON--A great deal of earnest thought has not led me to\nchange my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make me the\nother day. I am not, I am really and truly not, able to regard you\nin the light of a companion for life; or to think of your home--your\nvarious homes--as the settled seat of my existence. These things cannot\nbe reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to\nthe subject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from our own\npoint of view; that is the privilege of the weakest and humblest of us;\nand I shall never be able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly\nlet this suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given\nyour proposal the deeply respectful consideration it deserves. It is\nwith this very great regard that I remain sincerely yours,\n\nISABEL ARCHER.\n\nWhile the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it\nHenrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was accompanied by no demur.\nShe invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and\nwhen he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to\ntestify to his high expectations, she informed him that she had a favour\nto ask of him. It may be admitted that at this information the young man\nflinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as apt to push\nan advantage. The alarm was unreasoned, however; for he was clear about\nthe area of her indiscretion as little as advised of its vertical depth,\nand he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He\nwas afraid of her and presently told her so. \"When you look at me in a\ncertain way my knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I'm filled\nwith trepidation and I ask only for strength to execute your commands.\nYou've an address that I've never encountered in any woman.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Henrietta replied good-humouredly, \"if I had not known before\nthat you were trying somehow to abash me I should know it now. Of course\nI'm easy game--I was brought up with such different customs and ideas.\nI'm not used to your arbitrary standards, and I've never been spoken to\nin America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with me\nover there were to speak to me like that I shouldn't know what to make\nof it. We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all,\nwe're a great deal more simple. I admit that; I'm very simple myself.\nOf course if you choose to laugh at me for it you're very welcome; but I\nthink on the whole I would rather be myself than you. I'm quite content\nto be myself; I don't want to change. There are plenty of people that\nappreciate me just as I am. It's true they're nice fresh free-born\nAmericans!\" Henrietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence\nand large concession. \"I want you to assist me a little,\" she went on.\n\"I don't care in the least whether I amuse you while you do so; or,\nrather, I'm perfectly willing your amusement should be your reward. I\nwant you to help me about Isabel.\"\n\n\"Has she injured you?\" Ralph asked.\n\n\"If she had I shouldn't mind, and I should never tell you. What I'm\nafraid of is that she'll injure herself.\"\n\n\"I think that's very possible,\" said Ralph.\n\nHis companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps the very\ngaze that unnerved him. \"That too would amuse you, I suppose. The way\nyou do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent.\"\n\n\"To Isabel? Ah, not that!\"\n\n\"Well, you're not in love with her, I hope.\"\n\n\"How can that be, when I'm in love with Another?\"\n\n\"You're in love with yourself, that's the Other!\" Miss Stackpole\ndeclared. \"Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once\nin your life here's a chance; and if you really care for your cousin\nhere's an opportunity to prove it. I don't expect you to understand her;\nthat's too much to ask. But you needn't do that to grant my favour. I'll\nsupply the necessary intelligence.\"\n\n\"I shall enjoy that immensely!\" Ralph exclaimed. \"I'll be Caliban and\nyou shall be Ariel.\"\n\n\"You're not at all like Caliban, because you're sophisticated, and\nCaliban was not. But I'm not talking about imaginary characters; I'm\ntalking about Isabel. Isabel's intensely real. What I wish to tell you\nis that I find her fearfully changed.\"\n\n\"Since you came, do you mean?\"\n\n\"Since I came and before I came. She's not the same as she once so\nbeautifully was.\"\n\n\"As she was in America?\"\n\n\"Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there. She can't\nhelp it, but she does.\"\n\n\"Do you want to change her back again?\"\n\n\"Of course I do, and I want you to help me.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Ralph, \"I'm only Caliban; I'm not Prospero.\"\n\n\"You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You've acted\non Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett.\"\n\n\"I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted\non me--yes; she acts on every one. But I've been absolutely passive.\"\n\n\"You're too passive then. You had better stir yourself and be careful.\nIsabel's changing every day; she's drifting away--right out to sea. I've\nwatched her and I can see it. She's not the bright American girl she\nwas. She's taking different views, a different colour, and turning away\nfrom her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and\nthat's where you come in.\"\n\n\"Not surely as an ideal?\"\n\n\"Well, I hope not,\" Henrietta replied promptly. \"I've got a fear in my\nheart that she's going to marry one of these fell Europeans, and I want\nto prevent it.\n\n\"Ah, I see,\" cried Ralph; \"and to prevent it you want me to step in and\nmarry her?\"\n\n\"Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you're the\ntypical, the fell European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I wish\nyou to take an interest in another person--a young man to whom she once\ngave great encouragement and whom she now doesn't seem to think good\nenough. He's a thoroughly grand man and a very dear friend of mine, and\nI wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here.\"\n\nRalph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the\ncredit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in\nthe simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his fault\nwas that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really\nbe as candid as this request of Miss Stackpole's appeared. That a young\nwoman should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear\nfriend should be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable\nto another young woman, a young woman whose attention had wandered and\nwhose charms were greater--this was an anomaly which for the moment\nchallenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the\nlines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss\nStackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account\nwas the sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even\nfrom this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved\nby a force that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward\nlight on the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the\nconviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent\nof the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers.\nThis conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was\nperhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady's imperturbable\ngaze. He returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an\ninclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries.\n\"Who's the gentleman you speak of?\"\n\n\"Mr. Caspar Goodwood--of Boston. He has been extremely attentive to\nIsabel--just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out\nhere and he's at present in London. I don't know his address, but I\nguess I can obtain it.\"\n\n\"I've never heard of him,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't believe he has\never heard of you; but that's no reason why Isabel shouldn't marry him.\"\n\nRalph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. \"What a rage you have for marrying\npeople! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?\"\n\n\"I've got over that. You don't know how to take such ideas. Mr. Goodwood\ndoes, however; and that's what I like about him. He's a splendid man and\na perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it.\"\n\n\"Is she very fond of him?\"\n\n\"If she isn't she ought to be. He's simply wrapped up in her.\"\n\n\"And you wish me to ask him here,\" said Ralph reflectively.\n\n\"It would be an act of true hospitality.\"\n\n\"Caspar Goodwood,\" Ralph continued--\"it's rather a striking name.\"\n\n\"I don't care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and\nI should say the same. He's the only man I have ever seen whom I think\nworthy of Isabel.\"\n\n\"You're a very devoted friend,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don't care.\"\n\n\"I don't say it to pour scorn on you; I'm very much struck with it.\"\n\n\"You're more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr.\nGoodwood.\"\n\n\"I assure you I'm very serious; you ought to understand that,\" said\nRalph.\n\nIn a moment his companion understood it. \"I believe you are; now you're\ntoo serious.\"\n\n\"You're difficult to please.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr. Goodwood.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Ralph. \"I'm capable of strange things. Tell me a\nlittle about Mr. Goodwood. What's he like?\"\n\n\"He's just the opposite of you. He's at the head of a cotton-factory; a\nvery fine one.\"\n\n\"Has he pleasant manners?\" asked Ralph.\n\n\"Splendid manners--in the American style.\"\n\n\"Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?\"\n\n\"I don't think he'd care much about our little circle. He'd concentrate\non Isabel.\"\n\n\"And how would my cousin like that?\"\n\n\"Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call\nback her thoughts.\"\n\n\"Call them back--from where?\"\n\n\"From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she\ngave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose he was acceptable to her, and\nit's not worthy of Isabel to go back on a real friend simply because she\nhas changed the scene. I've changed the scene too, and the effect of it\nhas been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It's my\nbelief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. I know\nher well enough to know that she would never be truly happy over here,\nand I wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a\npreservative.\"\n\n\"Aren't you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?\" Ralph enquired.\n\"Don't you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old\nEngland?\"\n\n\"A chance to ruin her bright young life? One's never too much in a hurry\nto save a precious human creature from drowning.\"\n\n\"As I understand it then,\" said Ralph, \"you wish me to push Mr. Goodwood\noverboard after her. Do you know,\" he added, \"that I've never heard her\nmention his name?\"\n\nHenrietta gave a brilliant smile. \"I'm delighted to hear that; it proves\nhow much she thinks of him.\"\n\nRalph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this, and he\nsurrendered to thought while his companion watched him askance. \"If I\nshould invite Mr. Goodwood,\" he finally said, \"it would be to quarrel\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Don't do that; he'd prove the better man.\"\n\n\"You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really don't\nthink I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him.\"\n\n\"It's just as you please,\" Henrietta returned. \"I had no idea you were\nin love with her yourself.\"\n\n\"Do you really believe that?\" the young man asked with lifted eyebrows.\n\n\"That's the most natural speech I've ever heard you make! Of course I\nbelieve it,\" Miss Stackpole ingeniously said.\n\n\"Well,\" Ralph concluded, \"to prove to you that you're wrong I'll invite\nhim. It must be of course as a friend of yours.\"\n\n\"It will not be as a friend of mine that he'll come; and it will not be\nto prove to me that I'm wrong that you'll ask him--but to prove it to\nyourself!\"\n\nThese last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the two presently\nseparated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged\nto recognise; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a recognition\nthat, in spite of his suspecting it would be rather more indiscreet\nto keep than to break his promise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six\nlines, expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that\nhe should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole\nwas a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker\nwhom Henrietta suggested) he waited in some suspense. He had heard this\nfresh formidable figure named for the first time; for when his mother\nhad mentioned on her arrival that there was a story about the girl's\nhaving an \"admirer\" at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality\nand he had taken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would\ninvolve only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native\nadmiration of which his cousin was the object had become more concrete;\nit took the form of a young man who had followed her to London, who was\ninterested in a cotton-mill and had manners in the most splendid of the\nAmerican styles. Ralph had two theories about this intervenes. Either\nhis passion was a sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole's (there was\nalways a sort of tacit understanding among women, born of the solidarity\nof the sex, that they should discover or invent lovers for each other),\nin which case he was not to be feared and would probably not accept the\ninvitation; or else he would accept the invitation and in this event\nprove himself a creature too irrational to demand further consideration.\nThe latter clause of Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent;\nbut it embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in\nIsabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stackpole he would not\ncare to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter\nlady. \"On this supposition,\" said Ralph, \"he must regard her as a thorn\non the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must find her wanting in\ntact.\"\n\nTwo days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short\nnote from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other\nengagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible and presenting many\ncompliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who,\nwhen she had read it, exclaimed: \"Well, I never have heard of anything\nso stiff!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you suppose,\"\nRalph observed.\n\n\"No, it's not that; it's some subtler motive. His nature's very deep.\nBut I'm determined to fathom it, and I shall write to him to know what\nhe means.\"\n\nHis refusal of Ralph's overtures was vaguely disconcerting; from the\nmoment he declined to come to Gardencourt our friend began to think\nhim of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether\nIsabel's admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not\nrivals of his and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius.\nNevertheless he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's\npromised enquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness--a\ncuriosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her\nthree days later if she had written to London she was obliged to confess\nshe had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not replied.\n\n\"I suppose he's thinking it over,\" she said; \"he thinks everything\nover; he's not really at all impetuous. But I'm accustomed to having my\nletters answered the same day.\" She presently proposed to Isabel, at\nall events, that they should make an excursion to London together. \"If I\nmust tell the truth,\" she observed, \"I'm not seeing much at this\nplace, and I shouldn't think you were either. I've not even seen that\naristocrat--what's his name?--Lord Washburton. He seems to let you\nseverely alone.\"\n\n\"Lord Warburton's coming to-morrow, I happen to know,\" replied her\nfriend, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer\nto her own letter. \"You'll have every opportunity of turning him inside\nout.\"\n\n\"Well, he may do for one letter, but what's one letter when you want to\nwrite fifty? I've described all the scenery in this vicinity and raved\nabout all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please,\nscenery doesn't make a vital letter. I must go back to London and get\nsome impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came\naway, and that's hardly time to get in touch.\"\n\nAs Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even\nless of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of\nHenrietta's that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The\nidea struck Isabel as charming; he was curious of the thick detail of\nLondon, which had always loomed large and rich to her. They turned over\ntheir schemes together and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They\nwould stay at some picturesque old inn--one of the inns described by\nDickens--and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta\nwas a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman\nwas that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at\na coffee-house and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the\nAbbey and the British Museum and find out where Doctor Johnson had\nlived, and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager and presently\nunveiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter\nwhich scarce expressed the sympathy she had desired.\n\n\"It's a delightful plan,\" he said. \"I advise you to go to the Duke's\nHead in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I'll\nhave you put down at my club.\"\n\n\"Do you mean it's improper?\" Isabel asked. \"Dear me, isn't anything\nproper here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she isn't hampered\nin that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent and can\nat least find her way about this minute island.\"\n\n\"Ah then,\" said Ralph, \"let me take advantage of her protection to go up\nto town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nMiss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as\nwe have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to\nGardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him.\nFor four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had\nwritten, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later.\nThere was something in these delays and postponements that touched the\ngirl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient,\nnot to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied\nthat she was so sure he \"really liked\" her. Isabel told her uncle she\nhad written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the\nold man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his\nappearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of\nvigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his\nbeing of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away\nin case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That\npersonage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters\nwith him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order\nas Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole,\nwho, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel,\nwho was nervous and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing\nthe question he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring his\ngood-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of\nthat preoccupation with her presence it was natural she should suppose\nhim to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only\nsign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty\nof talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon\nwith discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth,\nnun-like forehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck,\nwas evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her\neyes constantly rested in a manner suggesting a conflict between deep\nalienation and yearning wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she\nwas the one Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary\nquiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and\nsilver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery--some delightful\nreinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered\nwhat Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had\nrefused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would\nnever know--that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond\nof her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at\nleast, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in\nconversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her\nneighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what\nhad passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be\nshocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our\nheroine's last position) she would impute to the young American but a\ndue consciousness of inequality.\n\nWhatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events,\nHenrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which\nshe now found herself immersed. \"Do you know you're the first lord I've\never seen?\" she said very promptly to her neighbour. \"I suppose you\nthink I'm awfully benighted.\"\n\n\"You've escaped seeing some very ugly men,\" Lord Warburton answered,\nlooking a trifle absently about the table.\n\n\"Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they're\nall handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and\ncrowns.\"\n\n\"Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion,\" said Lord Warburton,\n\"like your tomahawks and revolvers.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,\"\nHenrietta declared. \"If it's not that, what is it?\"\n\n\"Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best,\" her neighbour allowed.\n\"Won't you have a potato?\"\n\n\"I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you\nfrom an ordinary American gentleman.\"\n\n\"Do talk to me as if I were one,\" said Lord Warburton. \"I don't see how\nyou manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to\neat over here.\"\n\nHenrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere.\n\"I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here,\" she went on at\nlast; \"so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you know; I\nfeel as if I ought to tell you that.\"\n\n\"Don't approve of me?\"\n\n\"Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did\nthey? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has\ngot beyond them--far beyond.\"\n\n\"Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes\nover me--how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you\nknow? But that's rather good, by the way--not to be vainglorious.\"\n\n\"Why don't you give it up then?\" Miss Stackpole enquired.\n\n\"Give up--a--?\" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a\nvery mellow one.\n\n\"Give up being a lord.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you\nwretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do\nthink of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these\ndays.\"\n\n\"I should like to see you do it!\" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly.\n\n\"I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Miss Stackpole, \"I like to see all sides. I don't approve\nof a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for\nthemselves.\"\n\n\"Mighty little, as you see!\"\n\n\"I should like to draw you out a little more,\" Henrietta continued. \"But\nyou're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting my eye. I see you\nwant to escape me.\"\n\n\"No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes.\"\n\n\"Please explain about that young lady--your sister--then. I don't\nunderstand about her. Is she a Lady?\"\n\n\"She's a capital good girl.\"\n\n\"I don't like the way you say that--as if you wanted to change the\nsubject. Is her position inferior to yours?\"\n\n\"We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better off\nthan I, because she has none of the bother.\"\n\n\"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little\nbother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you\nmay do.\"\n\n\"Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole,\" said Lord Warburton.\n\"And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!\"\n\n\"I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to\ntalk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross\na badge?\"\n\n\"A badge?\"\n\n\"A sign of rank.\"\n\nLord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the\ngaze of his neighbour. \"Oh yes,\" he answered in a moment; \"the women go\nin for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of\nViscounts.\" Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had\nhis credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed\nto Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though\nshe knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without\ncriticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since\nshe sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He\nwalked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and\nsaying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: \"I hoped you wouldn't\nwrite to me that way.\"\n\n\"It was the only way, Lord Warburton,\" said the girl. \"Do try and\nbelieve that.\"\n\n\"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can't\nbelieve by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could\nunderstand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you\nshould admit you do--\"\n\n\"What have I admitted?\" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.\n\n\"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?\" She said nothing,\nand he went on: \"You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a\nsense of injustice.\"\n\n\"I have a reason, Lord Warburton.\" She said it in a tone that made his\nheart contract.\n\n\"I should like very much to know it.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it.\"\n\n\"Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it.\"\n\n\"You make me very unhappy,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you\nkindly answer me a question?\" Isabel made no audible assent, but he\napparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. \"Do\nyou prefer some one else?\"\n\n\"That's a question I'd rather not answer.\"\n\n\"Ah, you do then!\" her suitor murmured with bitterness.\n\nThe bitterness touched her, and she cried out: \"You're mistaken! I\ndon't.\"\n\nHe sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in\ntrouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. \"I\ncan't even be glad of that,\" he said at last, throwing himself back\nagainst the wall; \"for that would be an excuse.\"\n\nShe raised her eyebrows in surprise. \"An excuse? Must I excuse myself?\"\n\nHe paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into\nhis head. \"Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?\"\n\n\"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand\nthem.\"\n\n\"You don't care what I think!\" he cried, getting up. \"It's all the same\nto you.\"\n\nIsabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing\nhim her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white\nneck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She\nstopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining\nit; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her\nvery pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they\nhad suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and\nby this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round\nher face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. \"That reason\nthat I wouldn't tell you--I'll tell it you after all. It's that I can't\nescape my fate.\"\n\n\"Your fate?\"\n\n\"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you.\"\n\n\"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as\nanything else?\"\n\n\"Because it's not,\" said Isabel femininely. \"I know it's not. It's not\nmy fate to give up--I know it can't be.\"\n\nPoor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. \"Do\nyou call marrying me giving up?\"\n\n\"Not in the usual sense. It's getting--getting--getting a great deal.\nBut it's giving up other chances.\"\n\n\"Other chances for what?\"\n\n\"I don't mean chances to marry,\" said Isabel, her colour quickly coming\nback to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if\nit were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.\n\n\"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more\nthan you'll lose,\" her companion observed.\n\n\"I can't escape unhappiness,\" said Isabel. \"In marrying you I shall be\ntrying to.\"\n\n\"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must\nin candour admit!\" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.\n\n\"I mustn't--I can't!\" cried the girl.\n\n\"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make\nme so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none\nfor me.\"\n\n\"I'm not bent on a life of misery,\" said Isabel. \"I've always been\nintensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be.\nI've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every\nnow and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by\nturning away, by separating myself.\"\n\n\"By separating yourself from what?\"\n\n\"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people\nknow and suffer.\"\n\nLord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. \"Why,\nmy dear Miss Archer,\" he began to explain with the most considerate\neagerness, \"I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any\nchances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For\nwhat do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China!\nAll I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable\nsort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike\nan alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it.\nYou shall separate from nothing whatever--not even from your friend Miss\nStackpole.\"\n\n\"She'd never approve of it,\" said Isabel, trying to smile and take\nadvantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for\ndoing so.\n\n\"Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?\" his lordship asked impatiently. \"I\nnever saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds.\"\n\n\"Now I suppose you're speaking of me,\" said Isabel with humility; and\nshe turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery,\naccompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.\n\nLord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and\nreminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was\nexpecting company to partake of it. He made no answer--apparently\nnot having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss\nMolyneux--as if he had been Royalty--stood like a lady-in-waiting.\n\n\"Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!\" said Henrietta Stackpole. \"If I wanted\nto go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to\ndo it.\"\n\n\"Oh, Warburton does everything one wants,\" Miss Molyneux answered with\na quick, shy laugh. \"How very many pictures you have!\" she went on,\nturning to Ralph.\n\n\"They look a good many, because they're all put together,\" said Ralph.\n\"But it's really a bad way.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm so\nvery fond of pictures,\" Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph,\nas if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta\nappeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.\n\n\"Ah yes, pictures are very convenient,\" said Ralph, who appeared to know\nbetter what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.\n\n\"They're so very pleasant when it rains,\" the young lady continued. \"It\nhas rained of late so very often.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton,\" said Henrietta. \"I wanted\nto get a great deal more out of you.\"\n\n\"I'm not going away,\" Lord Warburton answered.\n\n\"Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid we have some people to tea,\" said Miss Molyneux, looking at\nher brother.\n\n\"Very good, my dear. We'll go.\"\n\n\"I hoped you would resist!\" Henrietta exclaimed. \"I wanted to see what\nMiss Molyneux would do.\"\n\n\"I never do anything,\" said this young lady.\n\n\"I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!\" Miss\nStackpole returned. \"I should like very much to see you at home.\"\n\n\"You must come to Lockleigh again,\" said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to\nIsabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend. Isabel looked into her\nquiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey\ndepths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord\nWarburton--the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep\nsecurity and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she\nsaid: \"I'm afraid I can never come again.\"\n\n\"Never again?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I'm going away.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so very sorry,\" said Miss Molyneux. \"I think that's so very\nwrong of you.\"\n\nLord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and\nstared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture\nwith his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.\n\n\"I should like to see you at home,\" said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton\nfound beside him. \"I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a\ngreat many questions I wish to ask you.\"\n\n\"I shall be delighted to see you,\" the proprietor of Lockleigh answered;\n\"but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When\nwill you come?\"\n\n\"Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to London,\nbut we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some satisfaction\nout of you.\"\n\n\"If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She won't\ncome to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place.\"\n\n\"She told me it was lovely!\" said Henrietta.\n\nLord Warburton hesitated. \"She won't come, all the same. You had better\ncome alone,\" he added.\n\nHenrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. \"Would you\nmake that remark to an English lady?\" she enquired with soft asperity.\n\nLord Warburton stared. \"Yes, if I liked her enough.\"\n\n\"You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit\nyour place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what\nshe thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same--that I oughtn't to\nbring in individuals.\" Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been\nmade acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and failed\nto catch her allusion. \"Miss Archer has been warning you!\" she therefore\nwent on.\n\n\"Warning me?\"\n\n\"Isn't that why she came off alone with you here--to put you on your\nguard?\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no,\" said Lord Warburton brazenly; \"our talk had no such\nsolemn character as that.\"\n\n\"Well, you've been on your guard--intensely. I suppose it's natural\nto you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss\nMolyneux--she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned, anyway,\"\nHenrietta continued, addressing this young lady; \"but for you it wasn't\nnecessary.\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" said Miss Molyneux vaguely.\n\n\"Miss Stackpole takes notes,\" Ralph soothingly explained. \"She's a great\nsatirist; she sees through us all and she works us up.\"\n\n\"Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!\"\nHenrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this\nnobleman to his sister and to Ralph. \"There's something the matter with\nyou all; you're as dismal as if you had got a bad cable.\"\n\n\"You do see through us, Miss Stackpole,\" said Ralph in a low tone,\ngiving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the\ngallery. \"There's something the matter with us all.\"\n\nIsabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her\nimmensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished\nfloor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind\nhim and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then,\n\"Is it true you're going to London?\" he asked.\n\n\"I believe it has been arranged.\"\n\n\"And when shall you come back?\"\n\n\"In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to Paris\nwith my aunt.\"\n\n\"When, then, shall I see you again?\"\n\n\"Not for a good while,\" said Isabel. \"But some day or other, I hope.\"\n\n\"Do you really hope it?\"\n\n\"Very much.\"\n\nHe went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand.\n\"Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said Isabel.\n\nMiss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it,\nwithout rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in\nwhich apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had\nstopped on her way to the salon. \"I may as well tell you,\" said that\nlady, \"that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord\nWarburton.\"\n\nIsabel considered. \"Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the\nstrange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times.\"\n\n\"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?\" Mrs. Touchett\ndispassionately asked.\n\nAgain the girl hesitated. \"Because he knows Lord Warburton better.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I know you better.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure of that,\" said Isabel, smiling.\n\n\"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather\nconceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself\nand had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer\nlike Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better.\"\n\n\"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!\" cried Isabel, smiling still.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed to London\nunder Ralph's escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked with little favour on\nthe plan. It was just the sort of plan, she said, that Miss Stackpole\nwould be sure to suggest, and she enquired if the correspondent of\nthe Interviewer was to take the party to stay at her favourite\nboarding-house.\n\n\"I don't care where she takes us to stay, so long as there's local\ncolour,\" said Isabel. \"That's what we're going to London for.\"\n\n\"I suppose that after a girl has refused an English lord she may do\nanything,\" her aunt rejoined. \"After that one needn't stand on trifles.\"\n\n\"Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton?\" Isabel enquired.\n\n\"Of course I should.\"\n\n\"I thought you disliked the English so much.\"\n\n\"So I do; but it's all the greater reason for making use of them.\"\n\n\"Is that your idea of marriage?\" And Isabel ventured to add that her\naunt appeared to her to have made very little use of Mr. Touchett.\n\n\"Your uncle's not an English nobleman,\" said Mrs. Touchett, \"though even\nif he had been I should still probably have taken up my residence in\nFlorence.\"\n\n\"Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any better than I am?\" the\ngirl asked with some animation. \"I don't mean I'm too good to improve. I\nmean that I don't love Lord Warburton enough to marry him.\"\n\n\"You did right to refuse him then,\" said Mrs. Touchett in her smallest,\nsparest voice. \"Only, the next great offer you get, I hope you'll manage\nto come up to your standard.\"\n\n\"We had better wait till the offer comes before we talk about it. I\nhope very much I may have no more offers for the present. They upset me\ncompletely.\"\n\n\"You probably won't be troubled with them if you adopt permanently the\nBohemian manner of life. However, I've promised Ralph not to criticise.\"\n\n\"I'll do whatever Ralph says is right,\" Isabel returned. \"I've unbounded\nconfidence in Ralph.\"\n\n\"His mother's much obliged to you!\" this lady dryly laughed.\n\n\"It seems to me indeed she ought to feel it!\" Isabel irrepressibly\nanswered.\n\nRalph had assured her that there would be no violation of decency in\ntheir paying a visit--the little party of three--to the sights of the\nmetropolis; but Mrs. Touchett took a different view. Like many ladies of\nher country who had lived a long time in Europe, she had completely\nlost her native tact on such points, and in her reaction, not in itself\ndeplorable, against the liberty allowed to young persons beyond the\nseas, had fallen into gratuitous and exaggerated scruples. Ralph\naccompanied their visitors to town and established them at a quiet inn\nin a street that ran at right angles to Piccadilly. His first idea had\nbeen to take them to his father's house in Winchester Square, a large,\ndull mansion which at this period of the year was shrouded in silence\nand brown holland; but he bethought himself that, the cook being at\nGardencourt, there was no one in the house to get them their meals,\nand Pratt's Hotel accordingly became their resting-place. Ralph, on his\nside, found quarters in Winchester Square, having a \"den\" there of which\nhe was very fond and being familiar with deeper fears than that of a\ncold kitchen. He availed himself largely indeed of the resources of\nPratt's Hotel, beginning his day with an early visit to his fellow\ntravellers, who had Mr. Pratt in person, in a large bulging white\nwaistcoat, to remove their dish-covers. Ralph turned up, as he said,\nafter breakfast, and the little party made out a scheme of entertainment\nfor the day. As London wears in the month of September a face blank but\nfor its smears of prior service, the young man, who occasionally took\nan apologetic tone, was obliged to remind his companion, to Miss\nStackpole's high derision, that there wasn't a creature in town.\n\n\"I suppose you mean the aristocracy are absent,\" Henrietta answered;\n\"but I don't think you could have a better proof that if they were\nabsent altogether they wouldn't be missed. It seems to me the place is\nabout as full as it can be. There's no one here, of course, but three\nor four millions of people. What is it you call them--the lower-middle\nclass? They're only the population of London, and that's of no\nconsequence.\"\n\nRalph declared that for him the aristocracy left no void that Miss\nStackpole herself didn't fill, and that a more contented man was nowhere\nat that moment to be found. In this he spoke the truth, for the stale\nSeptember days, in the huge half-empty town, had a charm wrapped in them\nas a coloured gem might be wrapped in a dusty cloth. When he went home\nat night to the empty house in Winchester Square, after a chain of hours\nwith his comparatively ardent friends, he wandered into the big dusky\ndining-room, where the candle he took from the hall-table, after letting\nhimself in, constituted the only illumination. The square was still, the\nhouse was still; when he raised one of the windows of the dining-room to\nlet in the air he heard the slow creak of the boots of a lone constable.\nHis own step, in the empty place, seemed loud and sonorous; some of the\ncarpets had been raised, and whenever he moved he roused a melancholy\necho. He sat down in one of the armchairs; the big dark dining table\ntwinkled here and there in the small candle-light; the pictures on the\nwall, all of them very brown, looked vague and incoherent. There was a\nghostly presence as of dinners long since digested, of table-talk\nthat had lost its actuality. This hint of the supernatural perhaps had\nsomething to do with the fact that his imagination took a flight and\nthat he remained in his chair a long time beyond the hour at which he\nshould have been in bed; doing nothing, not even reading the evening\npaper. I say he did nothing, and I maintain the phrase in the face of\nthe fact that he thought at these moments of Isabel. To think of Isabel\ncould only be for him an idle pursuit, leading to nothing and profiting\nlittle to any one. His cousin had not yet seemed to him so charming\nas during these days spent in sounding, tourist-fashion, the deeps\nand shallows of the metropolitan element. Isabel was full of premises,\nconclusions, emotions; if she had come in search of local colour she\nfound it everywhere. She asked more questions than he could answer, and\nlaunched brave theories, as to historic cause and social effect, that he\nwas equally unable to accept or to refute. The party went more than once\nto the British Museum and to that brighter palace of art which reclaims\nfor antique variety so large an area of a monotonous suburb; they spent\na morning in the Abbey and went on a penny-steamer to the Tower; they\nlooked at pictures both in public and private collections and sat\non various occasions beneath the great trees in Kensington Gardens.\nHenrietta proved an indestructible sight-seer and a more lenient judge\nthan Ralph had ventured to hope. She had indeed many disappointments,\nand London at large suffered from her vivid remembrance of the strong\npoints of the American civic idea; but she made the best of its dingy\ndignities and only heaved an occasional sigh and uttered a desultory\n\"Well!\" which led no further and lost itself in retrospect. The truth\nwas that, as she said herself, she was not in her element. \"I've not a\nsympathy with inanimate objects,\" she remarked to Isabel at the National\nGallery; and she continued to suffer from the meagreness of the glimpse\nthat had as yet been vouchsafed to her of the inner life. Landscapes\nby Turner and Assyrian bulls were a poor substitute for the literary\ndinner-parties at which she had hoped to meet the genius and renown of\nGreat Britain.\n\n\"Where are your public men, where are your men and women of intellect?\"\nshe enquired of Ralph, standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square as\nif she had supposed this to be a place where she would naturally meet a\nfew. \"That's one of them on the top of the column, you say--Lord Nelson.\nWas he a lord too? Wasn't he high enough, that they had to stick him a\nhundred feet in the air? That's the past--I don't care about the past; I\nwant to see some of the leading minds of the present. I won't say of the\nfuture, because I don't believe much in your future.\" Poor Ralph had few\nleading minds among his acquaintance and rarely enjoyed the pleasure\nof buttonholing a celebrity; a state of things which appeared to Miss\nStackpole to indicate a deplorable want of enterprise. \"If I were on the\nother side I should call,\" she said, \"and tell the gentleman, whoever\nhe might be, that I had heard a great deal about him and had come to see\nfor myself. But I gather from what you say that this is not the custom\nhere. You seem to have plenty of meaningless customs, but none of those\nthat would help along. We are in advance, certainly. I suppose I shall\nhave to give up the social side altogether;\" and Henrietta, though\nshe went about with her guidebook and pencil and wrote a letter to the\nInterviewer about the Tower (in which she described the execution of\nLady Jane Grey), had a sad sense of falling below her mission.\n\nThe incident that had preceded Isabel's departure from Gardencourt left\na painful trace in our young woman's mind: when she felt again in her\nface, as from a recurrent wave, the cold breath of her last suitor's\nsurprise, she could only muffle her head till the air cleared. She could\nnot have done less than what she did; this was certainly true. But her\nnecessity, all the same, had been as graceless as some physical act in\na strained attitude, and she felt no desire to take credit for her\nconduct. Mixed with this imperfect pride, nevertheless, was a feeling of\nfreedom which in itself was sweet and which, as she wandered through the\ngreat city with her ill-matched companions, occasionally throbbed into\nodd demonstrations. When she walked in Kensington Gardens she stopped\nthe children (mainly of the poorer sort) whom she saw playing on the\ngrass; she asked them their names and gave them sixpence and, when\nthey were pretty, kissed them. Ralph noticed these quaint charities;\nhe noticed everything she did. One afternoon, that his companions might\npass the time, he invited them to tea in Winchester Square, and he had\nthe house set in order as much as possible for their visit. There\nwas another guest to meet them, an amiable bachelor, an old friend of\nRalph's who happened to be in town and for whom prompt commerce with\nMiss Stackpole appeared to have neither difficulty nor dread. Mr.\nBantling, a stout, sleek, smiling man of forty, wonderfully dressed,\nuniversally informed and incoherently amused, laughed immoderately at\neverything Henrietta said, gave her several cups of tea, examined in her\nsociety the bric-a-brac, of which Ralph had a considerable collection,\nand afterwards, when the host proposed they should go out into the\nsquare and pretend it was a fete-champetre, walked round the limited\nenclosure several times with her and, at a dozen turns of their talk,\nbounded responsive--as with a positive passion for argument--to her\nremarks upon the inner life.\n\n\"Oh, I see; I dare say you found it very quiet at Gardencourt. Naturally\nthere's not much going on there when there's such a lot of illness\nabout. Touchett's very bad, you know; the doctors have forbidden his\nbeing in England at all, and he has only come back to take care of his\nfather. The old man, I believe, has half a dozen things the matter\nwith him. They call it gout, but to my certain knowledge he has organic\ndisease so developed that you may depend upon it he'll go, some day\nsoon, quite quickly. Of course that sort of thing makes a dreadfully\ndull house; I wonder they have people when they can do so little for\nthem. Then I believe Mr. Touchett's always squabbling with his wife; she\nlives away from her husband, you know, in that extraordinary American\nway of yours. If you want a house where there's always something going\non, I recommend you to go down and stay with my sister, Lady Pensil,\nin Bedfordshire. I'll write to her to-morrow and I'm sure she'll be\ndelighted to ask you. I know just what you want--you want a house\nwhere they go in for theatricals and picnics and that sort of thing. My\nsister's just that sort of woman; she's always getting up something or\nother and she's always glad to have the sort of people who help her. I'm\nsure she'll ask you down by return of post: she's tremendously fond of\ndistinguished people and writers. She writes herself, you know; but\nI haven't read everything she has written. It's usually poetry, and I\ndon't go in much for poetry--unless it's Byron. I suppose you think a\ngreat deal of Byron in America,\" Mr. Bantling continued, expanding\nin the stimulating air of Miss Stackpole's attention, bringing up his\nsequences promptly and changing his topic with an easy turn of hand.\nYet he none the less gracefully kept in sight of the idea, dazzling to\nHenrietta, of her going to stay with Lady Pensil in Bedfordshire. \"I\nunderstand what you want; you want to see some genuine English sport.\nThe Touchetts aren't English at all, you know; they have their own\nhabits, their own language, their own food--some odd religion even, I\nbelieve, of their own. The old man thinks it's wicked to hunt, I'm told.\nYou must get down to my sister's in time for the theatricals, and I'm\nsure she'll be glad to give you a part. I'm sure you act well; I know\nyou're very clever. My sister's forty years old and has seven children,\nbut she's going to play the principal part. Plain as she is she makes up\nawfully well--I will say for her. Of course you needn't act if you don't\nwant to.\"\n\nIn this manner Mr. Bantling delivered himself while they strolled over\nthe grass in Winchester Square, which, although it had been peppered\nby the London soot, invited the tread to linger. Henrietta thought her\nblooming, easy-voiced bachelor, with his impressibility to feminine\nmerit and his splendid range of suggestion, a very agreeable man, and\nshe valued the opportunity he offered her. \"I don't know but I would go,\nif your sister should ask me. I think it would be my duty. What do you\ncall her name?\"\n\n\"Pensil. It's an odd name, but it isn't a bad one.\"\n\n\"I think one name's as good as another. But what's her rank?\".\n\n\"Oh, she's a baron's wife; a convenient sort of rank. You're fine enough\nand you're not too fine.\"\n\n\"I don't know but what she'd be too fine for me. What do you call the\nplace she lives in--Bedfordshire?\"\n\n\"She lives away in the northern corner of it. It's a tiresome country,\nbut I dare say you won't mind it. I'll try and run down while you're\nthere.\"\n\nAll this was very pleasant to Miss Stackpole, and she was sorry to be\nobliged to separate from Lady Pensil's obliging brother. But it happened\nthat she had met the day before, in Piccadilly, some friends whom she\nhad not seen for a year: the Miss Climbers, two ladies from Wilmington,\nDelaware, who had been travelling on the Continent and were now\npreparing to re-embark. Henrietta had had a long interview with them on\nthe Piccadilly pavement, and though the three ladies all talked at once\nthey had not exhausted their store. It had been agreed therefore that\nHenrietta should come and dine with them in their lodgings in Jermyn\nStreet at six o'clock on the morrow, and she now bethought herself of\nthis engagement. She prepared to start for Jermyn Street, taking leave\nfirst of Ralph Touchett and Isabel, who, seated on garden chairs\nin another part of the enclosure, were occupied--if the term may be\nused--with an exchange of amenities less pointed than the practical\ncolloquy of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling. When it had been settled\nbetween Isabel and her friend that they should be reunited at some\nreputable hour at Pratt's Hotel, Ralph remarked that the latter must\nhave a cab. She couldn't walk all the way to Jermyn Street.\n\n\"I suppose you mean it's improper for me to walk alone!\" Henrietta\nexclaimed. \"Merciful powers, have I come to this?\"\n\n\"There's not the slightest need of your walking alone,\" Mr. Bantling\ngaily interposed. \"I should be greatly pleased to go with you.\"\n\n\"I simply meant that you'd be late for dinner,\" Ralph returned. \"Those\npoor ladies may easily believe that we refuse, at the last, to spare\nyou.\"\n\n\"You had better have a hansom, Henrietta,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I'll get you a hansom if you'll trust me,\" Mr. Bantling went on.\n\n\"We might walk a little till we meet one.\"\n\n\"I don't see why I shouldn't trust him, do you?\" Henrietta enquired of\nIsabel.\n\n\"I don't see what Mr. Bantling could do to you,\" Isabel obligingly\nanswered; \"but, if you like, we'll walk with you till you find your\ncab.\"\n\n\"Never mind; we'll go alone. Come on, Mr. Bantling, and take care you\nget me a good one.\"\n\nMr. Bantling promised to do his best, and the two took their departure,\nleaving the girl and her cousin together in the square, over which\na clear September twilight had now begun to gather. It was perfectly\nstill; the wide quadrangle of dusky houses showed lights in none of the\nwindows, where the shutters and blinds were closed; the pavements were\na vacant expanse, and, putting aside two small children from a\nneighbouring slum, who, attracted by symptoms of abnormal animation\nin the interior, poked their faces between the rusty rails of\nthe enclosure, the most vivid object within sight was the big red\npillar-post on the southeast corner.\n\n\"Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her to Jermyn\nStreet,\" Ralph observed. He always spoke of Miss Stackpole as Henrietta.\n\n\"Very possibly,\" said his companion.\n\n\"Or rather, no, she won't,\" he went on. \"But Bantling will ask leave to\nget in.\"\n\n\"Very likely again. I'm glad very they're such good friends.\"\n\n\"She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman. It may go\nfar,\" said Ralph.\n\nIsabel was briefly silent. \"I call Henrietta a very brilliant woman, but\nI don't think it will go far. They would never really know each other.\nHe has not the least idea what she really is, and she has no just\ncomprehension of Mr. Bantling.\"\n\n\"There's no more usual basis of union than a mutual misunderstanding.\nBut it ought not to be so difficult to understand Bob Bantling,\" Ralph\nadded. \"He is a very simple organism.\"\n\n\"Yes, but Henrietta's a simpler one still. And, pray, what am I to do?\"\nIsabel asked, looking about her through the fading light, in which the\nlimited landscape-gardening of the square took on a large and effective\nappearance. \"I don't imagine that you'll propose that you and I, for our\namusement, shall drive about London in a hansom.\"\n\n\"There's no reason we shouldn't stay here--if you don't dislike it. It's\nvery warm; there will be half an hour yet before dark; and if you permit\nit I'll light a cigarette.\"\n\n\"You may do what you please,\" said Isabel, \"if you'll amuse me till\nseven o'clock. I propose at that hour to go back and partake of a simple\nand solitary repast--two poached eggs and a muffin--at Pratt's Hotel.\"\n\n\"Mayn't I dine with you?\" Ralph asked.\n\n\"No, you'll dine at your club.\"\n\nThey had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the square\nagain, and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It would have given him\nextreme pleasure to be present in person at the modest little feast she\nhad sketched; but in default of this he liked even being forbidden. For\nthe moment, however, he liked immensely being alone with her, in the\nthickening dusk, in the centre of the multitudinous town; it made her\nseem to depend upon him and to be in his power. This power he could\nexert but vaguely; the best exercise of it was to accept her decisions\nsubmissively which indeed there was already an emotion in doing. \"Why\nwon't you let me dine with you?\" he demanded after a pause.\n\n\"Because I don't care for it.\"\n\n\"I suppose you're tired of me.\"\n\n\"I shall be an hour hence. You see I have the gift of foreknowledge.\"\n\n\"Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile,\" said Ralph.\n\nBut he said nothing more, and as she made no rejoinder they sat\nsome time in a stillness which seemed to contradict his promise of\nentertainment. It seemed to him she was preoccupied, and he wondered\nwhat she was thinking about; there were two or three very possible\nsubjects. At last he spoke again. \"Is your objection to my society this\nevening caused by your expectation of another visitor?\"\n\nShe turned her head with a glance of her clear, fair eyes. \"Another\nvisitor? What visitor should I have?\"\n\nHe had none to suggest; which made his question seem to himself silly as\nwell as brutal. \"You've a great many friends that I don't know. You've a\nwhole past from which I was perversely excluded.\"\n\n\"You were reserved for my future. You must remember that my past is over\nthere across the water. There's none of it here in London.\"\n\n\"Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you. Capital thing\nto have your future so handy.\" And Ralph lighted another cigarette and\nreflected that Isabel probably meant she had received news that Mr.\nCaspar Goodwood had crossed to Paris. After he had lighted his cigarette\nhe puffed it a while, and then he resumed. \"I promised just now to be\nvery amusing; but you see I don't come up to the mark, and the fact is\nthere's a good deal of temerity in one's undertaking to amuse a\nperson like you. What do you care for my feeble attempts? You've grand\nideas--you've a high standard in such matters. I ought at least to bring\nin a band of music or a company of mountebanks.\"\n\n\"One mountebank's enough, and you do very well. Pray go on, and in\nanother ten minutes I shall begin to laugh.\"\n\n\"I assure you I'm very serious,\" said Ralph. \"You do really ask a great\ndeal.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean. I ask nothing.\"\n\n\"You accept nothing,\" said Ralph. She coloured, and now suddenly it\nseemed to her that she guessed his meaning. But why should he speak\nto her of such things? He hesitated a little and then he continued:\n\"There's something I should like very much to say to you. It's a\nquestion I wish to ask. It seems to me I've a right to ask it, because\nI've a kind of interest in the answer.\"\n\n\"Ask what you will,\" Isabel replied gently, \"and I'll try to satisfy\nyou.\"\n\n\"Well then, I hope you won't mind my saying that Warburton has told me\nof something that has passed between you.\"\n\nIsabel suppressed a start; she sat looking at her open fan. \"Very good;\nI suppose it was natural he should tell you.\"\n\n\"I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He has some hope\nstill,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Still?\"\n\n\"He had it a few days ago.\"\n\n\"I don't believe he has any now,\" said the girl.\n\n\"I'm very sorry for him then; he's such an honest man.\"\n\n\"Pray, did he ask you to talk to me?\"\n\n\"No, not that. But he told me because he couldn't help it. We're old\nfriends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent me a line asking me\nto come and see him, and I drove over to Lockleigh the day before he and\nhis sister lunched with us. He was very heavy-hearted; he had just got a\nletter from you.\"\n\n\"Did he show you the letter?\" asked Isabel with momentary loftiness.\n\n\"By no means. But he told me it was a neat refusal. I was very sorry for\nhim,\" Ralph repeated.\n\nFor some moments Isabel said nothing; then at last, \"Do you know how\noften he had seen me?\" she enquired. \"Five or six times.\"\n\n\"That's to your glory.\"\n\n\"It's not for that I say it.\"\n\n\"What then do you say it for. Not to prove that poor Warburton's state\nof mind's superficial, because I'm pretty sure you don't think that.\"\n\nIsabel certainly was unable to say she thought it; but presently she\nsaid something else. \"If you've not been requested by Lord Warburton to\nargue with me, then you're doing it disinterestedly--or for the love of\nargument.\"\n\n\"I've no wish to argue with you at all. I only wish to leave you alone.\nI'm simply greatly interested in your own sentiments.\"\n\n\"I'm greatly obliged to you!\" cried Isabel with a slightly nervous\nlaugh.\n\n\"Of course you mean that I'm meddling in what doesn't concern me. But\nwhy shouldn't I speak to you of this matter without annoying you or\nembarrassing myself? What's the use of being your cousin if I can't have\na few privileges? What's the use of adoring you without hope of a reward\nif I can't have a few compensations? What's the use of being ill and\ndisabled and restricted to mere spectatorship at the game of life if I\nreally can't see the show when I've paid so much for my ticket? Tell me\nthis,\" Ralph went on while she listened to him with quickened attention.\n\"What had you in mind when you refused Lord Warburton?\"\n\n\"What had I in mind?\"\n\n\"What was the logic--the view of your situation--that dictated so\nremarkable an act?\"\n\n\"I didn't wish to marry him--if that's logic.\"\n\n\"No, that's not logic--and I knew that before. It's really nothing, you\nknow. What was it you said to yourself? You certainly said more than\nthat.\"\n\nIsabel reflected a moment, then answered with a question of her own.\n\"Why do you call it a remarkable act? That's what your mother thinks\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Warburton's such a thorough good sort; as a man, I consider he has\nhardly a fault. And then he's what they call here no end of a swell. He\nhas immense possessions, and his wife would be thought a superior being.\nHe unites the intrinsic and the extrinsic advantages.\"\n\nIsabel watched her cousin as to see how far he would go. \"I refused him\nbecause he was too perfect then. I'm not perfect myself, and he's too\ngood for me. Besides, his perfection would irritate me.\"\n\n\"That's ingenious rather than candid,\" said Ralph. \"As a fact you think\nnothing in the world too perfect for you.\"\n\n\"Do you think I'm so good?\"\n\n\"No, but you're exacting, all the same, without the excuse of thinking\nyourself good. Nineteen women out of twenty, however, even of the most\nexacting sort, would have managed to do with Warburton. Perhaps you\ndon't know how he has been stalked.\"\n\n\"I don't wish to know. But it seems to me,\" said Isabel, \"that one day\nwhen we talked of him you mentioned odd things in him.\" Ralph smokingly\nconsidered. \"I hope that what I said then had no weight with you;\nfor they were not faults, the things I spoke of: they were simply\npeculiarities of his position. If I had known he wished to marry you I'd\nnever have alluded to them. I think I said that as regards that position\nhe was rather a sceptic. It would have been in your power to make him a\nbeliever.\"\n\n\"I think not. I don't understand the matter, and I'm not conscious of\nany mission of that sort. You're evidently disappointed,\" Isabel added,\nlooking at her cousin with rueful gentleness. \"You'd have liked me to\nmake such a marriage.\"\n\n\"Not in the least. I'm absolutely without a wish on the subject. I don't\npretend to advise you, and I content myself with watching you--with the\ndeepest interest.\"\n\nShe gave rather a conscious sigh. \"I wish I could be as interesting to\nmyself as I am to you!\"\n\n\"There you're not candid again; you're extremely interesting to\nyourself. Do you know, however,\" said Ralph, \"that if you've really\ngiven Warburton his final answer I'm rather glad it has been what it\nwas. I don't mean I'm glad for you, and still less of course for him.\nI'm glad for myself.\"\n\n\"Are you thinking of proposing to me?\"\n\n\"By no means. From the point of view I speak of that would be fatal;\nI should kill the goose that supplies me with the material of my\ninimitable omelettes. I use that animal as the symbol of my insane\nillusions. What I mean is that I shall have the thrill of seeing what a\nyoung lady does who won't marry Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"That's what your mother counts upon too,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Ah, there will be plenty of spectators! We shall hang on the rest of\nyour career. I shall not see all of it, but I shall probably see the\nmost interesting years. Of course if you were to marry our friend you'd\nstill have a career--a very decent, in fact a very brilliant one. But\nrelatively speaking it would be a little prosaic. It would be definitely\nmarked out in advance; it would be wanting in the unexpected. You know\nI'm extremely fond of the unexpected, and now that you've kept the game\nin your hands I depend on your giving us some grand example of it.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you very well,\" said Isabel, \"but I do so well\nenough to be able to say that if you look for grand examples of anything\nfrom me I shall disappoint you.\"\n\n\"You'll do so only by disappointing yourself and that will go hard with\nyou!\"\n\nTo this she made no direct reply; there was an amount of truth in it\nthat would bear consideration. At last she said abruptly: \"I don't see\nwhat harm there is in my wishing not to tie myself. I don't want to\nbegin life by marrying. There are other things a woman can do.\"\n\n\"There's nothing she can do so well. But you're of course so\nmany-sided.\"\n\n\"If one's two-sided it's enough,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You're the most charming of polygons!\" her companion broke out. At a\nglance from his companion, however, he became grave, and to prove it\nwent on: \"You want to see life--you'll be hanged if you don't, as the\nyoung men say.\"\n\n\"I don't think I want to see it as the young men want to see it. But I\ndo want to look about me.\"\n\n\"You want to drain the cup of experience.\"\n\n\"No, I don't wish to touch the cup of experience. It's a poisoned drink!\nI only want to see for myself.\"\n\n\"You want to see, but not to feel,\" Ralph remarked.\n\n\"I don't think that if one's a sentient being one can make the\ndistinction. I'm a good deal like Henrietta. The other day when I asked\nher if she wished to marry she said: 'Not till I've seen Europe!' I too\ndon't wish to marry till I've seen Europe.\"\n\n\"You evidently expect a crowned head will be struck with you.\"\n\n\"No, that would be worse than marrying Lord Warburton. But it's getting\nvery dark,\" Isabel continued, \"and I must go home.\" She rose from her\nplace, but Ralph only sat still and looked at her. As he remained there\nshe stopped, and they exchanged a gaze that was full on either side, but\nespecially on Ralph's, of utterances too vague for words.\n\n\"You've answered my question,\" he said at last. \"You've told me what I\nwanted. I'm greatly obliged to you.\"\n\n\"It seems to me I've told you very little.\"\n\n\"You've told me the great thing: that the world interests you and that\nyou want to throw yourself into it.\"\n\nHer silvery eyes shone a moment in the dusk. \"I never said that.\" \"I\nthink you meant it. Don't repudiate it. It's so fine!\"\n\n\"I don't know what you're trying to fasten upon me, for I'm not in the\nleast an adventurous spirit. Women are not like men.\"\n\nRalph slowly rose from his seat and they walked together to the gate of\nthe square. \"No,\" he said; \"women rarely boast of their courage. Men do\nso with a certain frequency.\"\n\n\"Men have it to boast of!\"\n\n\"Women have it too. You've a great deal.\"\n\n\"Enough to go home in a cab to Pratt's Hotel, but not more.\"\n\nRalph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he fastened it.\n\"We'll find your cab,\" he said; and as they turned toward a neighbouring\nstreet in which this quest might avail he asked her again if he mightn't\nsee her safely to the inn.\n\n\"By no means,\" she answered; \"you're very tired; you must go home and go\nto bed.\"\n\nThe cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a moment at the\ndoor. \"When people forget I'm a poor creature I'm often incommoded,\" he\nsaid. \"But it's worse when they remember it!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nShe had had no hidden motive in wishing him not to take her home; it\nsimply struck her that for some days past she had consumed an inordinate\nquantity of his time, and the independent spirit of the American girl\nwhom extravagance of aid places in an attitude that she ends by finding\n\"affected\" had made her decide that for these few hours she must suffice\nto herself. She had moreover a great fondness for intervals of solitude,\nwhich since her arrival in England had been but meagrely met. It was a\nluxury she could always command at home and she had wittingly missed\nit. That evening, however, an incident occurred which--had there been a\ncritic to note it--would have taken all colour from the theory that the\nwish to be quite by herself had caused her to dispense with her cousin's\nattendance. Seated toward nine o'clock in the dim illumination of\nPratt's Hotel and trying with the aid of two tall candles to lose\nherself in a volume she had brought from Gardencourt, she succeeded\nonly to the extent of reading other words than those printed on the\npage--words that Ralph had spoken to her that afternoon. Suddenly\nthe well-muffed knuckle of the waiter was applied to the door, which\npresently gave way to his exhibition, even as a glorious trophy, of the\ncard of a visitor. When this memento had offered to her fixed sight the\nname of Mr. Caspar Goodwood she let the man stand before her without\nsignifying her wishes.\n\n\"Shall I show the gentleman up, ma'am?\" he asked with a slightly\nencouraging inflexion.\n\nIsabel hesitated still and while she hesitated glanced at the mirror.\n\"He may come in,\" she said at last; and waited for him not so much\nsmoothing her hair as girding her spirit.\n\nCaspar Goodwood was accordingly the next moment shaking hands with her,\nbut saying nothing till the servant had left the room. \"Why didn't you\nanswer my letter?\" he then asked in a quick, full, slightly peremptory\ntone--the tone of a man whose questions were habitually pointed and who\nwas capable of much insistence.\n\nShe answered by a ready question, \"How did you know I was here?\"\n\n\"Miss Stackpole let me know,\" said Caspar Goodwood. \"She told me you\nwould probably be at home alone this evening and would be willing to see\nme.\"\n\n\"Where did she see you--to tell you that?\"\n\n\"She didn't see me; she wrote to me.\"\n\nIsabel was silent; neither had sat down; they stood there with an air\nof defiance, or at least of contention. \"Henrietta never told me she was\nwriting to you,\" she said at last. \"This is not kind of her.\"\n\n\"Is it so disagreeable to you to see me?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"I didn't expect it. I don't like such surprises.\"\n\n\"But you knew I was in town; it was natural we should meet.\"\n\n\"Do you call this meeting? I hoped I shouldn't see you. In so big a\nplace as London it seemed very possible.\"\n\n\"It was apparently repugnant to you even to write to me,\" her visitor\nwent on.\n\nIsabel made no reply; the sense of Henrietta Stackpole's treachery,\nas she momentarily qualified it, was strong within her. \"Henrietta's\ncertainly not a model of all the delicacies!\" she exclaimed with\nbitterness. \"It was a great liberty to take.\"\n\n\"I suppose I'm not a model either--of those virtues or of any others.\nThe fault's mine as much as hers.\"\n\nAs Isabel looked at him it seemed to her that his jaw had never been\nmore square. This might have displeased her, but she took a different\nturn. \"No, it's not your fault so much as hers. What you've done was\ninevitable, I suppose, for you.\"\n\n\"It was indeed!\" cried Caspar Goodwood with a voluntary laugh.\n\n\"And now that I've come, at any rate, mayn't I stay?\"\n\n\"You may sit down, certainly.\"\n\nShe went back to her chair again, while her visitor took the first place\nthat offered, in the manner of a man accustomed to pay little thought to\nthat sort of furtherance. \"I've been hoping every day for an answer to\nmy letter. You might have written me a few lines.\"\n\n\"It wasn't the trouble of writing that prevented me; I could as easily\nhave written you four pages as one. But my silence was an intention,\"\nIsabel said. \"I thought it the best thing.\"\n\nHe sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she spoke; then he lowered them\nand attached them to a spot in the carpet as if he were making a strong\neffort to say nothing but what he ought. He was a strong man in the\nwrong, and he was acute enough to see that an uncompromising exhibition\nof his strength would only throw the falsity of his position into\nrelief. Isabel was not incapable of tasting any advantage of position\nover a person of this quality, and though little desirous to flaunt it\nin his face she could enjoy being able to say \"You know you oughtn't to\nhave written to me yourself!\" and to say it with an air of triumph.\n\nCaspar Goodwood raised his eyes to her own again; they seemed to shine\nthrough the vizard of a helmet. He had a strong sense of justice and was\nready any day in the year--over and above this--to argue the question\nof his rights. \"You said you hoped never to hear from me again; I know\nthat. But I never accepted any such rule as my own. I warned you that\nyou should hear very soon.\"\n\n\"I didn't say I hoped NEVER to hear from you,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Not for five years then; for ten years; twenty years. It's the same\nthing.\"\n\n\"Do you find it so? It seems to me there's a great difference. I can\nimagine that at the end of ten years we might have a very pleasant\ncorrespondence. I shall have matured my epistolary style.\"\n\nShe looked away while she spoke these words, knowing them of so much\nless earnest a cast than the countenance of her listener. Her eyes,\nhowever, at last came back to him, just as he said very irrelevantly;\n\"Are you enjoying your visit to your uncle?\"\n\n\"Very much indeed.\" She dropped, but then she broke out. \"What good do\nyou expect to get by insisting?\"\n\n\"The good of not losing you.\"\n\n\"You've no right to talk of losing what's not yours. And even from your\nown point of view,\" Isabel added, \"you ought to know when to let one\nalone.\"\n\n\"I disgust you very much,\" said Caspar Goodwood gloomily; not as if to\nprovoke her to compassion for a man conscious of this blighting fact,\nbut as if to set it well before himself, so that he might endeavour to\nact with his eyes on it.\n\n\"Yes, you don't at all delight me, you don't fit in, not in any way,\njust now, and the worst is that your putting it to the proof in this\nmanner is quite unnecessary.\" It wasn't certainly as if his nature had\nbeen soft, so that pin-pricks would draw blood from it; and from the\nfirst of her acquaintance with him, and of her having to defend herself\nagainst a certain air that he had of knowing better what was good for\nher than she knew herself, she had recognised the fact that perfect\nfrankness was her best weapon. To attempt to spare his sensibility or to\nescape from him edgewise, as one might do from a man who had barred\nthe way less sturdily--this, in dealing with Caspar Goodwood, who would\ngrasp at everything of every sort that one might give him, was wasted\nagility. It was not that he had not susceptibilities, but his passive\nsurface, as well as his active, was large and hard, and he might always\nbe trusted to dress his wounds, so far as they required it, himself. She\ncame back, even for her measure of possible pangs and aches in him,\nto her old sense that he was naturally plated and steeled, armed\nessentially for aggression.\n\n\"I can't reconcile myself to that,\" he simply said. There was a\ndangerous liberality about it; for she felt how open it was to him to\nmake the point that he had not always disgusted her.\n\n\"I can't reconcile myself to it either, and it's not the state of things\nthat ought to exist between us. If you'd only try to banish me from your\nmind for a few months we should be on good terms again.\"\n\n\"I see. If I should cease to think of you at all for a prescribed time,\nI should find I could keep it up indefinitely.\"\n\n\"Indefinitely is more than I ask. It's more even than I should like.\"\n\n\"You know that what you ask is impossible,\" said the young man, taking\nhis adjective for granted in a manner she found irritating.\n\n\"Aren't you capable of making a calculated effort?\" she demanded.\n\"You're strong for everything else; why shouldn't you be strong for\nthat?\"\n\n\"An effort calculated for what?\" And then as she hung fire, \"I'm\ncapable of nothing with regard to you,\" he went on, \"but just of being\ninfernally in love with you. If one's strong one loves only the more\nstrongly.\"\n\n\"There's a good deal in that;\" and indeed our young lady felt the\nforce of it--felt it thrown off, into the vast of truth and poetry,\nas practically a bait to her imagination. But she promptly came round.\n\"Think of me or not, as you find most possible; only leave me alone.\"\n\n\"Until when?\"\n\n\"Well, for a year or two.\"\n\n\"Which do you mean? Between one year and two there's all the difference\nin the world.\"\n\n\"Call it two then,\" said Isabel with a studied effect of eagerness.\n\n\"And what shall I gain by that?\" her friend asked with no sign of\nwincing.\n\n\"You'll have obliged me greatly.\"\n\n\"And what will be my reward?\"\n\n\"Do you need a reward for an act of generosity?\"\n\n\"Yes, when it involves a great sacrifice.\"\n\n\"There's no generosity without some sacrifice. Men don't understand such\nthings. If you make the sacrifice you'll have all my admiration.\"\n\n\"I don't care a cent for your admiration--not one straw, with nothing to\nshow for it. When will you marry me? That's the only question.\"\n\n\"Never--if you go on making me feel only as I feel at present.\"\n\n\"What do I gain then by not trying to make you feel otherwise?\"\n\n\"You'll gain quite as much as by worrying me to death!\" Caspar Goodwood\nbent his eyes again and gazed a while into the crown of his hat. A\ndeep flush overspread his face; she could see her sharpness had at last\npenetrated. This immediately had a value--classic, romantic, redeeming,\nwhat did she know? for her; \"the strong man in pain\" was one of the\ncategories of the human appeal, little charm as he might exert in the\ngiven case. \"Why do you make me say such things to you?\" she cried in a\ntrembling voice. \"I only want to be gentle--to be thoroughly kind. It's\nnot delightful to me to feel people care for me and yet to have to try\nand reason them out of it. I think others also ought to be considerate;\nwe have each to judge for ourselves. I know you're considerate, as much\nas you can be; you've good reasons for what you do. But I really don't\nwant to marry, or to talk about it at all now. I shall probably never\ndo it--no, never. I've a perfect right to feel that way, and it's no\nkindness to a woman to press her so hard, to urge her against her will.\nIf I give you pain I can only say I'm very sorry. It's not my fault; I\ncan't marry you simply to please you. I won't say that I shall always\nremain your friend, because when women say that, in these situations, it\npasses, I believe, for a sort of mockery. But try me some day.\"\n\nCaspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed upon the\nname of his hatter, and it was not until some time after she had ceased\nspeaking that he raised them. When he did so the sight of a rosy, lovely\neagerness in Isabel's face threw some confusion into his attempt to\nanalyse her words. \"I'll go home--I'll go to-morrow--I'll leave you\nalone,\" he brought out at last. \"Only,\" he heavily said, \"I hate to lose\nsight of you!\"\n\n\"Never fear. I shall do no harm.\"\n\n\"You'll marry some one else, as sure as I sit here,\" Caspar Goodwood\ndeclared.\n\n\"Do you think that a generous charge?\"\n\n\"Why not? Plenty of men will try to make you.\"\n\n\"I told you just now that I don't wish to marry and that I almost\ncertainly never shall.\"\n\n\"I know you did, and I like your 'almost certainly'! I put no faith in\nwhat you say.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much. Do you accuse me of lying to shake you off? You\nsay very delicate things.\"\n\n\"Why should I not say that? You've given me no pledge of anything at\nall.\"\n\n\"No, that's all that would be wanting!\"\n\n\"You may perhaps even believe you're safe--from wishing to be. But\nyou're not,\" the young man went on as if preparing himself for the\nworst.\n\n\"Very well then. We'll put it that I'm not safe. Have it as you please.\"\n\n\"I don't know, however,\" said Caspar Goodwood, \"that my keeping you in\nsight would prevent it.\"\n\n\"Don't you indeed? I'm after all very much afraid of you. Do you think\nI'm so very easily pleased?\" she asked suddenly, changing her tone.\n\n\"No--I don't; I shall try to console myself with that. But there are a\ncertain number of very dazzling men in the world, no doubt; and if there\nwere only one it would be enough. The most dazzling of all will make\nstraight for you. You'll be sure to take no one who isn't dazzling.\"\n\n\"If you mean by dazzling brilliantly clever,\" Isabel said--\"and I can't\nimagine what else you mean--I don't need the aid of a clever man to\nteach me how to live. I can find it out for myself.\"\n\n\"Find out how to live alone? I wish that, when you have, you'd teach\nme!\"\n\nShe looked at him a moment; then with a quick smile, \"Oh, you ought to\nmarry!\" she said.\n\nHe might be pardoned if for an instant this exclamation seemed to him\nto sound the infernal note, and it is not on record that her motive for\ndischarging such a shaft had been of the clearest. He oughtn't to stride\nabout lean and hungry, however--she certainly felt THAT for him. \"God\nforgive you!\" he murmured between his teeth as he turned away.\n\nHer accent had put her slightly in the wrong, and after a moment she\nfelt the need to right herself. The easiest way to do it was to place\nhim where she had been. \"You do me great injustice--you say what you\ndon't know!\" she broke out. \"I shouldn't be an easy victim--I've proved\nit.\"\n\n\"Oh, to me, perfectly.\"\n\n\"I've proved it to others as well.\" And she paused a moment. \"I refused\na proposal of marriage last week; what they call--no doubt--a dazzling\none.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad to hear it,\" said the young man gravely.\n\n\"It was a proposal many girls would have accepted; it had everything to\nrecommend it.\" Isabel had not proposed to herself to tell this story,\nbut, now she had begun, the satisfaction of speaking it out and doing\nherself justice took possession of her. \"I was offered a great position\nand a great fortune--by a person whom I like extremely.\"\n\nCaspar watched her with intense interest. \"Is he an Englishman?\"\n\n\"He's an English nobleman,\" said Isabel.\n\nHer visitor received this announcement at first in silence, but at last\nsaid: \"I'm glad he's disappointed.\"\n\n\"Well then, as you have companions in misfortune, make the best of it.\"\n\n\"I don't call him a companion,\" said Casper grimly.\n\n\"Why not--since I declined his offer absolutely?\"\n\n\"That doesn't make him my companion. Besides, he's an Englishman.\"\n\n\"And pray isn't an Englishman a human being?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Oh, those people? They're not of my humanity, and I don't care what\nbecomes of them.\"\n\n\"You're very angry,\" said the girl. \"We've discussed this matter quite\nenough.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I'm very angry. I plead guilty to that!\"\n\nShe turned away from him, walked to the open window and stood a moment\nlooking into the dusky void of the street, where a turbid gaslight\nalone represented social animation. For some time neither of these young\npersons spoke; Caspar lingered near the chimney-piece with eyes gloomily\nattached. She had virtually requested him to go--he knew that; but at\nthe risk of making himself odious he kept his ground. She was far too\ndear to him to be easily renounced, and he had crossed the sea all to\nwring from her some scrap of a vow. Presently she left the window and\nstood again before him. \"You do me very little justice--after my telling\nyou what I told you just now. I'm sorry I told you--since it matters so\nlittle to you.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the young man, \"if you were thinking of ME when you did it!\"\nAnd then he paused with the fear that she might contradict so happy a\nthought.\n\n\"I was thinking of you a little,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"A little? I don't understand. If the knowledge of what I feel for you\nhad any weight with you at all, calling it a 'little' is a poor account\nof it.\"\n\nIsabel shook her head as if to carry off a blunder. \"I've refused a most\nkind, noble gentleman. Make the most of that.\"\n\n\"I thank you then,\" said Caspar Goodwood gravely. \"I thank you\nimmensely.\"\n\n\"And now you had better go home.\"\n\n\"May I not see you again?\" he asked.\n\n\"I think it's better not. You'll be sure to talk of this, and you see it\nleads to nothing.\"\n\n\"I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you.\"\n\nIsabel reflected and then answered: \"I return in a day or two to my\nuncle's, and I can't propose to you to come there. It would be too\ninconsistent.\"\n\nCaspar Goodwood, on his side, considered. \"You must do me justice too.\nI received an invitation to your uncle's more than a week ago, and I\ndeclined it.\"\n\nShe betrayed surprise. \"From whom was your invitation?\"\n\n\"From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cousin. I declined\nit because I had not your authorisation to accept it. The suggestion\nthat Mr. Touchett should invite me appeared to have come from Miss\nStackpole.\"\n\n\"It certainly never did from me. Henrietta really goes very far,\" Isabel\nadded.\n\n\"Don't be too hard on her--that touches ME.\"\n\n\"No; if you declined you did quite right, and I thank you for it.\" And\nshe gave a little shudder of dismay at the thought that Lord Warburton\nand Mr. Goodwood might have met at Gardencourt: it would have been so\nawkward for Lord Warburton.\n\n\"When you leave your uncle where do you go?\" her companion asked.\n\n\"I go abroad with my aunt--to Florence and other places.\"\n\nThe serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young man's\nheart; he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from which he was\ninexorably excluded. Nevertheless he went on quickly with his questions.\n\"And when shall you come back to America?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not for a long time. I'm very happy here.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to give up your country?\"\n\n\"Don't be an infant!\"\n\n\"Well, you'll be out of my sight indeed!\" said Caspar Goodwood.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she answered rather grandly. \"The world--with all these\nplaces so arranged and so touching each other--comes to strike one as\nrather small.\"\n\n\"It's a sight too big for ME!\" Caspar exclaimed with a simplicity\nour young lady might have found touching if her face had not been set\nagainst concessions.\n\nThis attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had lately\nembraced, and to be thorough she said after a moment: \"Don't think me\nunkind if I say it's just THAT--being out of your sight--that I like.\nIf you were in the same place I should feel you were watching me, and I\ndon't like that--I like my liberty too much. If there's a thing in the\nworld I'm fond of,\" she went on with a slight recurrence of grandeur,\n\"it's my personal independence.\"\n\nBut whatever there might be of the too superior in this speech moved\nCaspar Goodwood's admiration; there was nothing he winced at in the\nlarge air of it. He had never supposed she hadn't wings and the need of\nbeautiful free movements--he wasn't, with his own long arms and strides,\nafraid of any force in her. Isabel's words, if they had been meant to\nshock him, failed of the mark and only made him smile with the sense\nthat here was common ground. \"Who would wish less to curtail your\nliberty than I? What can give me greater pleasure than to see you\nperfectly independent--doing whatever you like? It's to make you\nindependent that I want to marry you.\"\n\n\"That's a beautiful sophism,\" said the girl with a smile more beautiful\nstill.\n\n\"An unmarried woman--a girl of your age--isn't independent. There are\nall sorts of things she can't do. She's hampered at every step.\"\n\n\"That's as she looks at the question,\" Isabel answered with much spirit.\n\"I'm not in my first youth--I can do what I choose--I belong quite to\nthe independent class. I've neither father nor mother; I'm poor and of\na serious disposition; I'm not pretty. I therefore am not bound to be\ntimid and conventional; indeed I can't afford such luxuries. Besides,\nI try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, I think, is more\nhonourable than not to judge at all. I don't wish to be a mere sheep in\nthe flock; I wish to choose my fate and know something of human affairs\nbeyond what other people think it compatible with propriety to tell me.\"\nShe paused a moment, but not long enough for her companion to reply. He\nwas apparently on the point of doing so when she went on: \"Let me say\nthis to you, Mr. Goodwood. You're so kind as to speak of being afraid of\nmy marrying. If you should hear a rumour that I'm on the point of doing\nso--girls are liable to have such things said about them--remember what\nI have told you about my love of liberty and venture to doubt it.\"\n\nThere was something passionately positive in the tone in which she gave\nhim this advice, and he saw a shining candour in her eyes that helped\nhim to believe her. On the whole he felt reassured, and you might have\nperceived it by the manner in which he said, quite eagerly: \"You want\nsimply to travel for two years? I'm quite willing to wait two years, and\nyou may do what you like in the interval. If that's all you want,\npray say so. I don't want you to be conventional; do I strike you as\nconventional myself? Do you want to improve your mind? Your mind's quite\ngood enough for me; but if it interests you to wander about a while and\nsee different countries I shall be delighted to help you in any way in\nmy power.\"\n\n\"You're very generous; that's nothing new to me. The best way to help me\nwill be to put as many hundred miles of sea between us as possible.\"\n\n\"One would think you were going to commit some atrocity!\" said Caspar\nGoodwood.\n\n\"Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that if the fancy takes me.\"\n\n\"Well then,\" he said slowly, \"I'll go home.\" And he put out his hand,\ntrying to look contented and confident.\n\nIsabel's confidence in him, however, was greater than any he could feel\nin her. Not that he thought her capable of committing an atrocity; but,\nturn it over as he would, there was something ominous in the way she\nreserved her option. As she took his hand she felt a great respect for\nhim; she knew how much he cared for her and she thought him magnanimous.\nThey stood so for a moment, looking at each other, united by a\nhand-clasp which was not merely passive on her side. \"That's right,\"\nshe said very kindly, almost tenderly. \"You'll lose nothing by being a\nreasonable man.\"\n\n\"But I'll come back, wherever you are, two years hence,\" he returned\nwith characteristic grimness.\n\nWe have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at this she\nsuddenly changed her note. \"Ah, remember, I promise nothing--absolutely\nnothing!\" Then more softly, as if to help him to leave her: \"And\nremember too that I shall not be an easy victim!\"\n\n\"You'll get very sick of your independence.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I shall; it's even very probable. When that day comes I shall\nbe very glad to see you.\"\n\nShe had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into her room,\nand she waited a moment to see whether her visitor would not take his\ndeparture. But he appeared unable to move; there was still an immense\nunwillingness in his attitude and a sore remonstrance in his eyes. \"I\nmust leave you now,\" said Isabel; and she opened the door and passed\ninto the other room.\n\nThis apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by a vague\nradiance sent up through the window from the court of the hotel, and\nIsabel could make out the masses of the furniture, the dim shining of\nthe mirror and the looming of the big four-posted bed. She stood still a\nmoment, listening, and at last she heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of\nthe sitting-room and close the door behind him. She stood still a little\nlonger, and then, by an irresistible impulse, dropped on her knees\nbefore her bed and hid her face in her arms.\n\n\n\n\n\nShe was not praying; she was trembling--trembling all over. Vibration\nwas easy to her, was in fact too constant with her, and she found\nherself now humming like a smitten harp. She only asked, however, to put\non the cover, to case herself again in brown holland, but she wished to\nresist her excitement, and the attitude of devotion, which she kept for\nsome time, seemed to help her to be still. She intensely rejoiced that\nCaspar Goodwood was gone; there was something in having thus got rid of\nhim that was like the payment, for a stamped receipt, of some debt\ntoo long on her mind. As she felt the glad relief she bowed her head a\nlittle lower; the sense was there, throbbing in her heart; it was part\nof her emotion, but it was a thing to be ashamed of--it was profane and\nout of place. It was not for some ten minutes that she rose from her\nknees, and even when she came back to the sitting-room her tremor had\nnot quite subsided. It had had, verily, two causes: part of it was to be\naccounted for by her long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but it might be\nfeared that the rest was simply the enjoyment she found in the exercise\nof her power. She sat down in the same chair again and took up her book,\nbut without going through the form of opening the volume. She leaned\nback, with that low, soft, aspiring murmur with which she often\nuttered her response to accidents of which the brighter side was not\nsuperficially obvious, and yielded to the satisfaction of having refused\ntwo ardent suitors in a fortnight. That love of liberty of which she\nhad given Caspar Goodwood so bold a sketch was as yet almost exclusively\ntheoretic; she had not been able to indulge it on a large scale. But it\nappeared to her she had done something; she had tasted of the delight,\nif not of battle, at least of victory; she had done what was truest to\nher plan. In the glow of this consciousness the image of Mr. Goodwood\ntaking his sad walk homeward through the dingy town presented itself\nwith a certain reproachful force; so that, as at the same moment the\ndoor of the room was opened, she rose with an apprehension that he\nhad come back. But it was only Henrietta Stackpole returning from her\ndinner.\n\nMiss Stackpole immediately saw that our young lady had been \"through\"\nsomething, and indeed the discovery demanded no great penetration. She\nwent straight up to her friend, who received her without a greeting.\nIsabel's elation in having sent Caspar Goodwood back to America\npresupposed her being in a manner glad he had come to see her; but at\nthe same time she perfectly remembered Henrietta had had no right to set\na trap for her. \"Has he been here, dear?\" the latter yearningly asked.\n\nIsabel turned away and for some moments answered nothing. \"You acted\nvery wrongly,\" she declared at last.\n\n\"I acted for the best. I only hope you acted as well.\"\n\n\"You're not the judge. I can't trust you,\" said Isabel.\n\nThis declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much too unselfish\nto heed the charge it conveyed; she cared only for what it intimated\nwith regard to her friend. \"Isabel Archer,\" she observed with equal\nabruptness and solemnity, \"if you marry one of these people I'll never\nspeak to you again!\"\n\n\"Before making so terrible a threat you had better wait till I'm asked,\"\nIsabel replied. Never having said a word to Miss Stackpole about Lord\nWarburton's overtures, she had now no impulse whatever to justify\nherself to Henrietta by telling her that she had refused that nobleman.\n\n\"Oh, you'll be asked quick enough, once you get off on the Continent.\nAnnie Climber was asked three times in Italy--poor plain little Annie.\"\n\n\"Well, if Annie Climber wasn't captured why should I be?\"\n\n\"I don't believe Annie was pressed; but you'll be.\"\n\n\"That's a flattering conviction,\" said Isabel without alarm.\n\n\"I don't flatter you, Isabel, I tell you the truth!\" cried her friend.\n\"I hope you don't mean to tell me that you didn't give Mr. Goodwood some\nhope.\"\n\n\"I don't see why I should tell you anything; as I said to you just now,\nI can't trust you. But since you're so much interested in Mr. Goodwood I\nwon't conceal from you that he returns immediately to America.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say you've sent him off?\" Henrietta almost shrieked.\n\n\"I asked him to leave me alone; and I ask you the same, Henrietta.\" Miss\nStackpole glittered for an instant with dismay, and then passed to the\nmirror over the chimney-piece and took off her bonnet. \"I hope you've\nenjoyed your dinner,\" Isabel went on.\n\nBut her companion was not to be diverted by frivolous propositions. \"Do\nyou know where you're going, Isabel Archer?\"\n\n\"Just now I'm going to bed,\" said Isabel with persistent frivolity.\n\n\"Do you know where you're drifting?\" Henrietta pursued, holding out her\nbonnet delicately.\n\n\"No, I haven't the least idea, and I find it very pleasant not to know.\nA swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads\nthat one can't see--that's my idea of happiness.\"\n\n\"Mr. Goodwood certainly didn't teach you to say such things as\nthat--like the heroine of an immoral novel,\" said Miss Stackpole.\n\"You're drifting to some great mistake.\"\n\nIsabel was irritated by her friend's interference, yet she still tried\nto think what truth this declaration could represent. She could think\nof nothing that diverted her from saying: \"You must be very fond of me,\nHenrietta, to be willing to be so aggressive.\"\n\n\"I love you intensely, Isabel,\" said Miss Stackpole with feeling.\n\n\"Well, if you love me intensely let me as intensely alone. I asked that\nof Mr. Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you.\"\n\n\"Take care you're not let alone too much.\"\n\n\"That's what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him I must take the risks.\"\n\n\"You're a creature of risks--you make me shudder!\" cried Henrietta.\n\"When does Mr. Goodwood return to America?\"\n\n\"I don't know--he didn't tell me.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you didn't enquire,\" said Henrietta with the note of righteous\nirony.\n\n\"I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask questions\nof him.\"\n\nThis assertion seemed to Miss Stackpole for a moment to bid defiance to\ncomment; but at last she exclaimed: \"Well, Isabel, if I didn't know you\nI might think you were heartless!\"\n\n\"Take care,\" said Isabel; \"you're spoiling me.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I've done that already. I hope, at least,\" Miss Stackpole\nadded, \"that he may cross with Annie Climber!\"\n\nIsabel learned from her the next morning that she had determined not to\nreturn to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchett had promised her a renewed\nwelcome), but to await in London the arrival of the invitation that Mr.\nBantling had promised her from his sister Lady Pensil. Miss Stackpole\nrelated very freely her conversation with Ralph Touchett's sociable\nfriend and declared to Isabel that she really believed she had now got\nhold of something that would lead to something. On the receipt of Lady\nPensil's letter--Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed the arrival of\nthis document--she would immediately depart for Bedfordshire, and if\nIsabel cared to look out for her impressions in the Interviewer\nshe would certainly find them. Henrietta was evidently going to see\nsomething of the inner life this time.\n\n\"Do you know where you're drifting, Henrietta Stackpole?\" Isabel asked,\nimitating the tone in which her friend had spoken the night before.\n\n\"I'm drifting to a big position--that of the Queen of American\nJournalism. If my next letter isn't copied all over the West I'll\nswallow my penwiper!\"\n\nShe had arranged with her friend Miss Annie Climber, the young lady\nof the continental offers, that they should go together to make\nthose purchases which were to constitute Miss Climber's farewell to a\nhemisphere in which she at least had been appreciated; and she presently\nrepaired to Jermyn Street to pick up her companion. Shortly after her\ndeparture Ralph Touchett was announced, and as soon as he came in Isabel\nsaw he had something on his mind. He very soon took his cousin into his\nconfidence. He had received from his mother a telegram to the effect\nthat his father had had a sharp attack of his old malady, that she\nwas much alarmed and that she begged he would instantly return to\nGardencourt. On this occasion at least Mrs. Touchett's devotion to the\nelectric wire was not open to criticism.\n\n\"I've judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir Matthew Hope,\nfirst,\" Ralph said; \"by great good luck he's in town. He's to see me\nat half-past twelve, and I shall make sure of his coming down to\nGardencourt--which he will do the more readily as he has already seen\nmy father several times, both there and in London. There's an express\nat two-forty-five, which I shall take; and you'll come back with me or\nremain here a few days longer, exactly as you prefer.\"\n\n\"I shall certainly go with you,\" Isabel returned. \"I don't suppose I can\nbe of any use to my uncle, but if he's ill I shall like to be near him.\"\n\n\"I think you're fond of him,\" said Ralph with a certain shy pleasure\nin his face. \"You appreciate him, which all the world hasn't done. The\nquality's too fine.\"\n\n\"I quite adore him,\" Isabel after a moment said.\n\n\"That's very well. After his son he's your greatest admirer.\" She\nwelcomed this assurance, but she gave secretly a small sigh of relief\nat the thought that Mr. Touchett was one of those admirers who couldn't\npropose to marry her. This, however, was not what she spoke; she went on\nto inform Ralph that there were other reasons for her not remaining in\nLondon. She was tired of it and wished to leave it; and then Henrietta\nwas going away--going to stay in Bedfordshire.\n\n\"In Bedfordshire?\"\n\n\"With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has answered for an\ninvitation.\"\n\nRalph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh. Suddenly,\nnone the less, his gravity returned. \"Bantling's a man of courage. But\nif the invitation should get lost on the way?\"\n\n\"I thought the British post-office was impeccable.\"\n\n\"The good Homer sometimes nods,\" said Ralph. \"However,\" he went on more\nbrightly, \"the good Bantling never does, and, whatever happens, he'll\ntake care of Henrietta.\"\n\nRalph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope, and Isabel\nmade her arrangements for quitting Pratt's Hotel. Her uncle's danger\ntouched her nearly, and while she stood before her open trunk, looking\nabout her vaguely for what she should put into it, the tears suddenly\nrose to her eyes. It was perhaps for this reason that when Ralph came\nback at two o'clock to take her to the station she was not yet ready. He\nfound Miss Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where she had just\nrisen from her luncheon, and this lady immediately expressed her regret\nat his father's illness.\n\n\"He's a grand old man,\" she said; \"he's faithful to the last. If it's\nreally to be the last--pardon my alluding to it, but you must often\nhave thought of the possibility--I'm sorry that I shall not be at\nGardencourt.\"\n\n\"You'll amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire.\"\n\n\"I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time,\" said Henrietta\nwith much propriety. But she immediately added: \"I should like so to\ncommemorate the closing scene.\"\n\n\"My father may live a long time,\" said Ralph simply. Then, adverting\nto topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss Stackpole as to her own\nfuture.\n\nNow that Ralph was in trouble she addressed him in a tone of larger\nallowance and told him that she was much indebted to him for having made\nher acquainted with Mr. Bantling. \"He has told me just the things I\nwant to know,\" she said; \"all the society items and all about the royal\nfamily. I can't make out that what he tells me about the royal family is\nmuch to their credit; but he says that's only my peculiar way of looking\nat it. Well, all I want is that he should give me the facts; I can put\nthem together quick enough, once I've got them.\" And she added that Mr.\nBantling had been so good as to promise to come and take her out that\nafternoon.\n\n\"To take you where?\" Ralph ventured to enquire.\n\n\"To Buckingham Palace. He's going to show me over it, so that I may get\nsome idea how they live.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Ralph, \"we leave you in good hands. The first thing we shall\nhear is that you're invited to Windsor Castle.\"\n\n\"If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I'm not\nafraid. But for all that,\" Henrietta added in a moment, \"I'm not\nsatisfied; I'm not at peace about Isabel.\"\n\n\"What is her last misdemeanour?\"\n\n\"Well, I've told you before, and I suppose there's no harm in my going\non. I always finish a subject that I take up. Mr. Goodwood was here last\nnight.\"\n\nRalph opened his eyes; he even blushed a little--his blush being\nthe sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered that Isabel, in\nseparating from him in Winchester Square, had repudiated his suggestion\nthat her motive in doing so was the expectation of a visitor at Pratt's\nHotel, and it was a new pang to him to have to suspect her of duplicity.\nOn the other hand, he quickly said to himself, what concern was it of\nhis that she should have made an appointment with a lover? Had it not\nbeen thought graceful in every age that young ladies should make a\nmystery of such appointments? Ralph gave Miss Stackpole a diplomatic\nanswer. \"I should have thought that, with the views you expressed to me\nthe other day, this would satisfy you perfectly.\"\n\n\"That he should come to see her? That was very well, as far as it went.\nIt was a little plot of mine; I let him know that we were in London, and\nwhen it had been arranged that I should spend the evening out I sent him\na word--the word we just utter to the 'wise.' I hoped he would find her\nalone; I won't pretend I didn't hope that you'd be out of the way. He\ncame to see her, but he might as well have stayed away.\"\n\n\"Isabel was cruel?\"--and Ralph's face lighted with the relief of his\ncousin's not having shown duplicity.\n\n\"I don't exactly know what passed between them. But she gave him no\nsatisfaction--she sent him back to America.\"\n\n\"Poor Mr. Goodwood!\" Ralph sighed.\n\n\"Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him,\" Henrietta went on.\n\n\"Poor Mr. Goodwood!\" Ralph repeated. The exclamation, it must be\nconfessed, was automatic; it failed exactly to express his thoughts,\nwhich were taking another line.\n\n\"You don't say that as if you felt it. I don't believe you care.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Ralph, \"you must remember that I don't know this interesting\nyoung man--that I've never seen him.\"\n\n\"Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up. If I didn't\nbelieve Isabel would come round,\" Miss Stackpole added--\"well, I'd give\nup myself. I mean I'd give HER up!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nIt had occurred to Ralph that, in the conditions, Isabel's parting with\nher friend might be of a slightly embarrassed nature, and he went down\nto the door of the hotel in advance of his cousin, who, after a slight\ndelay, followed with the traces of an unaccepted remonstrance, as he\nthought, in her eyes. The two made the journey to Gardencourt in almost\nunbroken silence, and the servant who met them at the station had no\nbetter news to give them of Mr. Touchett--a fact which caused Ralph to\ncongratulate himself afresh on Sir Matthew Hope's having promised to\ncome down in the five o'clock train and spend the night. Mrs. Touchett,\nhe learned, on reaching home, had been constantly with the old man and\nwas with him at that moment; and this fact made Ralph say to himself\nthat, after all, what his mother wanted was just easy occasion. The\nfiner natures were those that shone at the larger times. Isabel went to\nher own room, noting throughout the house that perceptible hush which\nprecedes a crisis. At the end of an hour, however, she came downstairs\nin search of her aunt, whom she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. She\nwent into the library, but Mrs. Touchett was not there, and as the\nweather, which had been damp and chill, was now altogether spoiled, it\nwas not probable she had gone for her usual walk in the grounds. Isabel\nwas on the point of ringing to send a question to her room, when this\npurpose quickly yielded to an unexpected sound--the sound of low music\nproceeding apparently from the saloon. She knew her aunt never touched\nthe piano, and the musician was therefore probably Ralph, who played for\nhis own amusement. That he should have resorted to this recreation at\nthe present time indicated apparently that his anxiety about his father\nhad been relieved; so that the girl took her way, almost with restored\ncheer, toward the source of the harmony. The drawing-room at Gardencourt\nwas an apartment of great distances, and, as the piano was placed at\nthe end of it furthest removed from the door at which she entered, her\narrival was not noticed by the person seated before the instrument.\nThis person was neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady whom\nIsabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, though her back was\npresented to the door. This back--an ample and well-dressed one--Isabel\nviewed for some moments with surprise. The lady was of course a visitor\nwho had arrived during her absence and who had not been mentioned by\neither of the servants--one of them her aunt's maid--of whom she had had\nspeech since her return. Isabel had already learned, however, with\nwhat treasures of reserve the function of receiving orders may be\naccompanied, and she was particularly conscious of having been treated\nwith dryness by her aunt's maid, through whose hands she had slipped\nperhaps a little too mistrustfully and with an effect of plumage but\nthe more lustrous. The advent of a guest was in itself far from\ndisconcerting; she had not yet divested herself of a young faith that\neach new acquaintance would exert some momentous influence on her life.\nBy the time she had made these reflexions she became aware that the\nlady at the piano played remarkably well. She was playing something\nof Schubert's--Isabel knew not what, but recognised Schubert--and she\ntouched the piano with a discretion of her own. It showed skill, it\nshowed feeling; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the nearest chair and\nwaited till the end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a strong\ndesire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at\nthe same time the stranger turned quickly round, as if but just aware of\nher presence.\n\n\"That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful still,\"\nsaid Isabel with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered a\ntruthful rapture.\n\n\"You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?\" the musician answered\nas sweetly as this compliment deserved. \"The house is so large and his\nroom so far away that I thought I might venture, especially as I played\njust--just du bout des doigts.\"\n\n\"She's a Frenchwoman,\" Isabel said to herself; \"she says that as if she\nwere French.\" And this supposition made the visitor more interesting to\nour speculative heroine. \"I hope my uncle's doing well,\" Isabel added.\n\"I should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really make\nhim feel better.\"\n\nThe lady smiled and discriminated. \"I'm afraid there are moments in life\nwhen even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however,\nthat they are our worst.\"\n\n\"I'm not in that state now then,\" said Isabel. \"On the contrary I should\nbe so glad if you would play something more.\"\n\n\"If it will give you pleasure--delighted.\" And this obliging person took\nher place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel sat down nearer\nthe instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped with her hands on the\nkeys, half-turning and looking over her shoulder. She was forty years\nold and not pretty, though her expression charmed. \"Pardon me,\" she\nsaid; \"but are you the niece--the young American?\"\n\n\"I'm my aunt's niece,\" Isabel replied with simplicity.\n\nThe lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air of\ninterest over her shoulder. \"That's very well; we're compatriots.\" And\nthen she began to play.\n\n\"Ah then she's not French,\" Isabel murmured; and as the opposite\nsupposition had made her romantic it might have seemed that this\nrevelation would have marked a drop. But such was not the fact; rarer\neven than to be French seemed it to be American on such interesting\nterms.\n\nThe lady played in the same manner as before, softly and solemnly, and\nwhile she played the shadows deepened in the room. The autumn twilight\ngathered in, and from her place Isabel could see the rain, which had now\nbegun in earnest, washing the cold-looking lawn and the wind shaking the\ngreat trees. At last, when the music had ceased, her companion got up\nand, coming nearer with a smile, before Isabel had time to thank her\nagain, said: \"I'm very glad you've come back; I've heard a great deal\nabout you.\"\n\nIsabel thought her a very attractive person, but nevertheless spoke with\na certain abruptness in reply to this speech. \"From whom have you heard\nabout me?\"\n\nThe stranger hesitated a single moment and then, \"From your uncle,\" she\nanswered. \"I've been here three days, and the first day he let me come\nand pay him a visit in his room. Then he talked constantly of you.\"\n\n\"As you didn't know me that must rather have bored you.\"\n\n\"It made me want to know you. All the more that since then--your aunt\nbeing so much with Mr. Touchett--I've been quite alone and have got\nrather tired of my own society. I've not chosen a good moment for my\nvisit.\"\n\nA servant had come in with lamps and was presently followed by another\nbearing the tea-tray. On the appearance of this repast Mrs. Touchett had\napparently been notified, for she now arrived and addressed herself to\nthe tea-pot. Her greeting to her niece did not differ materially from\nher manner of raising the lid of this receptacle in order to glance at\nthe contents: in neither act was it becoming to make a show of avidity.\nQuestioned about her husband she was unable to say he was better; but\nthe local doctor was with him, and much light was expected from this\ngentleman's consultation with Sir Matthew Hope.\n\n\"I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance,\" she pursued. \"If you\nhaven't I recommend you to do so; for so long as we continue--Ralph and\nI--to cluster about Mr. Touchett's bed you're not likely to have much\nsociety but each other.\"\n\n\"I know nothing about you but that you're a great musician,\" Isabel said\nto the visitor.\n\n\"There's a good deal more than that to know,\" Mrs. Touchett affirmed in\nher little dry tone.\n\n\"A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer!\" the lady\nexclaimed with a light laugh. \"I'm an old friend of your aunt's.\nI've lived much in Florence. I'm Madame Merle.\" She made this last\nannouncement as if she were referring to a person of tolerably distinct\nidentity. For Isabel, however, it represented little; she could only\ncontinue to feel that Madame Merle had as charming a manner as any she\nhad ever encountered.\n\n\"She's not a foreigner in spite of her name,\" said Mrs. Touchett.\n\n\"She was born--I always forget where you were born.\"\n\n\"It's hardly worth while then I should tell you.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" said Mrs. Touchett, who rarely missed a logical\npoint; \"if I remembered your telling me would be quite superfluous.\"\n\nMadame Merle glanced at Isabel with a sort of world-wide smile, a\nthing that over-reached frontiers. \"I was born under the shadow of the\nnational banner.\"\n\n\"She's too fond of mystery,\" said Mrs. Touchett; \"that's her great\nfault.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" exclaimed Madame Merle, \"I've great faults, but I don't think\nthat's one of then; it certainly isn't the greatest. I came into the\nworld in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a high officer in the\nUnited States Navy, and had a post--a post of responsibility--in that\nestablishment at the time. I suppose I ought to love the sea, but I hate\nit. That's why I don't return to America. I love the land; the great\nthing is to love something.\"\n\nIsabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with the\nforce of Mrs. Touchett's characterisation of her visitor, who had an\nexpressive, communicative, responsive face, by no means of the sort\nwhich, to Isabel's mind, suggested a secretive disposition. It was a\nface that told of an amplitude of nature and of quick and free motions\nand, though it had no regular beauty, was in the highest degree engaging\nand attaching. Madame Merle was a tall, fair, smooth woman; everything\nin her person was round and replete, though without those accumulations\nwhich suggest heaviness. Her features were thick but in perfect\nproportion and harmony, and her complexion had a healthy clearness.\nHer grey eyes were small but full of light and incapable of\nstupidity--incapable, according to some people, even of tears; she had\na liberal, full-rimmed mouth which when she smiled drew itself upward to\nthe left side in a manner that most people thought very odd, some very\naffected and a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range herself in\nthe last category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair, arranged somehow\n\"classically\" and as if she were a Bust, Isabel judged--a Juno or a\nNiobe; and large white hands, of a perfect shape, a shape so perfect\nthat their possessor, preferring to leave them unadorned, wore no\njewelled rings. Isabel had taken her at first, as we have seen, for\na Frenchwoman; but extended observation might have ranked her as a\nGerman--a German of high degree, perhaps an Austrian, a baroness, a\ncountess, a princess. It would never have been supposed she had come\ninto the world in Brooklyn--though one could doubtless not have carried\nthrough any argument that the air of distinction marking her in so\neminent a degree was inconsistent with such a birth. It was true that\nthe national banner had floated immediately over her cradle, and the\nbreezy freedom of the stars and stripes might have shed an influence\nupon the attitude she there took towards life. And yet she had evidently\nnothing of the fluttered, flapping quality of a morsel of bunting in the\nwind; her manner expressed the repose and confidence which come from a\nlarge experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth; it\nhad simply made her sympathetic and supple. She was in a word a woman of\nstrong impulses kept in admirable order. This commended itself to Isabel\nas an ideal combination.\n\nThe girl made these reflexions while the three ladies sat at their tea,\nbut that ceremony was interrupted before long by the arrival of the\ngreat doctor from London, who had been immediately ushered into the\ndrawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to the library for a private\ntalk; and then Madame Merle and Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner.\nThe idea of seeing more of this interesting woman did much to mitigate\nIsabel's sense of the sadness now settling on Gardencourt.\n\nWhen she came into the drawing-room before dinner she found the place\nempty; but in the course of a moment Ralph arrived. His anxiety about\nhis father had been lightened; Sir Matthew Hope's view of his condition\nwas less depressed than his own had been. The doctor recommended that\nthe nurse alone should remain with the old man for the next three or\nfour hours; so that Ralph, his mother and the great physician himself\nwere free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthew appeared;\nMadame Merle was the last.\n\nBefore she came Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was standing before\nthe fireplace. \"Pray who is this Madame Merle?\"\n\n\"The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"I thought she seemed very pleasant.\"\n\n\"I was sure you'd think her very pleasant.\"\n\n\"Is that why you invited her?\"\n\n\"I didn't invite her, and when we came back from London I didn't know\nshe was here. No one invited her. She's a friend of my mother's, and\njust after you and I went to town my mother got a note from her. She had\narrived in England (she usually lives abroad, though she has first and\nlast spent a good deal of time here), and asked leave to come down for\na few days. She's a woman who can make such proposals with perfect\nconfidence; she's so welcome wherever she goes. And with my mother there\ncould be no question of hesitating; she's the one person in the world\nwhom my mother very much admires. If she were not herself (which she\nafter all much prefers), she would like to be Madame Merle. It would\nindeed be a great change.\"\n\n\"Well, she's very charming,\" said Isabel. \"And she plays beautifully.\"\n\n\"She does everything beautifully. She's complete.\"\n\nIsabel looked at her cousin a moment. \"You don't like her.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I was once in love with her.\"\n\n\"And she didn't care for you, and that's why you don't like her.\"\n\n\"How can we have discussed such things? Monsieur Merle was then living.\"\n\n\"Is he dead now?\"\n\n\"So she says.\"\n\n\"Don't you believe her?\"\n\n\"Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities. The husband\nof Madame Merle would be likely to pass away.\"\n\nIsabel gazed at her cousin again. \"I don't know what you mean. You mean\nsomething--that you don't mean. What was Monsieur Merle?\"\n\n\"The husband of Madame.\"\n\n\"You're very odious. Has she any children?\"\n\n\"Not the least little child--fortunately.\"\n\n\"Fortunately?\"\n\n\"I mean fortunately for the child. She'd be sure to spoil it.\"\n\nIsabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the third\ntime that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by the\narrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling in\nquickly, apologising for being late, fastening a bracelet, dressed in\ndark blue satin, which exposed a white bosom that was ineffectually\ncovered by a curious silver necklace. Ralph offered her his arm with the\nexaggerated alertness of a man who was no longer a lover.\n\nEven if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had other\nthings to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourt\nand, returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation with\nMr. Touchett's own medical adviser, concurred in Ralph's desire that he\nshould see the patient again on the day following. On the day following\nSir Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and now took a less\nencouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-four\nhours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son, who constantly sat\nby his bedside, it often seemed that his end must be at hand. The local\ndoctor, a very sagacious man, in whom Ralph had secretly more confidence\nthan in his distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and\nSir Matthew Hope came back several times. Mr. Touchett was much of the\ntime unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a\ngreat desire to be useful to him and was allowed to watch with him at\nhours when his other attendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the least\nregular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she always\nsaid to herself \"Suppose he should die while I'm sitting here;\" an idea\nwhich excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for a\nwhile and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she went to him,\nhoping he would recognise her, he closed them and relapsed into stupor.\nThe day after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on this\noccasion Ralph only was with him. The old man began to talk, much to his\nson's satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have him\nsitting up.\n\n\"No, my boy,\" said Mr. Touchett, \"not unless you bury me in a sitting\nposture, as some of the ancients--was it the ancients?--used to do.\"\n\n\"Ah, daddy, don't talk about that,\" Ralph murmured. \"You mustn't deny\nthat you're getting better.\"\n\n\"There will be no need of my denying it if you don't say it,\" the old\nman answered. \"Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We never\nprevaricated before. I've got to die some time, and it's better to die\nwhen one's sick than when one's well. I'm very sick--as sick as I shall\never be. I hope you don't want to prove that I shall ever be worse than\nthis? That would be too bad. You don't? Well then.\"\n\nHaving made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time that\nRalph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The\nnurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone in charge, having just\nrelieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was\nlighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary,\nand Ralph's tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with an\noutline constantly varying but always grotesque.\n\n\"Who's that with me--is it my son?\" the old man asked.\n\n\"Yes, it's your son, daddy.\"\n\n\"And is there no one else?\"\n\n\"No one else.\"\n\nMr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, \"I want to talk a\nlittle,\" he went on.\n\n\"Won't it tire you?\" Ralph demurred.\n\n\"It won't matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talk\nabout YOU.\"\n\nRalph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward with his hand\non his father's. \"You had better select a brighter topic.\"\n\n\"You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I should\nlike so much to think you'd do something.\"\n\n\"If you leave us,\" said Ralph, \"I shall do nothing but miss you.\"\n\n\"That's just what I don't want; it's what I want to talk about. You must\nget a new interest.\"\n\n\"I don't want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I know\nwhat to do with.\"\n\nThe old man lay there looking at his son; his face was the face of the\ndying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to be\nreckoning over Ralph's interests. \"Of course you have your mother,\" he\nsaid at last. \"You'll take care of her.\"\n\n\"My mother will always take care of herself,\" Ralph returned.\n\n\"Well,\" said his father, \"perhaps as she grows older she'll need a\nlittle help.\"\n\n\"I shall not see that. She'll outlive me.\"\n\n\"Very likely she will; but that's no reason--!\" Mr. Touchett let his\nphrase die away in a helpless but not quite querulous sigh and remained\nsilent again.\n\n\"Don't trouble yourself about us,\" said his son, \"My mother and I get on\nvery well together, you know.\"\n\n\"You get on by always being apart; that's not natural.\"\n\n\"If you leave us we shall probably see more of each other.\"\n\n\"Well,\" the old man observed with wandering irrelevance, \"it can't be\nsaid that my death will make much difference in your mother's life.\"\n\n\"It will probably make more than you think.\"\n\n\"Well, she'll have more money,\" said Mr. Touchett. \"I've left her a good\nwife's portion, just as if she had been a good wife.\"\n\n\"She has been one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has never\ntroubled you.\"\n\n\"Ah, some troubles are pleasant,\" Mr. Touchett murmured. \"Those you've\ngiven me for instance. But your mother has been less--less--what shall\nI call it? less out of the way since I've been ill. I presume she knows\nI've noticed it.\"\n\n\"I shall certainly tell her so; I'm so glad you mention it.\"\n\n\"It won't make any difference to her; she doesn't do it to please me.\nShe does it to please--to please--\" And he lay a while trying to think\nwhy she did it. \"She does it because it suits her. But that's not what\nI want to talk about,\" he added. \"It's about you. You'll be very well\noff.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Ralph, \"I know that. But I hope you've not forgotten the\ntalk we had a year ago--when I told you exactly what money I should need\nand begged you to make some good use of the rest.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will--in a few days. I suppose it\nwas the first time such a thing had happened--a young man trying to get\na will made against him.\"\n\n\"It is not against me,\" said Ralph. \"It would be against me to have a\nlarge property to take care of. It's impossible for a man in my state of\nhealth to spend much money, and enough is as good as a feast.\"\n\n\"Well, you'll have enough--and something over. There will be more than\nenough for one--there will be enough for two.\"\n\n\"That's too much,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Ah, don't say that. The best thing you can do; when I'm gone, will be\nto marry.\"\n\nRalph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this suggestion\nwas by no means fresh. It had long been Mr. Touchett's most ingenious\nway of taking the cheerful view of his son's possible duration. Ralph\nhad usually treated it facetiously; but present circumstances proscribed\nthe facetious. He simply fell back in his chair and returned his\nfather's appealing gaze.\n\n\"If I, with a wife who hasn't been very fond of me, have had a very\nhappy life,\" said the old man, carrying his ingenuity further still,\n\"what a life mightn't you have if you should marry a person different\nfrom Mrs. Touchett. There are more different from her than there are\nlike her.\" Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his father\nresumed softly: \"What do you think of your cousin?\"\n\nAt this Ralph started, meeting the question with a strained smile. \"Do I\nunderstand you to propose that I should marry Isabel?\"\n\n\"Well, that's what it comes to in the end. Don't you like Isabel?\"\n\n\"Yes, very much.\" And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered over to\nthe fire. He stood before it an instant and then he stooped and stirred\nit mechanically. \"I like Isabel very much,\" he repeated.\n\n\"Well,\" said his father, \"I know she likes you. She has told me how much\nshe likes you.\"\n\n\"Did she remark that she would like to marry me?\"\n\n\"No, but she can't have anything against you. And she's the most\ncharming young lady I've ever seen. And she would be good to you. I have\nthought a great deal about it.\"\n\n\"So have I,\" said Ralph, coming back to the bedside again. \"I don't mind\ntelling you that.\"\n\n\"You ARE in love with her then? I should think you would be. It's as if\nshe came over on purpose.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not in love with her; but I should be if--if certain things\nwere different.\"\n\n\"Ah, things are always different from what they might be,\" said the old\nman. \"If you wait for them to change you'll never do anything. I don't\nknow whether you know,\" he went on; \"but I suppose there's no harm in\nmy alluding to it at such an hour as this: there was some one wanted to\nmarry Isabel the other day, and she wouldn't have him.\"\n\n\"I know she refused Warburton: he told me himself.\"\n\n\"Well, that proves there's a chance for somebody else.\"\n\n\"Somebody else took his chance the other day in London--and got nothing\nby it.\"\n\n\"Was it you?\" Mr. Touchett eagerly asked.\n\n\"No, it was an older friend; a poor gentleman who came over from America\nto see about it.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm sorry for him, whoever he was. But it only proves what I\nsay--that the way's open to you.\"\n\n\"If it is, dear father, it's all the greater pity that I'm unable to\ntread it. I haven't many convictions; but I have three or four that I\nhold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not marry\ntheir cousins. Another is that people in an advanced stage of pulmonary\ndisorder had better not marry at all.\"\n\nThe old man raised his weak hand and moved it to and fro before his\nface. \"What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way that would\nmake everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin that you\nhad never seen for more than twenty years of her life? We're all each\nother's cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die out.\nIt's just the same with your bad lung. You're a great deal better than\nyou used to be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a great\ndeal more natural to marry a pretty young lady that you're in love with\nthan it is to remain single on false principles.\"\n\n\"I'm not in love with Isabel,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"You said just now that you would be if you didn't think it wrong. I\nwant to prove to you that it isn't wrong.\"\n\n\"It will only tire you, dear daddy,\" said Ralph, who marvelled at his\nfather's tenacity and at his finding strength to insist. \"Then where\nshall we all be?\"\n\n\"Where shall you be if I don't provide for you? You won't have anything\nto do with the bank, and you won't have me to take care of. You say\nyou've so many interests; but I can't make them out.\"\n\nRalph leaned back in his chair with folded arms; his eyes were fixed for\nsome time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly mustering\ncourage, \"I take a great interest in my cousin,\" he said, \"but not the\nsort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years; but I hope I\nshall live long enough to see what she does with herself. She's entirely\nindependent of me; I can exercise very little influence upon her life.\nBut I should like to do something for her.\"\n\n\"What should you like to do?\"\n\n\"I should like to put a little wind in her sails.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"I should like to put it into her power to do some of the things she\nwants. She wants to see the world for instance. I should like to put\nmoney in her purse.\"\n\n\"Ah, I'm glad you've thought of that,\" said the old man. \"But I've\nthought of it too. I've left her a legacy--five thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"That's capital; it's very kind of you. But I should like to do a little\nmore.\"\n\nSomething of that veiled acuteness with which it had been on Daniel\nTouchett's part the habit of a lifetime to listen to a financial\nproposition still lingered in the face in which the invalid had not\nobliterated the man of business. \"I shall be happy to consider it,\" he\nsaid softly.\n\n\"Isabel's poor then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundred\ndollars a year. I should like to make her rich.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by rich?\"\n\n\"I call people rich when they're able to meet the requirements of their\nimagination. Isabel has a great deal of imagination.\"\n\n\"So have you, my son,\" said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively but\na little confusedly.\n\n\"You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that you\nshould kindly relieve me of my superfluity and make it over to Isabel.\nDivide my inheritance into two equal halves and give her the second.\"\n\n\"To do what she likes with?\"\n\n\"Absolutely what she likes.\"\n\n\"And without an equivalent?\"\n\n\"What equivalent could there be?\"\n\n\"The one I've already mentioned.\"\n\n\"Her marrying--some one or other? It's just to do away with anything of\nthat sort that I make my suggestion. If she has an easy income she'll\nnever have to marry for a support. That's what I want cannily to\nprevent. She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make her free.\"\n\n\"Well, you seem to have thought it out,\" said Mr. Touchett. \"But I don't\nsee why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can easily\ngive it to her yourself.\"\n\nRalph openly stared. \"Ah, dear father, I can't offer Isabel money!\"\n\nThe old man gave a groan. \"Don't tell me you're not in love with her! Do\nyou want me to have the credit of it?\"\n\n\"Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will, without\nthe slightest reference to me.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to make a new will then?\"\n\n\"A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you feel a\nlittle lively.\"\n\n\"You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary then. I'll do nothing without my\nsolicitor.\"\n\n\"You shall see Mr. Hilary to-morrow.\"\n\n\"He'll think we've quarrelled, you and I,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Very probably; I shall like him to think it,\" said Ralph, smiling;\n\"and, to carry out the idea, I give you notice that I shall be very\nsharp, quite horrid and strange, with you.\"\n\nThe humour of this appeared to touch his father, who lay a little while\ntaking it in. \"I'll do anything you like,\" Mr. Touchett said at last;\n\"but I'm not sure it's right. You say you want to put wind in her sails;\nbut aren't you afraid of putting too much?\"\n\n\"I should like to see her going before the breeze!\" Ralph answered.\n\n\"You speak as if it were for your mere amusement.\"\n\n\"So it is, a good deal.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't think I understand,\" said Mr. Touchett with a sigh.\n\"Young men are very different from what I was. When I cared for a\ngirl--when I was young--I wanted to do more than look at her.\"\n\n\"You've scruples that I shouldn't have had, and you've ideas that I\nshouldn't have had either. You say Isabel wants to be free, and that\nher being rich will keep her from marrying for money. Do you think that\nshe's a girl to do that?\"\n\n\"By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before. Her\nfather then gave her everything, because he used to spend his capital.\nShe has nothing but the crumbs of that feast to live on, and she doesn't\nreally know how meagre they are--she has yet to learn it. My mother has\ntold me all about it. Isabel will learn it when she's really thrown upon\nthe world, and it would be very painful to me to think of her coming to\nthe consciousness of a lot of wants she should be unable to satisfy.\"\n\n\"I've left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a good many wants\nwith that.\"\n\n\"She can indeed. But she would probably spend it in two or three years.\"\n\n\"You think she'd be extravagant then?\"\n\n\"Most certainly,\" said Ralph, smiling serenely.\n\nPoor Mr. Touchett's acuteness was rapidly giving place to pure\nconfusion. \"It would merely be a question of time then, her spending the\nlarger sum?\"\n\n\"No--though at first I think she'd plunge into that pretty freely: she'd\nprobably make over a part of it to each of her sisters. But after that\nshe'd come to her senses, remember she has still a lifetime before her,\nand live within her means.\"\n\n\"Well, you HAVE worked it out,\" said the old man helplessly. \"You do\ntake an interest in her, certainly.\"\n\n\"You can't consistently say I go too far. You wished me to go further.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" Mr. Touchett answered. \"I don't think I enter into\nyour spirit. It seems to me immoral.\"\n\n\"Immoral, dear daddy?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know that it's right to make everything so easy for a\nperson.\"\n\n\"It surely depends upon the person. When the person's good, your making\nthings easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilitate the execution\nof good impulses, what can be a nobler act?\"\n\nThis was a little difficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett considered it\nfor a while. At last he said: \"Isabel's a sweet young thing; but do you\nthink she's so good as that?\"\n\n\"She's as good as her best opportunities,\" Ralph returned.\n\n\"Well,\" Mr. Touchett declared, \"she ought to get a great many\nopportunities for sixty thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt she will.\"\n\n\"Of course I'll do what you want,\" said the old man. \"I only want to\nunderstand it a little.\"\n\n\"Well, dear daddy, don't you understand it now?\" his son caressingly\nasked. \"If you don't we won't take any more trouble about it. We'll\nleave it alone.\"\n\nMr. Touchett lay a long time still. Ralph supposed he had given up the\nattempt to follow. But at last, quite lucidly, he began again. \"Tell\nme this first. Doesn't it occur to you that a young lady with sixty\nthousand pounds may fall a victim to the fortune-hunters?\"\n\n\"She'll hardly fall a victim to more than one.\"\n\n\"Well, one's too many.\"\n\n\"Decidedly. That's a risk, and it has entered into my calculation. I\nthink it's appreciable, but I think it's small, and I'm prepared to take\nit.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Touchett's acuteness had passed into perplexity, and his\nperplexity now passed into admiration. \"Well, you have gone into it!\" he\nrepeated. \"But I don't see what good you're to get of it.\"\n\nRalph leaned over his father's pillows and gently smoothed them; he was\naware their talk had been unduly prolonged. \"I shall get just the good\nI said a few moments ago I wished to put into Isabel's reach--that of\nhaving met the requirements of my imagination. But it's scandalous, the\nway I've taken advantage of you!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nAs Mrs. Touchett had foretold, Isabel and Madame Merle were thrown\nmuch together during the illness of their host, so that if they had\nnot become intimate it would have been almost a breach of good manners.\nTheir manners were of the best, but in addition to this they happened\nto please each other. It is perhaps too much to say that they swore\nan eternal friendship, but tacitly at least they called the future to\nwitness. Isabel did so with a perfectly good conscience, though she\nwould have hesitated to admit she was intimate with her new friend in\nthe high sense she privately attached to this term. She often wondered\nindeed if she ever had been, or ever could be, intimate with any one.\nShe had an ideal of friendship as well as of several other sentiments,\nwhich it failed to seem to her in this case--it had not seemed to her\nin other cases--that the actual completely expressed. But she often\nreminded herself that there were essential reasons why one's ideal\ncould never become concrete. It was a thing to believe in, not to see--a\nmatter of faith, not of experience. Experience, however, might supply\nus with very creditable imitations of it, and the part of wisdom was\nto make the best of these. Certainly, on the whole, Isabel had never\nencountered a more agreeable and interesting figure than Madame Merle;\nshe had never met a person having less of that fault which is the\nprincipal obstacle to friendship--the air of reproducing the more\ntiresome, the stale, the too-familiar parts of one's own character.\nThe gates of the girl's confidence were opened wider than they had ever\nbeen; she said things to this amiable auditress that she had not yet\nsaid to any one. Sometimes she took alarm at her candour: it was as\nif she had given to a comparative stranger the key to her cabinet of\njewels. These spiritual gems were the only ones of any magnitude that\nIsabel possessed, but there was all the greater reason for their being\ncarefully guarded. Afterwards, however, she always remembered that one\nshould never regret a generous error and that if Madame Merle had not\nthe merits she attributed to her, so much the worse for Madame Merle.\nThere was no doubt she had great merits--she was charming, sympathetic,\nintelligent, cultivated. More than this (for it had not been Isabel's\nill-fortune to go through life without meeting in her own sex several\npersons of whom no less could fairly be said), she was rare, superior\nand preeminent. There are many amiable people in the world, and Madame\nMerle was far from being vulgarly good-natured and restlessly witty. She\nknew how to think--an accomplishment rare in women; and she had thought\nto very good purpose. Of course, too, she knew how to feel; Isabel\ncouldn't have spent a week with her without being sure of that. This was\nindeed Madame Merle's great talent, her most perfect gift. Life had told\nupon her; she had felt it strongly, and it was part of the satisfaction\nto be taken in her society that when the girl talked of what she was\npleased to call serious matters this lady understood her so easily and\nquickly. Emotion, it is true, had become with her rather historic; she\nmade no secret of the fact that the fount of passion, thanks to having\nbeen rather violently tapped at one period, didn't flow quite so\nfreely as of yore. She proposed moreover, as well as expected, to cease\nfeeling; she freely admitted that of old she had been a little mad, and\nnow she pretended to be perfectly sane.\n\n\"I judge more than I used to,\" she said to Isabel, \"but it seems to me\none has earned the right. One can't judge till one's forty; before that\nwe're too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much too ignorant.\nI'm sorry for you; it will be a long time before you're forty. But every\ngain's a loss of some kind; I often think that after forty one can't\nreally feel. The freshness, the quickness have certainly gone. You'll\nkeep them longer than most people; it will be a great satisfaction to me\nto see you some years hence. I want to see what life makes of you. One\nthing's certain--it can't spoil you. It may pull you about horribly, but\nI defy it to break you up.\"\n\nIsabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still panting from\na slight skirmish in which he has come off with honour, might receive a\npat on the shoulder from his colonel. Like such a recognition of merit\nit seemed to come with authority. How could the lightest word do less\non the part of a person who was prepared to say, of almost everything\nIsabel told her, \"Oh, I've been in that, my dear; it passes, like\neverything else.\" On many of her interlocutors Madame Merle might have\nproduced an irritating effect; it was disconcertingly difficult to\nsurprise her. But Isabel, though by no means incapable of desiring to\nbe effective, had not at present this impulse. She was too sincere, too\ninterested in her judicious companion. And then moreover Madame Merle\nnever said such things in the tone of triumph or of boastfulness; they\ndropped from her like cold confessions.\n\nA period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; the days grew\nshorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the lawn. But\nour young woman had long indoor conversations with her fellow visitor,\nand in spite of the rain the two ladies often sallied forth for a walk,\nequipped with the defensive apparatus which the English climate and\nthe English genius have between them brought to such perfection. Madame\nMerle liked almost everything, including the English rain. \"There's\nalways a little of it and never too much at once,\" she said; \"and it\nnever wets you and it always smells good.\" She declared that in England\nthe pleasures of smell were great--that in this inimitable island there\nwas a certain mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd it\nmight sound, was the national aroma, and was most agreeable to the\nnostril; and she used to lift the sleeve of her British overcoat and\nbury her nose in it, inhaling the clear, fine scent of the wool. Poor\nRalph Touchett, as soon as the autumn had begun to define itself, became\nalmost a prisoner; in bad weather he was unable to step out of the\nhouse, and he used sometimes to stand at one of the windows with his\nhands in his pockets and, from a countenance half-rueful, half-critical,\nwatch Isabel and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a\npair of umbrellas. The roads about Gardencourt were so firm, even in the\nworst weather, that the two ladies always came back with a healthy glow\nin their cheeks, looking at the soles of their neat, stout boots and\ndeclaring that their walk had done them inexpressible good. Before\nluncheon, always, Madame Merle was engaged; Isabel admired and envied\nher rigid possession of her morning. Our heroine had always passed for a\nperson of resources and had taken a certain pride in being one; but she\nwandered, as by the wrong side of the wall of a private garden, round\nthe enclosed talents, accomplishments, aptitudes of Madame Merle. She\nfound herself desiring to emulate them, and in twenty such ways this\nlady presented herself as a model. \"I should like awfully to be so!\"\nIsabel secretly exclaimed, more than once, as one after another of her\nfriend's fine aspects caught the light, and before long she knew that\nshe had learned a lesson from a high authority. It took no great time\nindeed for her to feel herself, as the phrase is, under an influence.\n\"What's the harm,\" she wondered, \"so long as it's a good one? The more\none's under a good influence the better. The only thing is to see our\nsteps as we take them--to understand them as we go. That, no doubt, I\nshall always do. I needn't be afraid of becoming too pliable; isn't it\nmy fault that I'm not pliable enough?\" It is said that imitation is the\nsincerest flattery; and if Isabel was sometimes moved to gape at her\nfriend aspiringly and despairingly it was not so much because she\ndesired herself to shine as because she wished to hold up the lamp for\nMadame Merle. She liked her extremely, but was even more dazzled than\nattracted. She sometimes asked herself what Henrietta Stackpole would\nsay to her thinking so much of this perverted product of their common\nsoil, and had a conviction that it would be severely judged. Henrietta\nwould not at all subscribe to Madame Merle; for reasons she could not\nhave defined this truth came home to the girl. On the other hand she\nwas equally sure that, should the occasion offer, her new friend would\nstrike off some happy view of her old: Madame Merle was too humorous,\ntoo observant, not to do justice to Henrietta, and on becoming\nacquainted with her would probably give the measure of a tact which\nMiss Stackpole couldn't hope to emulate. She appeared to have in her\nexperience a touchstone for everything, and somewhere in the capacious\npocket of her genial memory she would find the key to Henrietta's value.\n\"That's the great thing,\" Isabel solemnly pondered; \"that's the supreme\ngood fortune: to be in a better position for appreciating people than\nthey are for appreciating you.\" And she added that such, when one\nconsidered it, was simply the essence of the aristocratic situation.\nIn this light, if in none other, one should aim at the aristocratic\nsituation.\n\nI may not count over all the links in the chain which led Isabel to\nthink of Madame Merle's situation as aristocratic--a view of it never\nexpressed in any reference made to it by that lady herself. She had\nknown great things and great people, but she had never played a great\npart. She was one of the small ones of the earth; she had not been born\nto honours; she knew the world too well to nourish fatuous illusions\non the article of her own place in it. She had encountered many of the\nfortunate few and was perfectly aware of those points at which their\nfortune differed from hers. But if by her informed measure she was no\nfigure for a high scene, she had yet to Isabel's imagination a sort of\ngreatness. To be so cultivated and civilised, so wise and so easy,\nand still make so light of it--that was really to be a great lady,\nespecially when one so carried and presented one's self. It was as if\nsomehow she had all society under contribution, and all the arts and\ngraces it practised--or was the effect rather that of charming uses\nfound for her, even from a distance, subtle service rendered by her to\na clamorous world wherever she might be? After breakfast she wrote a\nsuccession of letters, as those arriving for her appeared innumerable:\nher correspondence was a source of surprise to Isabel when they\nsometimes walked together to the village post-office to deposit Madame\nMerle's offering to the mail. She knew more people, as she told Isabel,\nthan she knew what to do with, and something was always turning up to be\nwritten about. Of painting she was devotedly fond, and made no more of\nbrushing in a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At Gardencourt she\nwas perpetually taking advantage of an hour's sunshine to go out with a\ncamp-stool and a box of water-colours. That she was a brave musician we\nhave already perceived, and it was evidence of the fact that when she\nseated herself at the piano, as she always did in the evening, her\nlisteners resigned themselves without a murmur to losing the grace\nof her talk. Isabel, since she had known her, felt ashamed of her own\nfacility, which she now looked upon as basely inferior; and indeed,\nthough she had been thought rather a prodigy at home, the loss to\nsociety when, in taking her place upon the music-stool, she turned her\nback to the room, was usually deemed greater than the gain. When Madame\nMerle was neither writing, nor painting, nor touching the piano, she\nwas usually employed upon wonderful tasks of rich embroidery, cushions,\ncurtains, decorations for the chimneypiece; an art in which her bold,\nfree invention was as noted as the agility of her needle. She was never\nidle, for when engaged in none of the ways I have mentioned she was\neither reading (she appeared to Isabel to read \"everything important\"),\nor walking out, or playing patience with the cards, or talking with her\nfellow inmates. And with all this she had always the social quality, was\nnever rudely absent and yet never too seated. She laid down her pastimes\nas easily as she took them up; she worked and talked at the same time,\nand appeared to impute scant worth to anything she did. She gave away\nher sketches and tapestries; she rose from the piano or remained\nthere, according to the convenience of her auditors, which she always\nunerringly divined. She was in short the most comfortable, profitable,\namenable person to live with. If for Isabel she had a fault it was that\nshe was not natural; by which the girl meant, not that she was either\naffected or pretentious, since from these vulgar vices no woman could\nhave been more exempt, but that her nature had been too much overlaid by\ncustom and her angles too much rubbed away. She had become too flexible,\ntoo useful, was too ripe and too final. She was in a word too perfectly\nthe social animal that man and woman are supposed to have been intended\nto be; and she had rid herself of every remnant of that tonic wildness\nwhich we may assume to have belonged even to the most amiable persons\nin the ages before country-house life was the fashion. Isabel found it\ndifficult to think of her in any detachment or privacy, she existed only\nin her relations, direct or indirect, with her fellow mortals. One might\nwonder what commerce she could possibly hold with her own spirit.\nOne always ended, however, by feeling that a charming surface doesn't\nnecessarily prove one superficial; this was an illusion in which, in\none's youth, one had but just escaped being nourished. Madame Merle was\nnot superficial--not she. She was deep, and her nature spoke none the\nless in her behaviour because it spoke a conventional tongue. \"What's\nlanguage at all but a convention?\" said Isabel. \"She has the good\ntaste not to pretend, like some people I've met, to express herself by\noriginal signs.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you've suffered much,\" she once found occasion to say to her\nfriend in response to some allusion that had appeared to reach far.\n\n\"What makes you think that?\" Madame Merle asked with the amused smile\nof a person seated at a game of guesses. \"I hope I haven't too much the\ndroop of the misunderstood.\"\n\n\"No; but you sometimes say things that I think people who have always\nbeen happy wouldn't have found out.\"\n\n\"I haven't always been happy,\" said Madame Merle, smiling still, but\nwith a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child a secret. \"Such a\nwonderful thing!\"\n\nBut Isabel rose to the irony. \"A great many people give me the\nimpression of never having for a moment felt anything.\"\n\n\"It's very true; there are many more iron pots certainly than porcelain.\nBut you may depend on it that every one bears some mark; even the\nhardest iron pots have a little bruise, a little hole somewhere. I\nflatter myself that I'm rather stout, but if I must tell you the truth\nI've been shockingly chipped and cracked. I do very well for service\nyet, because I've been cleverly mended; and I try to remain in the\ncupboard--the quiet, dusky cupboard where there's an odour of stale\nspices--as much as I can. But when I've to come out and into a strong\nlight--then, my dear, I'm a horror!\"\n\nI know not whether it was on this occasion or on some other that the\nconversation had taken the turn I have just indicated she said to Isabel\nthat she would some day a tale unfold. Isabel assured her she should\ndelight to listen to one, and reminded her more than once of this\nengagement. Madame Merle, however, begged repeatedly for a respite, and\nat last frankly told her young companion that they must wait till they\nknew each other better. This would be sure to happen, a long friendship\nso visibly lay before them. Isabel assented, but at the same time\nenquired if she mightn't be trusted--if she appeared capable of a\nbetrayal of confidence.\n\n\"It's not that I'm afraid of your repeating what I say,\" her fellow\nvisitor answered; \"I'm afraid, on the contrary, of your taking it too\nmuch to yourself. You'd judge me too harshly; you're of the cruel age.\"\nShe preferred for the present to talk to Isabel of Isabel, and exhibited\nthe greatest interest in our heroine's history, sentiments, opinions,\nprospects. She made her chatter and listened to her chatter with\ninfinite good nature. This flattered and quickened the girl, who was\nstruck with all the distinguished people her friend had known and with\nher having lived, as Mrs. Touchett said, in the best company in Europe.\nIsabel thought the better of herself for enjoying the favour of a person\nwho had so large a field of comparison; and it was perhaps partly to\ngratify the sense of profiting by comparison that she often appealed to\nthese stores of reminiscence. Madame Merle had been a dweller in many\nlands and had social ties in a dozen different countries. \"I don't\npretend to be educated,\" she would say, \"but I think I know my Europe;\"\nand she spoke one day of going to Sweden to stay with an old friend,\nand another of proceeding to Malta to follow up a new acquaintance. With\nEngland, where she had often dwelt, she was thoroughly familiar, and\nfor Isabel's benefit threw a great deal of light upon the customs of\nthe country and the character of the people, who \"after all,\" as she was\nfond of saying, were the most convenient in the world to live with.\n\n\"You mustn't think it strange her remaining here at such a time as this,\nwhen Mr. Touchett's passing away,\" that gentleman's wife remarked to her\nniece. \"She is incapable of a mistake; she's the most tactful woman I\nknow. It's a favour to me that she stays; she's putting off a lot of\nvisits at great houses,\" said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that when\nshe herself was in England her social value sank two or three degrees in\nthe scale. \"She has her pick of places; she's not in want of a shelter.\nBut I've asked her to put in this time because I wish you to know her. I\nthink it will be a good thing for you. Serena Merle hasn't a fault.\"\n\n\"If I didn't already like her very much that description might alarm\nme,\" Isabel returned.\n\n\"She's never the least little bit 'off.' I've brought you out here and I\nwish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told me she hoped I would\ngive you plenty of opportunities. I give you one in putting you in\nrelation with Madame Merle. She's one of the most brilliant women in\nEurope.\"\n\n\"I like her better than I like your description of her,\" Isabel\npersisted in saying.\n\n\"Do you flatter yourself that you'll ever feel her open to criticism? I\nhope you'll let me know when you do.\"\n\n\"That will be cruel--to you,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You needn't mind me. You won't discover a fault in her.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. But I dare say I shan't miss it.\"\n\n\"She knows absolutely everything on earth there is to know,\" said Mrs.\nTouchett.\n\nIsabel after this observed to their companion that she hoped she knew\nMrs. Touchett considered she hadn't a speck on her perfection. On which\n\"I'm obliged to you,\" Madame Merle replied, \"but I'm afraid your aunt\nimagines, or at least alludes to, no aberrations that the clock-face\ndoesn't register.\"\n\n\"So that you mean you've a wild side that's unknown to her?\"\n\n\"Ah no, I fear my darkest sides are my tamest. I mean that having no\nfaults, for your aunt, means that one's never late for dinner--that is\nfor her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other day, when you\ncame back from London; the clock was just at eight when I came into the\ndrawing-room: it was the rest of you that were before the time. It means\nthat one answers a letter the day one gets it and that when one comes to\nstay with her one doesn't bring too much luggage and is careful not to\nbe taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things constitute virtue; it's a\nblessing to be able to reduce it to its elements.\"\n\nMadame Merle's own conversation, it will be perceived, was enriched with\nbold, free touches of criticism, which, even when they had a restrictive\neffect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured. It couldn't occur to the\ngirl for instance that Mrs. Touchett's accomplished guest was abusing\nher; and this for very good reasons. In the first place Isabel rose\neagerly to the sense of her shades; in the second Madame Merle implied\nthat there was a great deal more to say; and it was clear in the\nthird that for a person to speak to one without ceremony of one's near\nrelations was an agreeable sign of that person's intimacy with one's\nself. These signs of deep communion multiplied as the days elapsed, and\nthere was none of which Isabel was more sensible than of her companion's\npreference for making Miss Archer herself a topic. Though she referred\nfrequently to the incidents of her own career she never lingered upon\nthem; she was as little of a gross egotist as she was of a flat gossip.\n\n\"I'm old and stale and faded,\" she said more than once; \"I'm of no\nmore interest than last week's newspaper. You're young and fresh and of\nto-day; you've the great thing--you've actuality. I once had it--we all\nhave it for an hour. You, however, will have it for longer. Let us talk\nabout you then; you can say nothing I shall not care to hear. It's a\nsign that I'm growing old--that I like to talk with younger people. I\nthink it's a very pretty compensation. If we can't have youth within us\nwe can have it outside, and I really think we see it and feel it better\nthat way. Of course we must be in sympathy with it--that I shall always\nbe. I don't know that I shall ever be ill-natured with old people--I\nhope not; there are certainly some old people I adore. But I shall never\nbe anything but abject with the young; they touch me and appeal to me\ntoo much. I give you carte blanche then; you can even be impertinent if\nyou like; I shall let it pass and horribly spoil you. I speak as if I\nwere a hundred years old, you say? Well, I am, if you please; I was born\nbefore the French Revolution. Ah, my dear, je viens de loin; I belong to\nthe old, old world. But it's not of that I want to talk; I want to talk\nabout the new. You must tell me more about America; you never tell me\nenough. Here I've been since I was brought here as a helpless child, and\nit's ridiculous, or rather it's scandalous, how little I know about that\nsplendid, dreadful, funny country--surely the greatest and drollest of\nthem all. There are a great many of us like that in these parts, and I\nmust say I think we're a wretched set of people. You should live in your\nown land; whatever it may be you have your natural place there. If we're\nnot good Americans we're certainly poor Europeans; we've no natural\nplace here. We're mere parasites, crawling over the surface; we haven't\nour feet in the soil. At least one can know it and not have illusions. A\nwoman perhaps can get on; a woman, it seems to me, has no natural place\nanywhere; wherever she finds herself she has to remain on the surface\nand, more or less, to crawl. You protest, my dear? you're horrified?\nyou declare you'll never crawl? It's very true that I don't see you\ncrawling; you stand more upright than a good many poor creatures.\nVery good; on the whole, I don't think you'll crawl. But the men, the\nAmericans; je vous demande un peu, what do they make of it over here?\nI don't envy them trying to arrange themselves. Look at poor Ralph\nTouchett: what sort of a figure do you call that? Fortunately he has a\nconsumption; I say fortunately, because it gives him something to do.\nHis consumption's his carriere it's a kind of position. You can say:\n'Oh, Mr. Touchett, he takes care of his lungs, he knows a great deal\nabout climates.' But without that who would he be, what would he\nrepresent? 'Mr. Ralph Touchett: an American who lives in Europe.' That\nsignifies absolutely nothing--it's impossible anything should signify\nless. 'He's very cultivated,' they say: 'he has a very pretty collection\nof old snuff-boxes.' The collection is all that's wanted to make it\npitiful. I'm tired of the sound of the word; I think it's grotesque.\nWith the poor old father it's different; he has his identity, and it's\nrather a massive one. He represents a great financial house, and that,\nin our day, is as good as anything else. For an American, at any rate,\nthat will do very well. But I persist in thinking your cousin very lucky\nto have a chronic malady so long as he doesn't die of it. It's much\nbetter than the snuffboxes. If he weren't ill, you say, he'd do\nsomething?--he'd take his father's place in the house. My poor child, I\ndoubt it; I don't think he's at all fond of the house. However, you know\nhim better than I, though I used to know him rather well, and he may\nhave the benefit of the doubt. The worst case, I think, is a friend\nof mine, a countryman of ours, who lives in Italy (where he also was\nbrought before he knew better), and who is one of the most delightful\nmen I know. Some day you must know him. I'll bring you together and then\nyou'll see what I mean. He's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Italy; that's\nall one can say about him or make of him. He's exceedingly clever, a\nman made to be distinguished; but, as I tell you, you exhaust the\ndescription when you say he's Mr. Osmond who lives tout betement in\nItaly. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no past, no future,\nno anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please--paints in water-colours;\nlike me, only better than I. His painting's pretty bad; on the whole I'm\nrather glad of that. Fortunately he's very indolent, so indolent that\nit amounts to a sort of position. He can say, 'Oh, I do nothing; I'm too\ndeadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up at five o'clock\nin the morning.' In that way he becomes a sort of exception; you feel\nhe might do something if he'd only rise early. He never speaks of his\npainting to people at large; he's too clever for that. But he has a\nlittle girl--a dear little girl; he does speak of her. He's devoted\nto her, and if it were a career to be an excellent father he'd be very\ndistinguished. But I'm afraid that's no better than the snuff-boxes;\nperhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do in America,\" pursued\nMadame Merle, who, it must be observed parenthetically, did not deliver\nherself all at once of these reflexions, which are presented in a\ncluster for the convenience of the reader. She talked of Florence, where\nMr. Osmond lived and where Mrs. Touchett occupied a medieval palace; she\ntalked of Rome, where she herself had a little pied-a-terre with some\nrather good old damask. She talked of places, of people and even, as the\nphrase is, of \"subjects\"; and from time to time she talked of their kind\nold host and of the prospect of his recovery. From the first she\nhad thought this prospect small, and Isabel had been struck with the\npositive, discriminating, competent way in which she took the measure\nof his remainder of life. One evening she announced definitely that he\nwouldn't live.\n\n\"Sir Matthew Hope told me so as plainly as was proper,\" she said;\n\"standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makes himself very\nagreeable, the great doctor. I don't mean his saying that has anything\nto do with it. But he says such things with great tact. I had told him\nI felt ill at my ease, staying here at such a time; it seemed to me so\nindiscreet--it wasn't as if I could nurse. 'You must remain, you must\nremain,' he answered; 'your office will come later.' Wasn't that a very\ndelicate way of saying both that poor Mr. Touchett would go and that I\nmight be of some use as a consoler? In fact, however, I shall not be of\nthe slightest use. Your aunt will console herself; she, and she alone,\nknows just how much consolation she'll require. It would be a very\ndelicate matter for another person to undertake to administer the dose.\nWith your cousin it will be different; he'll miss his father immensely.\nBut I should never presume to condole with Mr. Ralph; we're not on\nthose terms.\" Madame Merle had alluded more than once to some undefined\nincongruity in her relations with Ralph Touchett; so Isabel took this\noccasion of asking her if they were not good friends.\n\n\"Perfectly, but he doesn't like me.\"\n\n\"What have you done to him?\"\n\n\"Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for that.\"\n\n\"For not liking you? I think one has need of a very good reason.\"\n\n\"You're very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the day you begin.\"\n\n\"Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin.\"\n\n\"I hope not; because if you do you'll never end. That's the way with\nyour cousin; he doesn't get over it. It's an antipathy of nature--if\nI can call it that when it's all on his side. I've nothing whatever\nagainst him and don't bear him the least little grudge for not doing me\njustice. Justice is all I want. However, one feels that he's a gentleman\nand would never say anything underhand about one. Cartes sur table,\"\nMadame Merle subjoined in a moment, \"I'm not afraid of him.\"\n\n\"I hope not indeed,\" said Isabel, who added something about his being\nthe kindest creature living. She remembered, however, that on her first\nasking him about Madame Merle he had answered her in a manner which\nthis lady might have thought injurious without being explicit. There\nwas something between them, Isabel said to herself, but she said nothing\nmore than this. If it were something of importance it should inspire\nrespect; if it were not it was not worth her curiosity. With all her\nlove of knowledge she had a natural shrinking from raising curtains and\nlooking into unlighted corners. The love of knowledge coexisted in her\nmind with the finest capacity for ignorance.\n\nBut Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, made her raise\nher clear eyebrows at the time and think of the words afterwards. \"I'd\ngive a great deal to be your age again,\" she broke out once with a\nbitterness which, though diluted in her customary amplitude of ease, was\nimperfectly disguised by it. \"If I could only begin again--if I could\nhave my life before me!\"\n\n\"Your life's before you yet,\" Isabel answered gently, for she was\nvaguely awe-struck.\n\n\"No; the best part's gone, and gone for nothing.\"\n\n\"Surely not for nothing,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Why not--what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor fortune, nor\nposition, nor the traces of a beauty that I never had.\"\n\n\"You have many friends, dear lady.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure!\" cried Madame Merle.\n\n\"Ah, you're wrong. You have memories, graces, talents--\"\n\nBut Madame Merle interrupted her. \"What have my talents brought me?\nNothing but the need of using them still, to get through the hours,\nthe years, to cheat myself with some pretence of movement, of\nunconsciousness. As for my graces and memories the less said about them\nthe better. You'll be my friend till you find a better use for your\nfriendship.\"\n\n\"It will be for you to see that I don't then,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Yes; I would make an effort to keep you.\" And her companion looked at\nher gravely. \"When I say I should like to be your age I mean with your\nqualities--frank, generous, sincere like you. In that case I should have\nmade something better of my life.\"\n\n\"What should you have liked to do that you've not done?\"\n\nMadame Merle took a sheet of music--she was seated at the piano and\nhad abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she first spoke--and\nmechanically turned the leaves. \"I'm very ambitious!\" she at last\nreplied.\n\n\"And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must have been great.\"\n\n\"They WERE great. I should make myself ridiculous by talking of them.\"\n\nIsabel wondered what they could have been--whether Madame Merle had\naspired to wear a crown. \"I don't know what your idea of success may be,\nbut you seem to me to have been successful. To me indeed you're a vivid\nimage of success.\"\n\nMadame Merle tossed away the music with a smile. \"What's YOUR idea of\nsuccess?\"\n\n\"You evidently think it must be a very tame one. It's to see some dream\nof one's youth come true.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" Madame Merle exclaimed, \"that I've never seen! But my dreams were\nso great--so preposterous. Heaven forgive me, I'm dreaming now!\" And she\nturned back to the piano and began grandly to play. On the morrow she\nsaid to Isabel that her definition of success had been very pretty,\nyet frightfully sad. Measured in that way, who had ever succeeded? The\ndreams of one's youth, why they were enchanting, they were divine! Who\nhad ever seen such things come to pass?\n\n\"I myself--a few of them,\" Isabel ventured to answer.\n\n\"Already? They must have been dreams of yesterday.\"\n\n\"I began to dream very young,\" Isabel smiled.\n\n\"Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood--that of having a\npink sash and a doll that could close her eyes.\"\n\n\"No, I don't mean that.\"\n\n\"Or a young man with a fine moustache going down on his knees to you.\"\n\n\"No, nor that either,\" Isabel declared with still more emphasis.\n\nMadame Merle appeared to note this eagerness. \"I suspect that's what\nyou do mean. We've all had the young man with the moustache. He's the\ninevitable young man; he doesn't count.\"\n\nIsabel was silent a little but then spoke with extreme and\ncharacteristic inconsequence. \"Why shouldn't he count? There are young\nmen and young men.\"\n\n\"And yours was a paragon--is that what you mean?\" asked her friend with\na laugh. \"If you've had the identical young man you dreamed of, then\nthat was success, and I congratulate you with all my heart. Only in that\ncase why didn't you fly with him to his castle in the Apennines?\"\n\n\"He has no castle in the Apennines.\"\n\n\"What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street? Don't tell me\nthat; I refuse to recognise that as an ideal.\"\n\n\"I don't care anything about his house,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"That's very crude of you. When you've lived as long as I you'll see\nthat every human being has his shell and that you must take the shell\ninto account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circumstances.\nThere's no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we're each of us\nmade up of some cluster of appurtenances. What shall we call our 'self'?\nWhere does it begin? where does it end? It overflows into everything\nthat belongs to us--and then it flows back again. I know a large part\nof myself is in the clothes I choose to wear. I've a great respect for\nTHINGS! One's self--for other people--is one's expression of one's self;\nand one's house, one's furniture, one's garments, the books one reads,\nthe company one keeps--these things are all expressive.\"\n\nThis was very metaphysical; not more so, however, than several\nobservations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel was fond of\nmetaphysics, but was unable to accompany her friend into this bold\nanalysis of the human personality. \"I don't agree with you. I think just\nthe other way. I don't know whether I succeed in expressing myself, but\nI know that nothing else expresses me. Nothing that belongs to me is any\nmeasure of me; everything's on the contrary a limit, a barrier, and\na perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly the clothes which, as you say, I\nchoose to wear, don't express me; and heaven forbid they should!\"\n\n\"You dress very well,\" Madame Merle lightly interposed.\n\n\"Possibly; but I don't care to be judged by that. My clothes may express\nthe dressmaker, but they don't express me. To begin with it's not my own\nchoice that I wear them; they're imposed upon me by society.\"\n\n\"Should you prefer to go without them?\" Madame Merle enquired in a tone\nwhich virtually terminated the discussion.\n\nI am bound to confess, though it may cast some discredit on the sketch I\nhave given of the youthful loyalty practised by our heroine toward this\naccomplished woman, that Isabel had said nothing whatever to her about\nLord Warburton and had been equally reticent on the subject of Caspar\nGoodwood. She had not, however, concealed the fact that she had had\nopportunities of marrying and had even let her friend know of how\nadvantageous a kind they had been. Lord Warburton had left Lockleigh\nand was gone to Scotland, taking his sisters with him; and though he had\nwritten to Ralph more than once to ask about Mr. Touchett's health the\ngirl was not liable to the embarrassment of such enquiries as, had he\nstill been in the neighbourhood, he would probably have felt bound to\nmake in person. He had excellent ways, but she felt sure that if he had\ncome to Gardencourt he would have seen Madame Merle, and that if he had\nseen her he would have liked her and betrayed to her that he was in love\nwith her young friend. It so happened that during this lady's previous\nvisits to Gardencourt--each of them much shorter than the present--he\nhad either not been at Lockleigh or had not called at Mr. Touchett's.\nTherefore, though she knew him by name as the great man of that\ncounty, she had no cause to suspect him as a suitor of Mrs. Touchett's\nfreshly-imported niece.\n\n\"You've plenty of time,\" she had said to Isabel in return for the\nmutilated confidences which our young woman made her and which didn't\npretend to be perfect, though we have seen that at moments the girl\nhad compunctions at having said so much. \"I'm glad you've done nothing\nyet--that you have it still to do. It's a very good thing for a girl to\nhave refused a few good offers--so long of course as they are not the\nbest she's likely to have. Pardon me if my tone seems horribly corrupt;\none must take the worldly view sometimes. Only don't keep on refusing\nfor the sake of refusing. It's a pleasant exercise of power; but\naccepting's after all an exercise of power as well. There's always the\ndanger of refusing once too often. It was not the one I fell into--I\ndidn't refuse often enough. You're an exquisite creature, and I should\nlike to see you married to a prime minister. But speaking strictly, you\nknow, you're not what is technically called a parti. You're extremely\ngood-looking and extremely clever; in yourself you're quite exceptional.\nYou appear to have the vaguest ideas about your earthly possessions; but\nfrom what I can make out you're not embarrassed with an income. I wish\nyou had a little money.\"\n\n\"I wish I had!\" said Isabel, simply, apparently forgetting for the\nmoment that her poverty had been a venial fault for two gallant\ngentlemen.\n\nIn spite of Sir Matthew Hope's benevolent recommendation Madame Merle\ndid not remain to the end, as the issue of poor Mr. Touchett's malady\nhad now come frankly to be designated. She was under pledges to other\npeople which had at last to be redeemed, and she left Gardencourt with\nthe understanding that she should in any event see Mrs. Touchett there\nagain, or else in town, before quitting England. Her parting with Isabel\nwas even more like the beginning of a friendship than their meeting had\nbeen. \"I'm going to six places in succession, but I shall see no one I\nlike so well as you. They'll all be old friends, however; one doesn't\nmake new friends at my age. I've made a great exception for you. You\nmust remember that and must think as well of me as possible. You must\nreward me by believing in me.\"\n\nBy way of answer Isabel kissed her, and, though some women kiss with\nfacility, there are kisses and kisses, and this embrace was satisfactory\nto Madame Merle. Our young lady, after this, was much alone; she saw her\naunt and cousin only at meals, and discovered that of the hours during\nwhich Mrs. Touchett was invisible only a minor portion was now devoted\nto nursing her husband. She spent the rest in her own apartments, to\nwhich access was not allowed even to her niece, apparently occupied\nthere with mysterious and inscrutable exercises. At table she was grave\nand silent; but her solemnity was not an attitude--Isabel could see it\nwas a conviction. She wondered if her aunt repented of having taken her\nown way so much; but there was no visible evidence of this--no tears, no\nsighs, no exaggeration of a zeal always to its own sense adequate. Mrs.\nTouchett seemed simply to feel the need of thinking things over and\nsumming them up; she had a little moral account-book--with columns\nunerringly ruled and a sharp steel clasp--which she kept with exemplary\nneatness. Uttered reflection had with her ever, at any rate, a practical\nring. \"If I had foreseen this I'd not have proposed your coming abroad\nnow,\" she said to Isabel after Madame Merle had left the house. \"I'd\nhave waited and sent for you next year.\"\n\n\"So that perhaps I should never have known my uncle? It's a great\nhappiness to me to have come now.\"\n\n\"That's very well. But it was not that you might know your uncle that\nI brought you to Europe.\" A perfectly veracious speech; but, as Isabel\nthought, not as perfectly timed. She had leisure to think of this and\nother matters. She took a solitary walk every day and spent vague hours\nin turning over books in the library. Among the subjects that engaged\nher attention were the adventures of her friend Miss Stackpole, with\nwhom she was in regular correspondence. Isabel liked her friend's\nprivate epistolary style better than her public; that is she felt her\npublic letters would have been excellent if they had not been printed.\nHenrietta's career, however, was not so successful as might have been\nwished even in the interest of her private felicity; that view of the\ninner life of Great Britain which she was so eager to take appeared to\ndance before her like an ignis fatuus. The invitation from Lady Pensil,\nfor mysterious reasons, had never arrived; and poor Mr. Bantling\nhimself, with all his friendly ingenuity, had been unable to explain\nso grave a dereliction on the part of a missive that had obviously been\nsent. He had evidently taken Henrietta's affairs much to heart,\nand believed that he owed her a set-off to this illusory visit to\nBedfordshire. \"He says he should think I would go to the Continent,\"\nHenrietta wrote; \"and as he thinks of going there himself I suppose his\nadvice is sincere. He wants to know why I don't take a view of French\nlife; and it's a fact that I want very much to see the new Republic. Mr.\nBantling doesn't care much about the Republic, but he thinks of going\nover to Paris anyway. I must say he's quite as attentive as I could\nwish, and at least I shall have seen one polite Englishman. I keep\ntelling Mr. Bantling that he ought to have been an American, and you\nshould see how that pleases him. Whenever I say so he always breaks out\nwith the same exclamation--'Ah, but really, come now!\" A few days later\nshe wrote that she had decided to go to Paris at the end of the week and\nthat Mr. Bantling had promised to see her off--perhaps even would go\nas far as Dover with her. She would wait in Paris till Isabel should\narrive, Henrietta added; speaking quite as if Isabel were to start on\nher continental journey alone and making no allusion to Mrs. Touchett.\nBearing in mind his interest in their late companion, our heroine\ncommunicated several passages from this correspondence to Ralph,\nwho followed with an emotion akin to suspense the career of the\nrepresentative of the Interviewer.\n\n\"It seems to me she's doing very well,\" he said, \"going over to Paris\nwith an ex-Lancer! If she wants something to write about she has only to\ndescribe that episode.\"\n\n\"It's not conventional, certainly,\" Isabel answered; \"but if you mean\nthat--as far as Henrietta is concerned--it's not perfectly innocent,\nyou're very much mistaken. You'll never understand Henrietta.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, I understand her perfectly. I didn't at all at first, but\nnow I've the point of view. I'm afraid, however, that Bantling hasn't;\nhe may have some surprises. Oh, I understand Henrietta as well as if I\nhad made her!\"\n\nIsabel was by no means sure of this, but she abstained from expressing\nfurther doubt, for she was disposed in these days to extend a great\ncharity to her cousin. One afternoon less than a week after Madame\nMerle's departure she was seated in the library with a volume to\nwhich her attention was not fastened. She had placed herself in a deep\nwindow-bench, from which she looked out into the dull, damp park; and as\nthe library stood at right angles to the entrance-front of the house she\ncould see the doctor's brougham, which had been waiting for the last two\nhours before the door. She was struck with his remaining so long, but at\nlast she saw him appear in the portico, stand a moment slowly drawing on\nhis gloves and looking at the knees of his horse, and then get into the\nvehicle and roll away. Isabel kept her place for half an hour; there was\na great stillness in the house. It was so great that when she at last\nheard a soft, slow step on the deep carpet of the room she was almost\nstartled by the sound. She turned quickly away from the window and saw\nRalph Touchett standing there with his hands still in his pockets, but\nwith a face absolutely void of its usual latent smile. She got up and\nher movement and glance were a question.\n\n\"It's all over,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Do you mean that my uncle...?\" And Isabel stopped.\n\n\"My dear father died an hour ago.\"\n\n\"Ah, my poor Ralph!\" she gently wailed, putting out her two hands to\nhim.\n\n\n\n\n\nSome fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansom cab to\nthe house in Winchester Square. As she descended from her vehicle she\nobserved, suspended between the dining-room windows, a large, neat,\nwooden tablet, on whose fresh black ground were inscribed in white paint\nthe words--\"This noble freehold mansion to be sold\"; with the name of\nthe agent to whom application should be made. \"They certainly lose no\ntime,\" said the visitor as, after sounding the big brass knocker, she\nwaited to be admitted; \"it's a practical country!\" And within the house,\nas she ascended to the drawing-room, she perceived numerous signs of\nabdication; pictures removed from the walls and placed upon sofas,\nwindows undraped and floors laid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received\nher and intimated in a few words that condolences might be taken for\ngranted.\n\n\"I know what you're going to say--he was a very good man. But I know it\nbetter than any one, because I gave him more chance to show it. In that\nI think I was a good wife.\" Mrs. Touchett added that at the end her\nhusband apparently recognised this fact. \"He has treated me most\nliberally,\" she said; \"I won't say more liberally than I expected,\nbecause I didn't expect. You know that as a general thing I don't\nexpect. But he chose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though I\nlived much abroad and mingled--you may say freely--in foreign life, I\nnever exhibited the smallest preference for any one else.\"\n\n\"For any one but yourself,\" Madame Merle mentally observed; but the\nreflexion was perfectly inaudible.\n\n\"I never sacrificed my husband to another,\" Mrs. Touchett continued with\nher stout curtness.\n\n\"Oh no,\" thought Madame Merle; \"you never did anything for another!\"\n\nThere was a certain cynicism in these mute comments which demands an\nexplanation; the more so as they are not in accord either with the\nview--somewhat superficial perhaps--that we have hitherto enjoyed of\nMadame Merle's character or with the literal facts of Mrs. Touchett's\nhistory; the more so, too, as Madame Merle had a well-founded conviction\nthat her friend's last remark was not in the least to be construed as a\nside-thrust at herself. The truth is that the moment she had crossed the\nthreshold she received an impression that Mr. Touchett's death had had\nsubtle consequences and that these consequences had been profitable to\na little circle of persons among whom she was not numbered. Of course\nit was an event which would naturally have consequences; her imagination\nhad more than once rested upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt.\nBut it had been one thing to foresee such a matter mentally and another\nto stand among its massive records. The idea of a distribution of\nproperty--she would almost have said of spoils--just now pressed upon\nher senses and irritated her with a sense of exclusion. I am far from\nwishing to picture her as one of the hungry mouths or envious hearts of\nthe general herd, but we have already learned of her having desires\nthat had never been satisfied. If she had been questioned, she would\nof course have admitted--with a fine proud smile--that she had not the\nfaintest claim to a share in Mr. Touchett's relics. \"There was never\nanything in the world between us,\" she would have said. \"There was never\nthat, poor man!\"--with a fillip of her thumb and her third finger. I\nhasten to add, moreover, that if she couldn't at the present moment keep\nfrom quite perversely yearning she was careful not to betray herself.\nShe had after all as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett's gains as for her\nlosses.\n\n\"He has left me this house,\" the newly-made widow said; \"but of course\nI shall not live in it; I've a much better one in Florence. The will\nwas opened only three days since, but I've already offered the house for\nsale. I've also a share in the bank; but I don't yet understand if I'm\nobliged to leave it there. If not I shall certainly take it out. Ralph,\nof course, has Gardencourt; but I'm not sure that he'll have means to\nkeep up the place. He's naturally left very well off, but his father has\ngiven away an immense deal of money; there are bequests to a string of\nthird cousins in Vermont. Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourt\nand would be quite capable of living there--in summer--with a\nmaid-of-all-work and a gardener's boy. There's one remarkable clause\nin my husband's will,\" Mrs. Touchett added. \"He has left my niece a\nfortune.\"\n\n\"A fortune!\" Madame Merle softly repeated.\n\n\"Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds.\" Madame\nMerle's hands were clasped in her lap; at this she raised them, still\nclasped, and held them a moment against her bosom while her eyes, a\nlittle dilated, fixed themselves on those of her friend. \"Ah,\" she\ncried, \"the clever creature!\"\n\nMrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. \"What do you mean by that?\"\n\nFor an instant Madame Merle's colour rose and she dropped her eyes. \"It\ncertainly is clever to achieve such results--without an effort!\"\n\n\"There assuredly was no effort. Don't call it an achievement.\"\n\nMadame Merle was seldom guilty of the awkwardness of retracting what she\nhad said; her wisdom was shown rather in maintaining it and placing it\nin a favourable light. \"My dear friend, Isabel would certainly not\nhave had seventy thousand pounds left her if she had not been the most\ncharming girl in the world. Her charm includes great cleverness.\"\n\n\"She never dreamed, I'm sure, of my husband's doing anything for her;\nand I never dreamed of it either, for he never spoke to me of his\nintention,\" Mrs. Touchett said. \"She had no claim upon him whatever; it\nwas no great recommendation to him that she was my niece. Whatever she\nachieved she achieved unconsciously.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" rejoined Madame Merle, \"those are the greatest strokes!\" Mrs.\nTouchett reserved her opinion. \"The girl's fortunate; I don't deny that.\nBut for the present she's simply stupefied.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that she doesn't know what to do with the money?\"\n\n\"That, I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn't know what to\nthink about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gun were suddenly\nfired off behind her; she's feeling herself to see if she be hurt. It's\nbut three days since she received a visit from the principal executor,\nwho came in person, very gallantly, to notify her. He told me afterwards\nthat when he had made his little speech she suddenly burst into tears.\nThe money's to remain in the affairs of the bank, and she's to draw the\ninterest.\"\n\nMadame Merle shook her head with a wise and now quite benignant smile.\n\"How very delicious! After she has done that two or three times she'll\nget used to it.\" Then after a silence, \"What does your son think of it?\"\nshe abruptly asked.\n\n\"He left England before the will was read--used up by his fatigue and\nanxiety and hurrying off to the south. He's on his way to the Riviera\nand I've not yet heard from him. But it's not likely he'll ever object\nto anything done by his father.\"\n\n\"Didn't you say his own share had been cut down?\"\n\n\"Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do something for\nthe people in America. He's not in the least addicted to looking after\nnumber one.\"\n\n\"It depends upon whom he regards as number one!\" said Madame Merle. And\nshe remained thoughtful a moment, her eyes bent on the floor.\n\n\"Am I not to see your happy niece?\" she asked at last as she raised\nthem.\n\n\"You may see her; but you'll not be struck with her being happy. She\nhas looked as solemn, these three days, as a Cimabue Madonna!\" And Mrs.\nTouchett rang for a servant.\n\nIsabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to call her; and\nMadame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs. Touchett's comparison\nhad its force. The girl was pale and grave--an effect not mitigated by\nher deeper mourning; but the smile of her brightest moments came into\nher face as she saw Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on our\nheroine's shoulder and, after looking at her a moment, kissed her as if\nshe were returning the kiss she had received from her at Gardencourt.\nThis was the only allusion the visitor, in her great good taste, made\nfor the present to her young friend's inheritance.\n\nMrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the sale of her\nhouse. After selecting from among its furniture the objects she wished\nto transport to her other abode, she left the rest of its contents to be\ndisposed of by the auctioneer and took her departure for the Continent.\nShe was of course accompanied on this journey by her niece, who now had\nplenty of leisure to measure and weigh and otherwise handle the windfall\non which Madame Merle had covertly congratulated her. Isabel thought\nvery often of the fact of her accession of means, looking at it in a\ndozen different lights; but we shall not now attempt to follow her train\nof thought or to explain exactly why her new consciousness was at first\noppressive. This failure to rise to immediate joy was indeed but brief;\nthe girl presently made up her mind that to be rich was a virtue because\nit was to be able to do, and that to do could only be sweet. It was\nthe graceful contrary of the stupid side of weakness--especially the\nfeminine variety. To be weak was, for a delicate young person, rather\ngraceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself, there was a larger\ngrace than that. Just now, it is true, there was not much to do--once\nshe had sent off a cheque to Lily and another to poor Edith; but she was\nthankful for the quiet months which her mourning robes and her aunt's\nfresh widowhood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition of\npower made her serious; she scrutinised her power with a kind of tender\nferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She began to do so during\na stay of some weeks which she eventually made with her aunt in Paris,\nthough in ways that will inevitably present themselves as trivial. They\nwere the ways most naturally imposed in a city in which the shops are\nthe admiration of the world, and that were prescribed unreservedly by\nthe guidance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly practical view of the\ntransformation of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one. \"Now that\nyou're a young woman of fortune you must know how to play the part--I\nmean to play it well,\" she said to Isabel once for all; and she added\nthat the girl's first duty was to have everything handsome. \"You don't\nknow how to take care of your things, but you must learn,\" she went on;\nthis was Isabel's second duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present\nher imagination was not kindled; she longed for opportunities, but these\nwere not the opportunities she meant.\n\nMrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having intended before her\nhusband's death to spend a part of the winter in Paris, saw no reason to\ndeprive herself--still less to deprive her companion--of this advantage.\nThough they would live in great retirement she might still present\nher niece, informally, to the little circle of her fellow countrymen\ndwelling upon the skirts of the Champs Elysees. With many of these\namiable colonists Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared their\nexpatriation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui. Isabel\nsaw them arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt's hotel, and\npronounced on them with a trenchancy doubtless to be accounted for by\nthe temporary exaltation of her sense of human duty. She made up her\nmind that their lives were, though luxurious, inane, and incurred some\ndisfavour by expressing this view on bright Sunday afternoons, when the\nAmerican absentees were engaged in calling on each other. Though her\nlisteners passed for people kept exemplarily genial by their cooks and\ndressmakers, two or three of them thought her cleverness, which was\ngenerally admitted, inferior to that of the new theatrical pieces. \"You\nall live here this way, but what does it lead to?\" she was pleased to\nask. \"It doesn't seem to lead to anything, and I should think you'd get\nvery tired of it.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of Henrietta Stackpole. The\ntwo ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and Isabel constantly saw her;\nso that Mrs. Touchett had some reason for saying to herself that if her\nniece were not clever enough to originate almost anything, she might be\nsuspected of having borrowed that style of remark from her journalistic\nfriend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was that of\na visit paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend of Mrs.\nTouchett's and the only person in Paris she now went to see. Mrs. Luce\nhad been living in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe; she used to\nsay jocosely that she was one of the generation of 1830--a joke of\nwhich the point was not always taken. When it failed Mrs. Luce used to\nexplain--\"Oh yes, I'm one of the romantics;\" her French had never\nbecome quite perfect. She was always at home on Sunday afternoons and\nsurrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same. In fact she\nwas at home at all times, and reproduced with wondrous truth in her\nwell-cushioned little corner of the brilliant city, the domestic tone of\nher native Baltimore. This reduced Mr. Luce, her worthy husband, a tall,\nlean, grizzled, well-brushed gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass and\ncarried his hat a little too much on the back of his head, to mere\nplatonic praise of the \"distractions\" of Paris--they were his great\nword--since you would never have guessed from what cares he escaped to\nthem. One of them was that he went every day to the American banker's,\nwhere he found a post-office that was almost as sociable and colloquial\nan institution as in an American country town. He passed an hour (in\nfine weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined uncommonly\nwell at his own table, seated above a waxed floor which it was Mrs.\nLuce's happiness to believe had a finer polish than any other in the\nFrench capital. Occasionally he dined with a friend or two at the Cafe\nAnglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was a source of felicity\nto his companions and an object of admiration even to the headwaiter\nof the establishment. These were his only known pastimes, but they had\nbeguiled his hours for upwards of half a century, and they doubtless\njustified his frequent declaration that there was no place like Paris.\nIn no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flatter himself that\nhe was enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris, but it must be\nconfessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of this scene of his\ndissipations than in earlier days. In the list of his resources his\npolitical reflections should not be omitted, for they were doubtless the\nanimating principle of many hours that superficially seemed vacant.\nLike many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce was a high--or rather a\ndeep--conservative, and gave no countenance to the government lately\nestablished in France. He had no faith in its duration and would assure\nyou from year to year that its end was close at hand. \"They want to be\nkept down, sir, to be kept down; nothing but the strong hand--the iron\nheel--will do for them,\" he would frequently say of the French people;\nand his ideal of a fine showy clever rule was that of the superseded\nEmpire. \"Paris is much less attractive than in the days of the Emperor;\nHE knew how to make a city pleasant,\" Mr. Luce had often remarked to\nMrs. Touchett, who was quite of his own way of thinking and wished to\nknow what one had crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from\nrepublics.\n\n\"Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite to the Palace of\nIndustry, I've seen the court-carriages from the Tuileries pass up and\ndown as many as seven times a day. I remember one occasion when they\nwent as high as nine. What do you see now? It's no use talking, the\nstyle's all gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, and\nthere'll be a dark cloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the Empire\nback again.\"\n\nAmong Mrs. Luce's visitors on Sunday afternoons was a young man with\nwhom Isabel had had a good deal of conversation and whom she found\nfull of valuable knowledge. Mr. Edward Rosier--Ned Rosier as he was\ncalled--was native to New York and had been brought up in Paris, living\nthere under the eye of his father who, as it happened, had been an early\nand intimate friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier remembered\nIsabel as a little girl; it had been his father who came to the rescue\nof the small Archers at the inn at Neufchatel (he was travelling that\nway with the boy and had stopped at the hotel by chance), after their\nbonne had gone off with the Russian prince and when Mr. Archer's\nwhereabouts remained for some days a mystery. Isabel remembered\nperfectly the neat little male child whose hair smelt of a delicious\ncosmetic and who had a bonne all his own, warranted to lose sight of him\nunder no provocation. Isabel took a walk with the pair beside the lake\nand thought little Edward as pretty as an angel--a comparison by no\nmeans conventional in her mind, for she had a very definite conception\nof a type of features which she supposed to be angelic and which her\nnew friend perfectly illustrated. A small pink face surmounted by a blue\nvelvet bonnet and set off by a stiff embroidered collar had become the\ncountenance of her childish dreams; and she had firmly believed for some\ntime afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversed among themselves in\na queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properest\nsentiments, as when Edward told her that he was \"defended\" by his bonne\nto go near the edge of the lake, and that one must always obey to one's\nbonne. Ned Rosier's English had improved; at least it exhibited in a\nless degree the French variation. His father was dead and his bonne\ndismissed, but the young man still conformed to the spirit of their\nteaching--he never went to the edge of the lake. There was still\nsomething agreeable to the nostrils about him and something not\noffensive to nobler organs. He was a very gentle and gracious youth,\nwith what are called cultivated tastes--an acquaintance with old china,\nwith good wine, with the bindings of books, with the Almanach de Gotha,\nwith the best shops, the best hotels, the hours of railway-trains. He\ncould order a dinner almost as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable\nthat as his experience accumulated he would be a worthy successor to\nthat gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocated in a soft\nand innocent voice. He had some charming rooms in Paris, decorated with\nold Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his female friends, who declared\nthat his chimney-piece was better draped than the high shoulders of many\na duchess. He usually, however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, and\nhad once passed a couple of months in the United States.\n\nHe took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk at\nNeufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He seemed\nto recognise this same tendency in the subversive enquiry that I quoted\na moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine's question with\ngreater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. \"What does it lead to, Miss\nArcher? Why Paris leads everywhere. You can't go anywhere unless you\ncome here first. Every one that comes to Europe has got to pass through.\nYou don't mean it in that sense so much? You mean what good it does you?\nWell, how can you penetrate futurity? How can you tell what lies ahead?\nIf it's a pleasant road I don't care where it leads. I like the road,\nMiss Archer; I like the dear old asphalte. You can't get tired of\nit--you can't if you try. You think you would, but you wouldn't;\nthere's always something new and fresh. Take the Hotel Drouot, now;\nthey sometimes have three and four sales a week. Where can you get such\nthings as you can here? In spite of all they say I maintain they're\ncheaper too, if you know the right places. I know plenty of places,\nbut I keep them to myself. I'll tell you, if you like, as a particular\nfavour; only you mustn't tell any one else. Don't you go anywhere\nwithout asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As a general\nthing avoid the Boulevards; there's very little to be done on the\nBoulevards. Speaking conscientiously--sans blague--I don't believe\nany one knows Paris better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come and\nbreakfast with me some day, and I'll show you my things; je ne vous dis\nque ca! There has been a great deal of talk about London of late; it's\nthe fashion to cry up London. But there's nothing in it--you can't\ndo anything in London. No Louis Quinze--nothing of the First Empire;\nnothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It's good for one's bed-room,\nQueen Anne--for one's washing-room; but it isn't proper for a salon. Do\nI spend my life at the auctioneer's?\" Mr. Rosier pursued in answer to\nanother question of Isabel's. \"Oh no; I haven't the means. I wish I\nhad. You think I'm a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of your\nface--you've got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don't mind\nmy saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to do\nsomething, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when you\ncome to the point you see you have to stop. I can't go home and be\na shopkeeper. You think I'm very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you\noverrate me. I can buy very well, but I can't sell; you should see when\nI sometimes try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability to\nmake other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever they\nmust be, the people who make ME buy! Ah no; I couldn't be a shopkeeper.\nI can't be a doctor; it's a repulsive business. I can't be a clergyman;\nI haven't got convictions. And then I can't pronounce the names right in\nthe Bible. They're very difficult, in the Old Testament particularly. I\ncan't be a lawyer; I don't understand--how do you call it?--the American\nprocedure. Is there anything else? There's nothing for a gentleman\nin America. I should like to be a diplomatist; but American\ndiplomacy--that's not for gentlemen either. I'm sure if you had seen the\nlast min--\"\n\nHenrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr. Rosier,\ncoming to pay his compliments late in the afternoon, expressed himself\nafter the fashion I have sketched, usually interrupted the young man at\nthis point and read him a lecture on the duties of the American citizen.\nShe thought him most unnatural; he was worse than poor Ralph Touchett.\nHenrietta, however, was at this time more than ever addicted to fine\ncriticism, for her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regards\nIsabel. She had not congratulated this young lady on her augmentations\nand begged to be excused from doing so.\n\n\"If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the money,\" she\nfrankly asserted, \"I'd have said to him 'Never!\"\n\n\"I see,\" Isabel had answered. \"You think it will prove a curse in\ndisguise. Perhaps it will.\"\n\n\"Leave it to some one you care less for--that's what I should have\nsaid.\"\n\n\"To yourself for instance?\" Isabel suggested jocosely. And then, \"Do you\nreally believe it will ruin me?\" she asked in quite another tone.\n\n\"I hope it won't ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your dangerous\ntendencies.\"\n\n\"Do you mean the love of luxury--of extravagance?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Henrietta; \"I mean your exposure on the moral side. I\napprove of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Look\nat the luxury of our western cities; I've seen nothing over here to\ncompare with it. I hope you'll never become grossly sensual; but I'm not\nafraid of that. The peril for you is that you live too much in the world\nof your own dreams. You're not enough in contact with reality--with\nthe toiling, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world\nthat surrounds you. You're too fastidious; you've too many graceful\nillusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more and\nmore to the society of a few selfish and heartless people who will be\ninterested in keeping them up.\"\n\nIsabel's eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene. \"What are my\nillusions?\" she asked. \"I try so hard not to have any.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Henrietta, \"you think you can lead a romantic life, that\nyou can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You'll find\nyou're mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it--to\nmake any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that it\nceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And you\ncan't always please yourself; you must sometimes please other people.\nThat, I admit, you're very ready to do; but there's another thing that's\nstill more important--you must often displease others. You must always\nbe ready for that--you must never shrink from it. That doesn't suit you\nat all--you're too fond of admiration, you like to be thought well\nof. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic\nviews--that's your great illusion, my dear. But we can't. You must be\nprepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all--not even\nyourself.\"\n\nIsabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled and frightened. \"This,\nfor you, Henrietta,\" she said, \"must be one of those occasions!\"\n\nIt was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to Paris,\nwhich had been professionally more remunerative than her English\nsojourn, had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr. Bantling, who\nhad now returned to England, was her companion for the first four weeks\nof her stay; and about Mr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabel\nlearned from her friend that the two had led a life of great personal\nintimacy and that this had been a peculiar advantage to Henrietta,\nowing to the gentleman's remarkable knowledge of Paris. He had\nexplained everything, shown her everything, been her constant guide and\ninterpreter. They had breakfasted together, dined together, gone to\nthe theatre together, supped together, really in a manner quite lived\ntogether. He was a true friend, Henrietta more than once assured our\nheroine; and she had never supposed that she could like any Englishman\nso well. Isabel could not have told you why, but she found something\nthat ministered to mirth in the alliance the correspondent of the\nInterviewer had struck with Lady Pensil's brother; her amusement\nmoreover subsisted in face of the fact that she thought it a credit to\neach of them. Isabel couldn't rid herself of a suspicion that they were\nplaying somehow at cross-purposes--that the simplicity of each had\nbeen entrapped. But this simplicity was on either side none the less\nhonourable. It was as graceful on Henrietta's part to believe that Mr.\nBantling took an interest in the diffusion of lively journalism and in\nconsolidating the position of lady-correspondents as it was on the\npart of his companion to suppose that the cause of the Interviewer--a\nperiodical of which he never formed a very definite conception--was, if\nsubtly analysed (a task to which Mr. Bantling felt himself quite equal),\nbut the cause of Miss Stackpole's need of demonstrative affection. Each\nof these groping celibates supplied at any rate a want of which the\nother was impatiently conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slow\nand a discursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, who\ncharmed him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye and a kind of\nbandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a mind\nto which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta, on the other\nhand, enjoyed the society of a gentleman who appeared somehow, in his\nway, made, by expensive, roundabout, almost \"quaint\" processes, for\nher use, and whose leisured state, though generally indefensible, was a\ndecided boon to a breathless mate, and who was furnished with an easy,\ntraditional, though by no means exhaustive, answer to almost any social\nor practical question that could come up. She often found Mr. Bantling's\nanswers very convenient, and in the press of catching the American post\nwould largely and showily address them to publicity. It was to be feared\nthat she was indeed drifting toward those abysses of sophistication as\nto which Isabel, wishing for a good-humoured retort, had warned her.\nThere might be danger in store for Isabel; but it was scarcely to be\nhoped that Miss Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent rest in any\nadoption of the views of a class pledged to all the old abuses. Isabel\ncontinued to warn her good-humouredly; Lady Pensil's obliging brother\nwas sometimes, on our heroine's lips, an object of irreverent and\nfacetious allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta's\namiability on this point; she used to abound in the sense of Isabel's\nirony and to enumerate with elation the hours she had spent with this\nperfect man of the world--a term that had ceased to make with her, as\npreviously, for opprobrium. Then, a few moments later, she would forget\nthat they had been talking jocosely and would mention with impulsive\nearnestness some expedition she had enjoyed in his company. She would\nsay: \"Oh, I know all about Versailles; I went there with Mr. Bantling. I\nwas bound to see it thoroughly--I warned him when we went out there that\nI was thorough: so we spent three days at the hotel and wandered all\nover the place. It was lovely weather--a kind of Indian summer, only not\nso good. We just lived in that park. Oh yes; you can't tell me anything\nabout Versailles.\" Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements to meet\nher gallant friend during the spring in Italy.\n\n\n\n\n\nMrs. Touchett, before arriving in Paris, had fixed the day for her\ndeparture and by the middle of February had begun to travel southward.\nShe interrupted her journey to pay a visit to her son, who at San Remo,\non the Italian shore of the Mediterranean, had been spending a dull,\nbright winter beneath a slow-moving white umbrella. Isabel went with her\naunt as a matter of course, though Mrs. Touchett, with homely, customary\nlogic, had laid before her a pair of alternatives.\n\n\"Now, of course, you're completely your own mistress and are as free as\nthe bird on the bough. I don't mean you were not so before, but you're\nat present on a different footing--property erects a kind of barrier.\nYou can do a great many things if you're rich which would be severely\ncriticised if you were poor. You can go and come, you can travel alone,\nyou can have your own establishment: I mean of course if you'll take\na companion--some decayed gentlewoman, with a darned cashmere and dyed\nhair, who paints on velvet. You don't think you'd like that? Of course\nyou can do as you please; I only want you to understand how much you're\nat liberty. You might take Miss Stackpole as your dame de compagnie;\nshe'd keep people off very well. I think, however, that it's a great\ndeal better you should remain with me, in spite of there being no\nobligation. It's better for several reasons, quite apart from your\nliking it. I shouldn't think you'd like it, but I recommend you to make\nthe sacrifice. Of course whatever novelty there may have been at first\nin my society has quite passed away, and you see me as I am--a dull,\nobstinate, narrow-minded old woman.\"\n\n\"I don't think you're at all dull,\" Isabel had replied to this.\n\n\"But you do think I'm obstinate and narrow-minded? I told you so!\" said\nMrs. Touchett with much elation at being justified.\n\nIsabel remained for the present with her aunt, because, in spite of\neccentric impulses, she had a great regard for what was usually deemed\ndecent, and a young gentlewoman without visible relations had always\nstruck her as a flower without foliage. It was true that Mrs. Touchett's\nconversation had never again appeared so brilliant as that first\nafternoon in Albany, when she sat in her damp waterproof and sketched\nthe opportunities that Europe would offer to a young person of taste.\nThis, however, was in a great measure the girl's own fault; she had\ngot a glimpse of her aunt's experience, and her imagination constantly\nanticipated the judgements and emotions of a woman who had very little\nof the same faculty. Apart from this, Mrs. Touchett had a great merit;\nshe was as honest as a pair of compasses. There was a comfort in her\nstiffness and firmness; you knew exactly where to find her and were\nnever liable to chance encounters and concussions. On her own ground\nshe was perfectly present, but was never over-inquisitive as regards\nthe territory of her neighbour. Isabel came at last to have a kind of\nundemonstrable pity for her; there seemed something so dreary in\nthe condition of a person whose nature had, as it were, so little\nsurface--offered so limited a face to the accretions of human contact.\nNothing tender, nothing sympathetic, had ever had a chance to fasten\nupon it--no wind-sown blossom, no familiar softening moss. Her offered,\nher passive extent, in other words, was about that of a knife-edge.\nIsabel had reason to believe none the less that as she advanced in life\nshe made more of those concessions to the sense of something obscurely\ndistinct from convenience--more of them than she independently exacted.\nShe was learning to sacrifice consistency to considerations of that\ninferior order for which the excuse must be found in the particular\ncase. It was not to the credit of her absolute rectitude that she should\nhave gone the longest way round to Florence in order to spend a few\nweeks with her invalid son; since in former years it had been one of her\nmost definite convictions that when Ralph wished to see her he was at\nliberty to remember that Palazzo Crescentini contained a large apartment\nknown as the quarter of the signorino.\n\n\"I want to ask you something,\" Isabel said to this young man the day\nafter her arrival at San Remo--\"something I've thought more than once\nof asking you by letter, but that I've hesitated on the whole to write\nabout. Face to face, nevertheless, my question seems easy enough. Did\nyou know your father intended to leave me so much money?\"\n\nRalph stretched his legs a little further than usual and gazed a little\nmore fixedly at the Mediterranean.\n\n\"What does it matter, my dear Isabel, whether I knew? My father was very\nobstinate.\"\n\n\"So,\" said the girl, \"you did know.\"\n\n\"Yes; he told me. We even talked it over a little.\" \"What did he do it\nfor?\" asked Isabel abruptly. \"Why, as a kind of compliment.\"\n\n\"A compliment on what?\"\n\n\"On your so beautifully existing.\"\n\n\"He liked me too much,\" she presently declared.\n\n\"That's a way we all have.\"\n\n\"If I believed that I should be very unhappy. Fortunately I don't\nbelieve it. I want to be treated with justice; I want nothing but that.\"\n\n\"Very good. But you must remember that justice to a lovely being is\nafter all a florid sort of sentiment.\"\n\n\"I'm not a lovely being. How can you say that, at the very moment when\nI'm asking such odious questions? I must seem to you delicate!\"\n\n\"You seem to me troubled,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"I am troubled.\"\n\n\"About what?\"\n\nFor a moment she answered nothing; then she broke out: \"Do you think it\ngood for me suddenly to be made so rich? Henrietta doesn't.\"\n\n\"Oh, hang Henrietta!\" said Ralph coarsely, \"If you ask me I'm delighted\nat it.\"\n\n\"Is that why your father did it--for your amusement?\"\n\n\"I differ with Miss Stackpole,\" Ralph went on more gravely. \"I think it\nvery good for you to have means.\"\n\nIsabel looked at him with serious eyes. \"I wonder whether you know\nwhat's good for me--or whether you care.\"\n\n\"If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is? Not to\ntorment yourself.\"\n\n\"Not to torment you, I suppose you mean.\"\n\n\"You can't do that; I'm proof. Take things more easily. Don't ask\nyourself so much whether this or that is good for you. Don't question\nyour conscience so much--it will get out of tune like a strummed\npiano. Keep it for great occasions. Don't try so much to form your\ncharacter--it's like trying to pull open a tight, tender young rose.\nLive as you like best, and your character will take care of itself. Most\nthings are good for you; the exceptions are very rare, and a comfortable\nincome's not one of them.\" Ralph paused, smiling; Isabel had listened\nquickly. \"You've too much power of thought--above all too much\nconscience,\" Ralph added. \"It's out of all reason, the number of things\nyou think wrong. Put back your watch. Diet your fever. Spread your\nwings; rise above the ground. It's never wrong to do that.\"\n\nShe had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature to understand\nquickly. \"I wonder if you appreciate what you say. If you do, you take a\ngreat responsibility.\"\n\n\"You frighten me a little, but I think I'm right,\" said Ralph,\npersisting in cheer.\n\n\"All the same what you say is very true,\" Isabel pursued. \"You could say\nnothing more true. I'm absorbed in myself--I look at life too much as\na doctor's prescription. Why indeed should we perpetually be thinking\nwhether things are good for us, as if we were patients lying in a\nhospital? Why should I be so afraid of not doing right? As if it\nmattered to the world whether I do right or wrong!\"\n\n\"You're a capital person to advise,\" said Ralph; \"you take the wind out\nof my sails!\"\n\nShe looked at him as if she had not heard him--though she was following\nout the train of reflexion which he himself had kindled. \"I try to\ncare more about the world than about myself--but I always come back to\nmyself. It's because I'm afraid.\" She stopped; her voice had trembled\na little. \"Yes, I'm afraid; I can't tell you. A large fortune means\nfreedom, and I'm afraid of that. It's such a fine thing, and one should\nmake such a good use of it. If one shouldn't one would be ashamed. And\none must keep thinking; it's a constant effort. I'm not sure it's not a\ngreater happiness to be powerless.\"\n\n\"For weak people I've no doubt it's a greater happiness. For weak people\nthe effort not to be contemptible must be great.\"\n\n\"And how do you know I'm not weak?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Ah,\" Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, \"if you are I'm\nawfully sold!\"\n\nThe charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our heroine\non acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, the gate of\nadmirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt, stretched before\nher as a land of promise, a land in which a love of the beautiful might\nbe comforted by endless knowledge. Whenever she strolled upon the shore\nwith her cousin--and she was the companion of his daily walk--she looked\nacross the sea, with longing eyes, to where she knew that Genoa lay. She\nwas glad to pause, however, on the edge of this larger adventure; there\nwas such a thrill even in the preliminary hovering. It affected her\nmoreover as a peaceful interlude, as a hush of the drum and fife in a\ncareer which she had little warrant as yet for regarding as agitated,\nbut which nevertheless she was constantly picturing to herself by\nthe light of her hopes, her fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her\npredilections, and which reflected these subjective accidents in\na manner sufficiently dramatic. Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs.\nTouchett that after their young friend had put her hand into her pocket\nhalf a dozen times she would be reconciled to the idea that it had been\nfilled by a munificent uncle; and the event justified, as it had so\noften justified before, that lady's perspicacity. Ralph Touchett had\npraised his cousin for being morally inflammable, that is for being\nquick to take a hint that was meant as good advice. His advice had\nperhaps helped the matter; she had at any rate before leaving San Remo\ngrown used to feeling rich. The consciousness in question found a\nproper place in rather a dense little group of ideas that she had about\nherself, and often it was by no means the least agreeable. It took\nperpetually for granted a thousand good intentions. She lost herself in\na maze of visions; the fine things to be done by a rich, independent,\ngenerous girl who took a large human view of occasions and obligations\nwere sublime in the mass. Her fortune therefore became to her mind a\npart of her better self; it gave her importance, gave her even, to her\nown imagination, a certain ideal beauty. What it did for her in the\nimagination of others is another affair, and on this point we must also\ntouch in time. The visions I have just spoken of were mixed with other\ndebates. Isabel liked better to think of the future than of the past;\nbut at times, as she listened to the murmur of the Mediterranean waves,\nher glance took a backward flight. It rested upon two figures which, in\nspite of increasing distance, were still sufficiently salient; they were\nrecognisable without difficulty as those of Caspar Goodwood and Lord\nWarburton. It was strange how quickly these images of energy had fallen\ninto the background of our young lady's life. It was in her disposition\nat all times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she could\nsummon back her faith, in case of need, with an effort, but the effort\nwas often painful even when the reality had been pleasant. The past was\napt to look dead and its revival rather to show the livid light of a\njudgement-day. The girl moreover was not prone to take for granted that\nshe herself lived in the mind of others--she had not the fatuity to\nbelieve she left indelible traces. She was capable of being wounded by\nthe discovery that she had been forgotten; but of all liberties the one\nshe herself found sweetest was the liberty to forget. She had not given\nher last shilling, sentimentally speaking, either to Caspar Goodwood or\nto Lord Warburton, and yet couldn't but feel them appreciably in debt\nto her. She had of course reminded herself that she was to hear from Mr.\nGoodwood again; but this was not to be for another year and a half, and\nin that time a great many things might happen. She had indeed failed to\nsay to herself that her American suitor might find some other girl more\ncomfortable to woo; because, though it was certain many other girls\nwould prove so, she had not the smallest belief that this merit\nwould attract him. But she reflected that she herself might know the\nhumiliation of change, might really, for that matter, come to the end of\nthe things that were not Caspar (even though there appeared so many of\nthem), and find rest in those very elements of his presence which struck\nher now as impediments to the finer respiration. It was conceivable\nthat these impediments should some day prove a sort of blessing\nin disguise--a clear and quiet harbour enclosed by a brave granite\nbreakwater. But that day could only come in its order, and she couldn't\nwait for it with folded hands. That Lord Warburton should continue\nto cherish her image seemed to her more than a noble humility or an\nenlightened pride ought to wish to reckon with. She had so definitely\nundertaken to preserve no record of what had passed between them that a\ncorresponding effort on his own part would be eminently just. This\nwas not, as it may seem, merely a theory tinged with sarcasm. Isabel\ncandidly believed that his lordship would, in the usual phrase, get over\nhis disappointment. He had been deeply affected--this she believed, and\nshe was still capable of deriving pleasure from the belief; but it\nwas absurd that a man both so intelligent and so honourably dealt with\nshould cultivate a scar out of proportion to any wound. Englishmen\nliked moreover to be comfortable, said Isabel, and there could be\nlittle comfort for Lord Warburton, in the long run, in brooding over a\nself-sufficient American girl who had been but a casual acquaintance.\nShe flattered herself that, should she hear from one day to another that\nhe had married some young woman of his own country who had done more\nto deserve him, she should receive the news without a pang even of\nsurprise. It would have proved that he believed she was firm--which was\nwhat she wished to seem to him. That alone was grateful to her pride.\n\n\n\n\n\nOn one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr.\nTouchett's death, a small group that might have been described by a\npainter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of an\nancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gate\nof Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, with\nthe far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that\nencircle Florence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmonious\na rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses that usually\nrise in groups of three or four beside it. The house had a front upon\na little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupied a part of the\nhill-top; and this front, pierced with a few windows in irregular\nrelations and furnished with a stone bench lengthily adjusted to the\nbase of the structure and useful as a lounging-place to one or two\npersons wearing more or less of that air of undervalued merit which in\nItaly, for some reason or other, always gracefully invests any one who\nconfidently assumes a perfectly passive attitude--this antique,\nsolid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommunicative\ncharacter. It was the mask, not the face of the house. It had heavy\nlids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another way--looked off\nbehind, into splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light.\nIn that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the long\nvalley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in\nthe manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses\nand other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of the\nterrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the ground\ndeclined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not,\nhowever, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on this\nbright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer the\nshady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you saw\nthem from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremely\narchitectural; but their function seemed less to offer communication\nwith the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massively\ncross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on\ntiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by a\nrow of three of these jealous apertures--one of the several distinct\napartments into which the villa was divided and which were mainly\noccupied by foreigners of random race long resident in Florence--a\ngentleman was seated in company with a young girl and two good sisters\nfrom a religious house. The room was, however, less sombre than our\nindications may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, which\nnow stood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall iron\nlattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italian\nsunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury, telling\nof arrangements subtly studied and refinements frankly proclaimed, and\ncontaining a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry,\nthose chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angular\nspecimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, those\nperverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy\nhas long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept\nterms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had\nbeen made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the\nchairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a\nwriting-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London\nand the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines\nand newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in\nwater-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel\nbefore which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young\ngirl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture\nin silence.\n\nSilence--absolute silence--had not fallen upon her companions; but their\ntalk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sisters\nhad not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitude\nexpressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of\nprudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of\nbusiness-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened\nlinen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an\nadvantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a\nfresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner\nthan her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which\napparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her\nhat--an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her\nplain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must already\nhave been \"let out.\" The gentleman who might have been supposed to be\nentertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of\nhis function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the very\nmeek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly much\noccupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back to\nhim his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man of\nforty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense,\nbut prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow,\nextremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just\nthis effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to\nwhich the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut\nin the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted\nby a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish,\ngave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a\ngentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyes\nat once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of\nthe observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that\nhe studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he\nsought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine\nhis original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs\nthat usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one.\nIf he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some\nFrench or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he\nwas, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general\ncirculation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a\nspecial occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure,\nand was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man\ndresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar\nthings.\n\n\"Well, my dear, what do you think of it?\" he asked of the young girl. He\nused the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would\nnot have convinced you he was Italian.\n\nThe child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. \"It's\nvery pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?\"\n\n\"Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?\"\n\n\"Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures.\" And\nshe turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and\nintensely sweet smile.\n\n\"You should have brought me a specimen of your powers.\"\n\n\"I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk.\"\n\n\"She draws very--very carefully,\" the elder of the nuns remarked,\nspeaking in French.\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?\"\n\n\"Happily no,\" said the good sister, blushing a little. \"Ce n'est pas ma\npartie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've an\nexcellent drawing-master, Mr.--Mr.--what is his name?\" she asked of her\ncompanion.\n\nHer companion looked about at the carpet. \"It's a German name,\" she said\nin Italian, as if it needed to be translated.\n\n\"Yes,\" the other went on, \"he's a German, and we've had him many years.\"\n\nThe young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away\nto the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden.\n\"And you, my sister, are French,\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" the visitor gently replied. \"I speak to the pupils in my\nown tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other\ncountries--English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper\nlanguage.\"\n\nThe gentleman gave a smile. \"Has my daughter been under the care of one\nof the Irish ladies?\" And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected\na joke, though failing to understand it, \"You're very complete,\" he\ninstantly added.\n\n\"Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of the\nbest.\"\n\n\"We have gymnastics,\" the Italian sister ventured to remark. \"But not\ndangerous.\"\n\n\"I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?\" A question which provoked much candid\nhilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their\nentertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown.\n\n\"Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain--not big,\" said the\nFrench sister.\n\n\"I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books--very good and not too long.\nBut I know,\" the gentleman said, \"no particular reason why my child\nshould be short.\"\n\nThe nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might\nbe beyond our knowledge. \"She's in very good health; that's the best\nthing.\"\n\n\"Yes, she looks sound.\" And the young girl's father watched her a\nmoment. \"What do you see in the garden?\" he asked in French.\n\n\"I see many flowers,\" she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an\naccent as good as his own.\n\n\"Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and\ngather some for ces dames.\"\n\nThe child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. \"May I,\ntruly?\"\n\n\"Ah, when I tell you,\" said her father.\n\nThe girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. \"May I, truly, ma mere?\"\n\n\"Obey monsieur your father, my child,\" said the sister, blushing again.\n\nThe child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the\nthreshold and was presently lost to sight. \"You don't spoil them,\" said\nher father gaily.\n\n\"For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is freely\ngranted, but they must ask it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent. I\nsent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith.\"\n\n\"One must have faith,\" the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her\nspectacles.\n\n\"Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?\"\n\nThe sister dropped her eyes a moment. \"A good Christian, monsieur.\"\n\nHer host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement\nhad in each case a different spring. \"Yes, and what else?\"\n\nHe watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say\nthat a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she\nwas not so crude as that. \"A charming young lady--a real little woman--a\ndaughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment.\"\n\n\"She seems to me very gentille,\" said the father. \"She's really pretty.\"\n\n\"She's perfect. She has no faults.\"\n\n\"She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her none.\"\n\n\"We love her too much,\" said the spectacled sister with dignity.\n\n\"And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'est\npas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say. We've\nhad her since she was so small.\"\n\n\"Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss most,\"\nthe younger woman murmured deferentially.\n\n\"Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her,\" said the other. \"We shall hold her\nup to the new ones.\" And at this the good sister appeared to find her\nspectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently\ndrew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.\n\n\"It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet,\" their host\nrejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone\nof a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. \"We should be very\nhappy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used,\n\"it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her\nalways!\"\n\n\"Ah, monsieur,\" said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, \"good as\nshe is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera.\"\n\n\"If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world\nget on?\" her companion softly enquired, rising also.\n\nThis was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently\nsupposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying\ncomfortably: \"Fortunately there are good people everywhere.\"\n\n\"If you're going there will be two less here,\" her host remarked\ngallantly.\n\nFor this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they\nsimply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion\nwas speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large\nbunches of roses--one of them all white, the other red.\n\n\"I give you your choice, mamman Catherine,\" said the child. \"It's only\nthe colour that's different, mamman Justine; there are just as many\nroses in one bunch as in the other.\"\n\nThe two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with\n\"Which will you take?\" and \"No, it's for you to choose.\"\n\n\"I'll take the red, thank you,\" said Catherine in the spectacles. \"I'm\nso red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to Rome.\"\n\n\"Ah, they won't last,\" cried the young girl. \"I wish I could give you\nsomething that would last!\"\n\n\"You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will\nlast!\"\n\n\"I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,\"\nthe child went on.\n\n\"And do you go back to Rome to-night?\" her father enquired.\n\n\"Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas.\"\n\n\"Are you not tired?\"\n\n\"We are never tired.\"\n\n\"Ah, my sister, sometimes,\" murmured the junior votaress.\n\n\"Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vous\ngarde, ma fine.\"\n\nTheir host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward\nto open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he\ngave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened\ninto a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red\ntiles; and into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by a\nservant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the\napartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door,\nafter dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady\nadvanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her no\nhand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold\nshe hesitated. \"Is there any one?\" she asked.\n\n\"Some one you may see.\"\n\nShe went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their\npupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of\neach. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who\nhad also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little\nsoft cry: \"Ah, Madame Merle!\"\n\nThe visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant\nwas none the less gracious. \"Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you\nhome.\" And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up\nto her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this\nportion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two\nnuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted\nthemselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who\nseemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer\nworld. \"These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return\nto the convent,\" the gentleman explained.\n\n\"Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very lovely\nnow,\" said Madame Merle.\n\nThe good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves,\naccepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked\nhis new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. \"She came to\nsee me at the convent,\" said the young girl before the lady addressed\nhad time to reply.\n\n\"I've been more than once, Pansy,\" Madame Merle declared. \"Am I not your\ngreat friend in Rome?\"\n\n\"I remember the last time best,\" said Pansy, \"because you told me I\nshould come away.\"\n\n\"Did you tell her that?\" the child's father asked.\n\n\"I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've\nbeen in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me.\"\n\n\"I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't know\nsuch things by inspiration--though I suppose one ought. You had better\nsit down.\"\n\nThese two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice--a tone\nhalf-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any\ndefinite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. \"You're\ngoing to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the\nceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames,\" she added, in French, to the nuns,\nas if to dismiss them.\n\n\"This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the\nconvent,\" said their entertainer. \"We've much faith in her judgement,\nand she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at\nthe end of the holidays.\"\n\n\"I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame,\" the sister in spectacles\nventured to remark.\n\n\"That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing,\" said Madame Merle,\nbut also as in pleasantry. \"I believe you've a very good school, but\nMiss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant for\nthe world.\"\n\n\"That's what I've told monsieur,\" sister Catherine answered. \"It's\nprecisely to fit her for the world,\" she murmured, glancing at Pansy,\nwho stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegant\napparel.\n\n\"Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world,\"\nsaid Pansy's father.\n\nThe child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. \"Am I not meant\nfor you, papa?\"\n\nPapa gave a quick, light laugh. \"That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the\nworld, Pansy.\"\n\n\"Kindly permit us to retire,\" said sister Catherine. \"Be good and wise\nand happy in any case, my daughter.\"\n\n\"I shall certainly come back and see you,\" Pansy returned, recommencing\nher embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.\n\n\"Stay with me, dear child,\" she said, \"while your father takes the good\nladies to the door.\"\n\nPansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently\nimpregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who\ntook the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the\noperation of her fate. \"May I not see mamman Catherine get into the\ncarriage?\" she nevertheless asked very gently.\n\n\"It would please me better if you'd remain with me,\" said Madame Merle,\nwhile Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the\nother visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.\n\n\"Oh yes, I'll stay,\" Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle,\nsurrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of\nthe window; her eyes had filled with tears.\n\n\"I'm glad they've taught you to obey,\" said Madame Merle. \"That's what\ngood little girls should do.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I obey very well,\" cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with\nboastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then\nshe gave a faint, just audible sigh.\n\nMadame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and\nlooked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate;\nthe child's small hand was delicate and fair. \"I hope they always see\nthat you wear gloves,\" she said in a moment. \"Little girls usually\ndislike them.\"\n\n\"I used to dislike them, but I like them now,\" the child made answer.\n\n\"Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen.\"\n\n\"I thank you very much. What colours will they be?\" Pansy demanded with\ninterest.\n\nMadame Merle meditated. \"Useful colours.\"\n\n\"But very pretty?\"\n\n\"Are you very fond of pretty things?\"\n\n\"Yes; but--but not too fond,\" said Pansy with a trace of asceticism.\n\n\"Well, they won't be too pretty,\" Madame Merle returned with a laugh.\nShe took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which,\nlooking at her a moment, \"Shall you miss mother Catherine?\" she went on.\n\n\"Yes--when I think of her.\"\n\n\"Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day,\" added Madame Merle,\n\"you'll have another mother.\"\n\n\"I don't think that's necessary,\" Pansy said, repeating her little soft\nconciliatory sigh. \"I had more than thirty mothers at the convent.\"\n\nHer father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got\nup, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then,\nwithout looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into\ntheir places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him\nas he moved about. Then at last she said: \"I hoped you'd have come to\nRome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansy\naway.\"\n\n\"That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first time\nI've acted in defiance of your calculations.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Madame Merle, \"I think you very perverse.\"\n\nMr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room--there was plenty of\nspace in it to move about--in the fashion of a man mechanically\nseeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing.\nPresently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing\nleft for him--unless he took up a book--but to stand with his hands\nbehind him looking at Pansy. \"Why didn't you come and see the last of\nmamman Catherine?\" he asked of her abruptly in French.\n\nPansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. \"I asked her to stay\nwith me,\" said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.\n\n\"Ah, that was better,\" Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a\nchair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows\non the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.\n\n\"She's going to give me some gloves,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"You needn't tell that to every one, my dear,\" Madame Merle observed.\n\n\"You're very kind to her,\" said Osmond. \"She's supposed to have\neverything she needs.\"\n\n\"I should think she had had enough of the nuns.\"\n\n\"If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the\nroom.\"\n\n\"Let her stay,\" said Madame Merle. \"We'll talk of something else.\"\n\n\"If you like I won't listen,\" Pansy suggested with an appearance of\ncandour which imposed conviction.\n\n\"You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand,\" her\nfather replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door,\nwithin sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent,\nwistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to\nhis other companion. \"You're looking particularly well.\"\n\n\"I think I always look the same,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman.\"\n\n\"Yes, I think I am.\"\n\n\"You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return\nfrom England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present.\"\n\n\"I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my\nintention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have\nlately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain.\"\n\n\"That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your\nfriends.\"\n\nMadame Merle smiled straight at her host. \"It's less characteristic than\nyour comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however,\nmake a crime of that,\" she added, \"because if you don't believe what\nyou say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my\nfriends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.\"\n\n\"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of every\none else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so\nmany other lives.\"\n\n\"What do you call one's life?\" asked Madame Merle. \"One's appearance,\none's movements, one's engagements, one's society?\"\n\n\"I call YOUR life your ambitions,\" said Osmond.\n\nMadame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. \"I wonder if she understands\nthat,\" she murmured.\n\n\"You see she can't stay with us!\" And Pansy's father gave rather a\njoyless smile. \"Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two\nfor Madame Merle,\" he went on in French.\n\n\"That's just what I wanted to do,\" Pansy exclaimed, rising with\npromptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the\nopen door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained\nstanding, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of\nfreedom which in another attitude might be wanting.\n\n\"My ambitions are principally for you,\" said Madame Merle, looking up at\nhim with a certain courage.\n\n\"That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousand\nothers. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish,\nwhat should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?\"\n\n\"You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it's really my best.\"\n\n\"You don't care,\" said Madame Merle gravely.\n\n\"No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that?\nMy indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome.\nBut it was only one of them.\"\n\n\"It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though I\nshould have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--which\nyou might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago.\nThere's something I should like you to do at present in Florence.\"\n\n\"Please remember my indolence,\" said Osmond.\n\n\"I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll have\nboth the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it\nmay prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new\nacquaintance?\"\n\n\"I don't think I've made any since I made yours.\"\n\n\"It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine I want\nyou to know.\"\n\nMr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and was\nlooking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine.\n\"What good will it do me?\" he asked with a sort of genial crudity.\n\nMadame Merle waited. \"It will amuse you.\" There was nothing crude in\nthis rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered.\n\n\"If you say that, you know, I believe it,\" said Osmond, coming toward\nher. \"There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete.\nI'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad.\"\n\n\"Society is all bad.\"\n\n\"Pardon me. That isn't--the knowledge I impute to you--a common sort\nof wisdom. You've gained it in the right way--experimentally; you've\ncompared an immense number of more or less impossible people with each\nother.\"\n\n\"Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge.\"\n\n\"To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?\"\n\n\"It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induce\nyou to make an effort!\"\n\n\"Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in the\nworld--that's likely to turn up here--is worth an effort?\"\n\nMadame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. \"Don't be foolish,\nOsmond. No one knows better than you what IS worth an effort. Haven't I\nseen you in old days?\"\n\n\"I recognise some things. But they're none of them probable in this poor\nlife.\"\n\n\"It's the effort that makes them probable,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"There's something in that. Who then is your friend?\"\n\n\"The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs. Touchett,\nwhom you'll not have forgotten.\"\n\n\"A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you're\ncoming to.\"\n\n\"Yes, she's young--twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of mine.\nI met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we\nstruck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don't\ndo every day--I admire her. You'll do the same.\"\n\n\"Not if I can help it.\"\n\n\"Precisely. But you won't be able to help it.\"\n\n\"Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and\nunprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I care to\nmake her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak\nto me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that description. I know\nplenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any more.\"\n\n\"Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. She\ncorresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to know her.\nShe fills all your requirements.\"\n\n\"More or less, of course.\"\n\n\"No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for\nan American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable, and she\nhas a handsome fortune.\"\n\nMr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his\nmind with his eyes on his informant. \"What do you want to do with her?\"\nhe asked at last.\n\n\"What you see. Put her in your way.\"\n\n\"Isn't she meant for something better than that?\"\n\n\"I don't pretend to know what people are meant for,\" said Madame Merle.\n\"I only know what I can do with them.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry for Miss Archer!\" Osmond declared.\n\nMadame Merle got up. \"If that's a beginning of interest in her I take\nnote of it.\"\n\nThe two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking down\nat it as she did so. \"You're looking very well,\" Osmond repeated still\nless relevantly than before. \"You have some idea. You're never so well\nas when you've got an idea; they're always becoming to you.\"\n\nIn the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any\njuncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, was\nsomething indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each other\nobliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of\neach appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the\nself-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off any\nembarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not\non this occasion the form she would have liked to have--the perfect\nself-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point to\nbe made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them,\nwhatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closely\nface to face than either ever was with any one else. This was what had\nhappened now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on the\nwhole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensation\nfor the inconvenience--whatever it might be--of being known. \"I wish\nvery much you were not so heartless,\" Madame Merle quietly said. \"It has\nalways been against you, and it will be against you now.\"\n\n\"I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touches\nme--as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are for\nme. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they should be. But it\ntouches me, all the same.\"\n\n\"You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are some\nthings you'll never understand. There's no particular need you should.\"\n\n\"You, after all, are the most remarkable of women,\" said Osmond. \"You\nhave more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think Mrs.\nTouchett's niece should matter very much to me, when--when--\" But he\npaused a moment.\n\n\"When I myself have mattered so little?\"\n\n\"That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known and\nappreciated such a woman as you.\"\n\n\"Isabel Archer's better than I,\" said Madame Merle.\n\nHer companion gave a laugh. \"How little you must think of her to say\nthat!\"\n\n\"Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that.\"\n\n\"With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't.\"\n\n\"Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs.\nTouchett's--Palazzo Crescentini--and the girl will be there.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the\ngirl?\" said Osmond. \"You could have had her there at any rate.\"\n\nMadame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he\ncould ever put would find unprepared. \"Do you wish to know why? Because\nI've spoken of you to her.\"\n\nOsmond frowned and turned away. \"I'd rather not know that.\" Then in\na moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour\ndrawing. \"Have you seen what's there--my last?\"\n\nMadame Merle drew near and considered. \"Is it the Venetian Alps--one of\nyour last year's sketches?\"\n\n\"Yes--but how you guess everything!\"\n\nShe looked a moment longer, then turned away. \"You know I don't care for\nyour drawings.\"\n\n\"I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much\nbetter than most people's.\"\n\n\"That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's so\nlittle. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were\nmy ambitions.\"\n\n\"Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible.\"\n\n\"Things that were impossible,\" said Madame Merle. And then in quite a\ndifferent tone: \"In itself your little picture's very good.\" She looked\nabout the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces\nof faded silk. \"Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with that\nafresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand\nthis sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste.\"\n\n\"I'm sick of my adorable taste,\" said Gilbert Osmond.\n\n\"You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told her\nabout it.\"\n\n\"I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots.\"\n\n\"You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to\nparticular advantage.\"\n\nMr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder\nand more attentive. \"Did you say she was rich?\"\n\n\"She has seventy thousand pounds.\"\n\n\"En ecus bien comptes?\"\n\n\"There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may\nsay.\"\n\n\"Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see the\nmother?\"\n\n\"The mother? She has none--nor father either.\"\n\n\"The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep her\nout of the way.\"\n\n\"I don't object to her,\" said Osmond; \"I rather like Mrs. Touchett.\nShe has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivid\nidentity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?\"\n\n\"He's there, but he won't trouble you.\"\n\n\"He's a good deal of a donkey.\"\n\n\"I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not fond of\nbeing about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me.\"\n\n\"What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?\"\nOsmond went on.\n\n\"Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them.\nCome and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you.\"\n\n\"A beginning of what?\"\n\nMadame Merle was silent a little. \"I want you of course to marry her.\"\n\n\"The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you told her\nthat?\"\n\n\"For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of machinery--nor\nam I.\"\n\n\"Really,\" said Osmond after some meditation, \"I don't understand your\nambitions.\"\n\n\"I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer.\nSuspend your judgement.\" Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the\nopen door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. \"Pansy\nhas really grown pretty,\" she presently added.\n\n\"So it seemed to me.\"\n\n\"But she has had enough of the convent.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Osmond. \"I like what they've made of her. It's very\ncharming.\"\n\n\"That's not the convent. It's the child's nature.\"\n\n\"It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl.\"\n\n\"Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?\" Madame Merle asked.\n\"She's not in a hurry.\"\n\n\"We'll go and get them.\"\n\n\"She doesn't like me,\" the visitor murmured as she raised her parasol\nand they passed into the garden.\n\n\n\n\n\nMadame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at\nthe invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the\nhospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to\nIsabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know\nhim; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do\nin recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason\nof this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame\nMerle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of\nfriends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous\nvisitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would\nfind it well to \"meet\"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever\nin the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of\nthe list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen\nyears; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in\nEurope simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite\nanother affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the\neffect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and\nhis spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one,\nsaved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince\nin exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just\nexactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his\ndistinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many\npeople, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his\nperversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the\nmen really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally\nfor all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that\nfor Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and\ndull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like\nIsabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At\nany rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in\nItaly without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the\ncountry than any one except two or three German professors. And if\nthey had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and\ntaste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her\nfriend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the\ndeeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie\nbinding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always\nsomehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest\ncreated by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr.\nOsmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm\nfriendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had\nenjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. \"You ought to see a\ngreat many men,\" Madame Merle remarked; \"you ought to see as many as\npossible, so as to get used to them.\"\n\n\"Used to them?\" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes\nseemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. \"Why, I'm not\nafraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys.\"\n\n\"Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to\nwith most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you\ndon't despise.\"\n\nThis was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself\nto sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that\nas one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the\nmost active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the\nbeautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle\nhad promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to\ngauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery.\nShe was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it\na joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his\neager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the\ntreasures of Florence again and again and had always something else\nto do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of\nmemory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the\nposition of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it.\nShe had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art,\ndiffering often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her\ninterpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened\nto the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that\nshe might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the\nadvantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the\nclear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs.\nTouchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin\nthrough the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in\nthe thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some\ndispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at\nthe pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her,\nand exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a\npresentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed\nall those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to\nItaly, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat\nin the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising\ntears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But\nthe return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the\nreturn into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs.\nTouchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the\nhigh, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the\nsixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of\nadvertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow\nstreet whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and\nfound compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of\nher rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as\narchaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared\nand scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for\nIsabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This\nvague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake.\n\nGilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young\nlady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion\nlittle part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned\nto her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had\npaid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and\nthese two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They\ntalked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might\nhave been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had\nthe rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle\nappealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore\nany learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put\ndreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be\ndepended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved\nshe could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in\nthe visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more\nimportant she should get an impression of him than that she should\nproduce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an\nimpression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in\ngeneral, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to\nglitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred\nair of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the\nfirst show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his\nhead, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as\none of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the\nUffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its\nclearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with\nmaking her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration\nof glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the\npitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak.\n\n\"Madame Merle,\" he said, \"consents to come up to my hill-top some day\nnext week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if\nyou would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they\ncall a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for\nshe's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very\nglad.\" And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving\nhis sentence unfinished. \"I should be so happy if you could know my\ndaughter,\" he went on a moment afterwards.\n\nIsabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that\nif Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be\nvery grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after\nwhich Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been\nso stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the\nmere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments,\n\n\"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you.\nYou're never disappointing.\"\n\nA rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more\nprobable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange\nto say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first\nfeeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. \"That's more\nthan I intended,\" she answered coldly. \"I'm under no obligation that I\nknow of to charm Mr. Osmond.\"\n\nMadame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to\nretract. \"My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for\nyourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters\nlittle whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM.\"\n\n\"I did,\" said Isabel honestly. \"But I don't see what that matters\neither.\"\n\n\"Everything that concerns you matters to me,\" Madame Merle returned\nwith her weary nobleness; \"especially when at the same time another old\nfriend's concerned.\"\n\nWhatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be\nadmitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph\nsundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by\nhis trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance\nfor that.\n\n\"Do I know him?\" said her cousin. \"Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well,\nbut on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he\napparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is\nhe, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living\nthese thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained?\nOnly as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his\nfamily, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he\nrather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a\nfit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He\nused to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here;\nI remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great\ndread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I\nknow of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly\nlarge. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself.\nHe married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He\nalso has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these\nparts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should\nthink, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories\nabout her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you\nask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than\nI.\"\n\n\"I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you\ncare for that?\"\n\n\"Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more\ninformation one has about one's dangers the better.\"\n\n\"I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about\npeople in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths,\nare stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you\nabout any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself.\"\n\n\"That's what I try to do,\" said Isabel \"but when you do that people call\nyou conceited.\"\n\n\"You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what\nthey say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or\nyour enemy.\"\n\nIsabel considered. \"I think you're right; but there are some things I\ncan't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I\nmyself am praised.\"\n\n\"Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as\ncritics, however,\" Ralph added, \"and you'll condemn them all!\"\n\n\"I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself,\" said Isabel. \"I've promised to pay\nhim a visit.\"\n\n\"To pay him a visit?\"\n\n\"To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know\nexactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many\nladies call on him.\"\n\n\"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance,\" said Ralph.\n\"She knows none but the best people.\"\n\nIsabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her\ncousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. \"It\nseems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean,\nbut if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either\nmention them frankly or else say nothing at all.\"\n\nRalph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than\nhe commonly used. \"I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her:\nwith an even exaggerated respect.\"\n\n\"Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of.\"\n\n\"I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated.\"\n\n\"By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service.\"\n\n\"No, no; by herself.\"\n\n\"Ah, I protest!\" Isabel earnestly cried. \"If ever there was a woman who\nmade small claims--!\"\n\n\"You put your finger on it,\" Ralph interrupted. \"Her modesty's\nexaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect\nright to make large ones.\"\n\n\"Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself.\"\n\n\"Her merits are immense,\" said Ralph. \"She's indescribably blameless; a\npathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a\nchance.\"\n\n\"A chance for what?\"\n\n\"Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but\nthat one little fault.\"\n\nIsabel turned away with impatience. \"I don't understand you; you're too\nparadoxical for my plain mind.\"\n\n\"Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the\nvulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of\nherself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too\nfar--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too\nkind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's\ntoo complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and\nthat I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt\nabout Aristides the Just.\"\n\nIsabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked\nin his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. \"Do you\nwish Madame Merle to be banished?\"\n\n\"By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,\"\nsaid Ralph Touchett simply.\n\n\"You're very odious, sir!\" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if\nhe knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend.\n\n\"Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the\ncharacter of every one else you may find some little black speck; if\nI were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be\nable to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a\nleopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!\"\n\n\"That's just what I think!\" said Isabel with a toss of her head. \"That\nis why I like her so much.\"\n\n\"She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world\nyou couldn't have a better guide.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?\"\n\n\"Worldly? No,\" said Ralph, \"she's the great round world itself!\"\n\nIt had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to\nbelieve, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in\nMadame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find\nit, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly\nunbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying\nsympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the\nadministered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his\nmother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph\nTouchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could\nhave been nothing so \"sustained\" to attend to as the general performance\nof Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an\nopportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments\nwhen he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the\nmoments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had\nbeen yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was\nfar below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training,\nbut had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle,\nthe widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large\nacquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as\nuniversally \"liked\" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast\nbetween this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he\nsupposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of\nthe tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial\nguest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in\ntoo-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much\nin common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her\neminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not,\nwithout opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of\nit, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of\nitself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons\nknew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an\nimportant discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least\na relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the\nconversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had\na great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame\nMerle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable\nthat Isabel would be injured.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIt would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to\nher from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top. Nothing\ncould have been more charming than this occasion--a soft afternoon in\nthe full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the\nRoman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the\nfine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and\nwound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming\norchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the\nsmall superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of\nthe villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least\na very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide,\nhigh court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched\ngalleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their\nslim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There\nwas something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as\nif, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For\nIsabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out,\nbut only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber--it\nwas cold even in the month of May--and ushered her, with her\nconductress, into the apartment to which we have already been\nintroduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a\nlittle, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two\npersons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on\nwhom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated\nto Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. \"And that's my little\ngirl,\" he said, \"who has just come out of her convent.\"\n\nPansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged\nin a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles.\nShe made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed.\nThe Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see\nshe was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at\nall pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird--a long\nbeak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin\nthat receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various\nintensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman,\nand, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself\nand made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate,\nbristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her\nattitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched\nupon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never\nknown any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most\naffected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as\nan acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view\nthe Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the\nviolent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with fluttering\nstreamers.\n\n\"You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only because\nI knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come and see my\nbrother--I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible--I\ndon't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my\nhorses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to give me another\npair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's very\ndisagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in the\ncarriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. But\nI've always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've always\nmanaged that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows a\nhorse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according to\nhis poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so it's\nall the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you,\" she went\non, directly addressing Isabel, \"that Osmond doesn't often invite me;\nI don't think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming\nto-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. But\ndon't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are some very\ngood seats here, but there are also some horrors.\"\n\nThese remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of\nroulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of\ngood English, or rather of good American, in adversity.\n\n\"I don't like to have you, my dear?\" said her brother. \"I'm sure you're\ninvaluable.\"\n\n\"I don't see any horrors anywhere,\" Isabel returned, looking about her.\n\"Everything seems to me beautiful and precious.\"\n\n\"I've a few good things,\" Mr. Osmond allowed; \"indeed I've nothing very\nbad. But I've not what I should have liked.\"\n\nHe stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his\nmanner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to\nhint that nothing but the right \"values\" was of any consequence. Isabel\nmade a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his\nfamily. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white\ndress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her,\nstood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion,\neven Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not\nentirely artless.\n\n\"You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti--that's what\nyou'd have liked,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!\" the Countess Gemini\nexclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her\nejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made\nit and looked at her from head to foot.\n\nHer brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could\nsay to Isabel. \"Won't you have some tea?--you must be very tired,\" he at\nlast bethought himself of remarking.\n\n\"No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?\" Isabel felt a\ncertain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was\nsomething in the air, in her general impression of things--she could\nhardly have said what it was--that deprived her of all disposition to\nput herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people,\nsignified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand--she\nwould not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless\nnot aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to\ncover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her\npride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms\nthat excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing\nhimself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours,\nto come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the\nentertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered\nless observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered\nmore indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less\ncomplacently than might have been expected. \"What a fool I was to\nhave let myself so needlessly in--!\" she could fancy his exclaiming to\nhimself.\n\n\"You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and\ngives you a lecture on each,\" said the Countess Gemini.\n\n\"I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have learned\nsomething.\"\n\n\"Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of learning\nanything,\" said Mr. Osmond.\n\n\"Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more--I know too\nmuch already. The more you know the more unhappy you are.\"\n\n\"You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished\nher education,\" Madame Merle interposed with a smile. \"Pansy will\nnever know any harm,\" said the child's father. \"Pansy's a little\nconvent-flower.\"\n\n\"Oh, the convents, the convents!\" cried the Countess with a flutter of\nher ruffles. \"Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there;\nI'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be good, but the nuns\ndo. Don't you see what I mean?\" she went on, appealing to Isabel.\n\nIsabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad\nat following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself\ndetested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste--he would\nalways discuss. \"For me,\" she said, \"one should like a thing or one\nshouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But one shouldn't\nattempt to reason it out--you never know where it may lead you. There\nare some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know?\nAnd then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons.\nDon't you see what I mean? I don't care anything about reasons, but I\nknow what I like.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's the great thing,\" said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that\nher acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to\nintellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this\nmoment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy\nwith a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that\nwould admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a\nrather hopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation to\nanother topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter,\nwho had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended by\ndrawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees,\nleaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The\nchild fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which\nseemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond\ntalked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable\nwhen he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have\nchosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat\na little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew\neach other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel\nheard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the\nlatter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as\nif Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of\nFlorence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the\nabatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks;\nthe drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world\nas all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the\nsocial failure--by which he meant the people who couldn't \"realise,\" as\nthey said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there,\nin their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an\ninconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were\nadvantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of\nbeauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable\nto life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from\ntime to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything.\nItaly, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even\nfatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a\nbetter man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and\ndilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character,\ndidn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social\nand other \"cheek\" that flourished in Paris and London. \"We're sweetly\nprovincial,\" said Mr. Osmond, \"and I'm perfectly aware that I myself am\nas rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little\nto talk with you--not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very\ncomplicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll be going\naway before I've seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you\nafter that. That's what it is to live in a country that people come to.\nWhen they're disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeable\nit's still worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've been\ndeceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myself\nto feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be really\ncomfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she may\nbe depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an old\none; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she must\nhave been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure she\ndidn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much\nlike some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that\nmust have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one.\nIndeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope\nyou don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea\nyou don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there's\nno want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular\nadmirer of Mrs. Touchett.\"\n\nWhile Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat\nconfidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met\nher eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there\nwas no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage.\nMadame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they\nshould go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out\nher feathers, began to rustle toward the door. \"Poor Miss Archer!\" she\nexclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. \"She\nhas been brought quite into the family.\"\n\n\"Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to\nwhich you belong,\" Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it\nhad something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in\nme but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer,\" the\nCountess went on. \"I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he\nhas said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of\nhis favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three\nthat he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your\nbonnet.\"\n\n\"I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are,\" said\nIsabel, who had risen to her feet.\n\nThe Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation,\npressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to\nher forehead. \"I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other's\nVittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio.\"\n\n\"Ah, with me,\" said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess\nGemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, \"Mr. Osmond's never so\nhistorical.\"\n\n\"Oh you,\" the Countess answered as they moved away, \"you yourself are\nMachiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!\"\n\n\"We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!\" Gilbert\nOsmond resignedly sighed.\n\nIsabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the\ngarden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave\nthe room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who\nhad now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking\nup while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited,\nwith a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed;\nshe liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her\na very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through\nthe open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess\nstroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her\neyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding\nhad been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and\ncabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward\none of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he\nsaid to her abruptly: \"Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?\"\n\nShe faced him with some surprise. \"Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your\nsister too little.\"\n\n\"Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that\nthere is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family\ntone?\" he went on with his cool smile. \"I should like to know how\nit strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to\nsay--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only\na glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I\nsometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among\nthings and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments,\nwith nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners,\nforming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let\nme add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister.\nShe's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's rather\nunhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to show\nit tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid\nhusband, though I'm not sure she makes the best of him. Of course,\nhowever, a horrid husband's an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her\nexcellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary\nto learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't put\nthem together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she's not\ngrammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was\nvery right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take down\nthat picture; you want more light.\"\n\nHe took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some\ncurious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he\ngave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to\na young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his\nmedallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel\nfelt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as they\nseemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most\nof the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen\nspecimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think for\ninstance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other\npeople who were, relatively speaking, original--original, as one might\nsay, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta\nStackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when\none came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types already\npresent to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural\nplace to Mr. Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that she\nrecognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into\norder before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this \"new\nrelation\" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle\nhad had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediately\ngained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did,\nbut rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those\nsigns of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of\nold plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged\nin no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original without\nbeing an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain.\nThe peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended to\nimpalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouched\nfeatures, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very\nevenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness\nof structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers\nproduce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal points\nstruck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity,\nsomehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and\ncritical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had governed\nhim--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of\nvulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted,\narranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He had\nconsulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sick\nman consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was\nwhat made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something of\nthis same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter\nof connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous\nexcrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything\nwas in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding him\ncompletely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see\nwhat he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--which\nwas exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a\nharmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement\nof high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very\ninteresting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what\nthen was the finish of the capital? And she could put this question\nin spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness as\nhis--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectly\nconsistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of\nstandards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure the\nvulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance,\nwho chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; he\nwas critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting a good deal\nof others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical view\nof what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not\ngrossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected that\ngradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both what\npleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her\nwhat she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that\nhe was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge\nof his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiring\nmind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal\nfeeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.\n\nThere were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been\nreceived, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments\nIsabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree\ncurious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of\nciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held his\nlittle girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend,\nwho wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was\noppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which\nshe found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had\nceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive\neyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought\nher quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame\nMerle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in\nthe end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real\nintelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel's\nfatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed\nMadame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with\nher) of exposing--not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively\nlittle--but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed\nher to express a liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment,\nwould think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which the\ntruly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall into\nthat grotesqueness--in which she had seen women (and it was a warning)\nserenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was very careful therefore as to\nwhat she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more careful\nthan she had ever been before.\n\nThey came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been\nserved; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as\nIsabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount\ndistinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden\nwithout more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought\nout, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should\ntake their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the\nservant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the golden\nlight took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that\nstretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richly\nas the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary\ncharm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the\nlandscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline,\nits teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly\nhuman-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and\nclassic grace. \"You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted\nto come back,\" Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the angles\nof the terrace.\n\n\"I shall certainly come back,\" she returned, \"in spite of what you say\nabout its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one's\nnatural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I\nwere to settle in Florence.\"\n\n\"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated.\"\n\n\"The point's to find out where that is.\"\n\n\"Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People\nought to make it very plain to her.\"\n\n\"Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me,\" smiled Isabel.\n\n\"I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had\ngiven me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought\nshe spoke of your having some plan of going round the world.\"\n\n\"I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of pleasures.\"\n\n\"It seems frivolous, I think,\" said Isabel. \"One ought to choose\nsomething very deliberately, and be faithful to that.\"\n\n\"By that rule then, I've not been frivolous.\"\n\n\"Have you never made plans?\"\n\n\"Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day.\"\n\n\"It must have been a very pleasant one,\" Isabel permitted herself to\nobserve.\n\n\"It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible.\"\n\n\"As quiet?\" the girl repeated.\n\n\"Not to worry--not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be\ncontent with little.\" He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses\nbetween, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor's with the\nconscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something.\n\n\"Do you call that simple?\" she asked with mild irony.\n\n\"Yes, because it's negative.\"\n\n\"Has your life been negative?\"\n\n\"Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference.\nMind you, not my natural indifference--I HAD none. But my studied, my\nwilful renunciation.\"\n\nShe scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were\njoking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund\nof reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his\naffair, however, and his confidences were interesting. \"I don't see why\nyou should have renounced,\" she said in a moment.\n\n\"Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was\nnot a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in\nlife. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There\nwere two or three people in the world I envied--the Emperor of Russia,\nfor instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I\nenvied the Pope of Rome--for the consideration he enjoys. I should have\nbeen delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn't\nbe I didn't care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go\nin for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself,\nand fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in\nItaly--I couldn't even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have\nhad to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to\nsay nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it\nthen was, to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here on\nthat quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't mean\nto say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for have\nbeen definite--limited. The events of my life have been absolutely\nunperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a\nbargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering,\nas I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some\ninspired idiot.\"\n\nThis would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's career if\nIsabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human\nelement which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been\nmingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn't\nexpect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from\nprovoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her\neverything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now\ndesired to be--would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly\ntold her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to\nexpress a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preserved\nhis independence. \"That's a very pleasant life,\" she said, \"to renounce\neverything but Correggio!\"\n\n\"Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm whining\nabout it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy.\"\n\nThis was large; she kept down to something smaller. \"Have you lived here\nalways?\"\n\n\"No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in\nRome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change,\nhowever; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. My\ndaughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the\nCorreggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best for\nPansy.\"\n\n\"Yes, do that,\" said Isabel. \"She's such a dear little girl.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, \"she's a little saint of heaven!\nShe is my great happiness!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nWhile this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after\nwe cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion,\nbreaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks.\nThey were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude\nespecially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a\nmore nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success\nthe art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for\nwould not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their\nown minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend\nfrom her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did.\nThe Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her\npretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place\nit. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which\npoint her eyes followed them.\n\n\"My dear,\" she then observed to her companion, \"you'll excuse me if I\ndon't congratulate you!\"\n\n\"Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should.\"\n\n\"Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?\" And the\nCountess nodded at the sequestered couple.\n\nMadame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at\nher neighbour. \"You know I never understand you very well,\" she smiled.\n\n\"No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just\nnow you DON'T wish.\"\n\n\"You say things to me that no one else does,\" said Madame Merle gravely,\nyet without bitterness.\n\n\"You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such\nthings?\"\n\n\"What your brother says has a point.\"\n\n\"Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he\nyou mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But\nit will be much better that you should understand me.\"\n\n\"Why so?\" asked Madame Merle. \"To what will it conduce?\"\n\n\"If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to\nappreciate the danger of my interfering with it.\"\n\nMadame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be\nsomething in this; but in a moment she said quietly: \"You think me more\ncalculating than I am.\"\n\n\"It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong.\nYou've done so in this case.\"\n\n\"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that.\"\n\n\"No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once,\" said the\nCountess, \"and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very\nmuch.\"\n\n\"So do I,\" Madame Merle mentioned.\n\n\"You've a strange way of showing it.\"\n\n\"Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance.\"\n\n\"That indeed,\" piped the Countess, \"is perhaps the best thing that could\nhappen to her!\"\n\nMadame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was\nodious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon\nthe violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. \"My\ndear lady,\" she finally resumed, \"I advise you not to agitate yourself.\nThe matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose\nthan yourself.\"\n\n\"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very\nstrong of purpose?\"\n\n\"Quite as much so as we.\"\n\n\"Ah then,\" said the Countess radiantly, \"if I convince her it's her\ninterest to resist you she'll do so successfully!\"\n\n\"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed\nto compulsion or deception.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I\ndon't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But\ntogether you're dangerous--like some chemical combination.\"\n\n\"You had better leave us alone then,\" smiled Madame Merle.\n\n\"I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl.\"\n\n\"My poor Amy,\" Madame Merle murmured, \"I don't see what has got into\nyour head.\"\n\n\"I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like\nher.\"\n\nMadame Merle hesitated a moment. \"I don't think she likes you.\"\n\nThe Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a\ngrimace. \"Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!\"\n\n\"If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her,\" said\nMadame Merle.\n\n\"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two\ninterviews.\"\n\nMadame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house.\nHe was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and\nshe at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view,\npersistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered\nher eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment,\nwhile she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle\nrose from her chair. \"Yes, I think so!\" she pronounced.\n\nThe shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery\nand quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time\nmanners, been \"put in\" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out\nwith a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back\nand fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to\nreturn with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with\nthe deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together\nupon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer\nassistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently\napproached her aunt.\n\n\"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?\"\n\nThe Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without\nanswering her question. \"My poor niece,\" she said, \"is that your best\nfrock?\"\n\n\"Ah no,\" Pansy answered, \"it's just a little toilette for common\noccasions.\"\n\n\"Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say\nnothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder.\"\n\nPansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons\nmentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile.\n\"I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I\nexpose it beside your beautiful things?\"\n\n\"Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the\nprettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't\ndress you so well as they might.\"\n\nThe child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. \"It's a good\nlittle dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would\nallow me?\"\n\n\"Impossible for me to say, my child,\" said the Countess. \"For me, your\nfather's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better.\nAsk HER.\"\n\nMadame Merle smiled with her usual grace. \"It's a weighty question--let\nme think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful\nlittle daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of\nthe house--when she grows up.\"\n\n\"So it seems to me, Madame Merle!\" Pansy cried. \"You shall see how well\nI'll make it. A spoonful for each.\" And she began to busy herself at the\ntable.\n\n\"Two spoonfuls for me,\" said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle,\nremained for some moments watching her. \"Listen to me, Pansy,\" the\nCountess resumed at last. \"I should like to know what you think of your\nvisitor.\"\n\n\"Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's,\" Pansy objected.\n\n\"Miss Archer came to see you as well,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me.\"\n\n\"Do you like her then?\" the Countess asked.\n\n\"She's charming--charming,\" Pansy repeated in her little neat\nconversational tone. \"She pleases me thoroughly.\"\n\n\"And how do you think she pleases your father?\"\n\n\"Ah really, Countess!\" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. \"Go and call\nthem to tea,\" she went on to the child.\n\n\"You'll see if they don't like it!\" Pansy declared; and departed to\nsummon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace.\n\n\"If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know\nif the child likes her,\" said the Countess.\n\n\"If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake,\" Madame\nMerle replied. \"She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to\nneed a husband rather than a stepmother.\"\n\n\"And will you provide the husband as well?\"\n\n\"I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I\nimagine you'll do the same.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shan't!\" cried the Countess. \"Why should I, of all women, set\nsuch a price on a husband?\"\n\n\"You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a\nhusband I mean a good one.\"\n\n\"There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one.\"\n\nMadame Merle closed her eyes a moment. \"You're irritated just now; I\ndon't know why,\" she presently said. \"I don't think you'll really object\neither to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time\ncomes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we\nshall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her\ntogether. Your large acquaintance will be a great help.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm irritated,\" the Countess answered. \"You often irritate me.\nYour own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman.\"\n\n\"It's much better that we should always act together,\" Madame Merle went\non.\n\n\"Do you mean that as a threat?\" asked the Countess rising. Madame\nMerle shook her head as for quiet amusement. \"No indeed, you've not my\ncoolness!\"\n\nIsabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel\nhad taken Pansy by the hand. \"Do you pretend to believe he'd make her\nhappy?\" the Countess demanded.\n\n\"If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman.\"\n\nThe Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. \"Do you\nmean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of\ncourse Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that.\nBut does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's\na gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen\nany one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more\nthan I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who\nis he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything\nparticularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior\nclay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been\nany great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have\nmade the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But\nthere's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of\ncourse; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person\nnowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally\nbeen said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's\ndescended from the gods.\"\n\n\"You may say what you please,\" said Madame Merle, who had listened to\nthis quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because\nher eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves\nwith adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. \"You Osmonds are a fine\nrace--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother,\nlike an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not\nhad the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely\ndistinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little\nprincess. Nevertheless,\" Madame Merle added, \"it won't be an easy matter\nfor Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try.\"\n\n\"I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little.\"\n\n\"We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men.\"\n\n\"I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he\nhas done.\"\n\n\"What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he\nhas known how to wait.\"\n\n\"To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?\"\n\n\"That's not what I mean,\" said Madame Merle. \"Miss Archer has seventy\nthousand pounds.\"\n\n\"Well, it's a pity she's so charming,\" the Countess declared. \"To be\nsacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior.\"\n\n\"If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must\nhave the best.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet\nthe others, \"he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her\nhappiness!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nGilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to Palazzo\nCrescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchett\nand Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former of\nthese ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight he\ncalled five times, and compared it with another fact that she found no\ndifficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constituted\nhis regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she had never\nobserved him select for such visits those moments, of almost periodical\nrecurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Madame\nMerle that he came; these two were old friends and he never put himself\nout for her. He was not fond of Ralph--Ralph had told her so--and it was\nnot supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son.\nRalph was imperturbable--Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity\nthat wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he\nnever divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and was\nwilling at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But he\ndidn't flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice was\nthe motive of their visitor's calls; he read the situation more clearly.\nIsabel was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one.\nOsmond was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he\nshould be curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed\nto him that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied\nthat he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back found\na place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly by\nwhat art and what process--so negative and so wise as they were--he\nhad everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never been an\nimportunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive, and he was\nrecommended to her by his appearance of being as well able to do without\nher as she was to do without him--a quality that always, oddly enough,\naffected her as providing ground for a relation with her. It gave her\nno satisfaction, however, to think that he had taken it into his head to\nmarry her niece. Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an air\nof almost morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the\ngirl had refused an English peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord\nWarburton had not successfully wrestled should content herself with an\nobscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child\nand an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's\nconception of success. She took, it will be observed, not the\nsentimental, but the political, view of matrimony--a view which has\nalways had much to recommend it. \"I trust she won't have the folly\nto listen to him,\" she said to her son; to which Ralph replied that\nIsabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another.\nHe knew she had listened to several parties, as his father would\nhave said, but had made them listen in return; and he found much\nentertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing her he\nshould observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to see life,\nand fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of fine gentlemen\ngoing down on their knees to her would do as well as anything else.\nRalph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth besieger; he had no\nconviction she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar and\nopen a parley; she would certainly not allow number three to come in.\nHe expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother, who\nlooked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful,\npictorial way of saying things that he might as well address her in the\ndeaf-mute's alphabet.\n\n\"I don't think I know what you mean,\" she said; \"you use too many\nfigures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words in\nthe language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr.\nOsmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone to\nfind a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very little\nabout the young man in America; I don't think she spends much of her\ntime in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for\nher. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond if\nshe only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very well; no one\napproves more than I of one's pleasing one's self. But she takes her\npleasure in such odd things; she's capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for\nthe beauty of his opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo.\nShe wants to be disinterested: as if she were the only person who's\nin danger of not being so! Will HE be so disinterested when he has the\nspending of her money? That was her idea before your father's death, and\nit has acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one of\nwhose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no\nsuch proof of that as his having a fortune of his own.\"\n\n\"My dear mother, I'm not afraid,\" Ralph answered. \"She's making fools of\nus all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by studying\nhuman nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She has\nstarted on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll change her\ncourse, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have\nslackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll be steaming\naway again. Excuse another metaphor.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as to\nwithhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. \"You who\nknow everything,\" she said, \"you must know this: whether that curious\ncreature's really making love to my niece.\"\n\n\"Gilbert Osmond?\" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full\nintelligence, \"Heaven help us,\" she exclaimed, \"that's an idea!\"\n\n\"Hadn't it occurred to you?\"\n\n\"You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder,\" she\nadded, \"if it has occurred to Isabel.\"\n\n\"Oh, I shall now ask her,\" said Mrs. Touchett.\n\nMadame Merle reflected. \"Don't put it into her head. The thing would be\nto ask Mr. Osmond.\"\n\n\"I can't do that,\" said Mrs. Touchett. \"I won't have him enquire\nof me--as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel's\nsituation--what business it is of mine.\"\n\n\"I'll ask him myself,\" Madame Merle bravely declared.\n\n\"But what business--for HIM--is it of yours?\"\n\n\"It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's so\nmuch less my business than any one's else that he can put me off with\nanything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall\nknow.\"\n\n\"Pray let me hear then,\" said Mrs. Touchett, \"of the fruits of your\npenetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can speak to\nIsabel.\"\n\nHer companion sounded at this the note of warning. \"Don't be too quick\nwith her. Don't inflame her imagination.\"\n\n\"I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'm always\nsure of her doing something--well, not of MY kind.\"\n\n\"No, you wouldn't like this,\" Madame Merle observed without the point of\ninterrogation.\n\n\"Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solid\nto offer.\"\n\nAgain Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her\nmouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. \"Let us\ndistinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a man\nwho in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. He\nhas made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs;\nthey're nothing to me!\" Mrs. Touchett cried. \"What you say's precisely\nwhy I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that\nI know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pert\nlittle daughter.\"\n\n\"The early masters are now worth a good deal of money,\" said Madame\nMerle, \"and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and very\nharmless person.\"\n\n\"In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean?\nHaving no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so that\nIsabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with a\ndowry.\"\n\n\"Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she likes\nthe poor child.\"\n\n\"Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, a\nweek hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her\nmission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself--and\nthat, to prove it, she must first become one.\"\n\n\"She would make a charming stepmother,\" smiled Madame Merle; \"but I\nquite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission\ntoo hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as\nchanging the shape of one's nose: there they are, each, in the middle of\none's face and one's character--one has to begin too far back. But I'll\ninvestigate and report to you.\"\n\nAll this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions that\nher relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle had\nsaid nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly to\nhim than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now\narrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer's\naunt. Isabel thought him interesting--she came back to that; she liked\nso to think of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to his\nhill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface\nand which put on for her a particular harmony with other supposed\nand divined things, histories within histories: the image of a quiet,\nclever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace\nabove the sweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whose\nbell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picture had no\nflourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the atmosphere of\nsummer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of the kind of personal issue\nthat touched her most nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects,\ncontacts--what might she call them?--of a thin and those of a rich\nassociation; of a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old\nsorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was\nperhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a care\nfor beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that the\ncareer appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and with\nthe ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italian\ngarden--allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews of\na quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini\nMr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first--oh\nself-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a\nsympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which\nusually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, rather\naggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured by\nthe indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficulty\nin believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs of\nstrong conviction--as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciation\nof anything that might be said on his own side of the question, said\nperhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this young\nwoman was that while he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as she\nhad heard people, for \"effect.\" He uttered his ideas as if, odd as\nthey often appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; old\npolished knobs and heads and handles, of precious substance, that could\nbe fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks--not switches plucked in\ndestitution from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One\nday he brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew\nacquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be\nkissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue\nin a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern;\nAmerican girls were very different--different too were the maidens of\nEngland. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the\nworld, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and\ninfantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine\nmantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given\nher--little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet of\nblank paper--the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that\nso fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text.\n\nThe Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was\nquite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had been\nwritten over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no\nmeans honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeable\nblots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to\nsome discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor from\nRome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritate\npeople by always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enough\nof that large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freely\nas she practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity\nthat this highly compromised character should have presented herself at\nsuch a time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so\nlittle as she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini.\nIsabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under that\nroof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so mismanaged\nher improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all--which\nwas at the least what one asked of such matters--and had become the mere\nfloating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation.\nShe had been married by her mother--a more administrative person, with\nan appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her justice,\nhad probably by this time thrown off--to an Italian nobleman who had\nperhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousness\nof outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself outrageously,\nand the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of her\nadventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though the\nCountess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city;\nbut, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere.\n\nMadame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and\nwit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of a\nwoman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong\nway. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one\nshould draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would\nexclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had better\nshut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long as\nshe remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make arbitrary\ndifferences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not been\nso clever as other women. She was a good creature, not clever at\nall; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the best\nsociety? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and there\ncould be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways\nthan her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabel\ncould contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patient\nattention; she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome to\nthe unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit\nof being Mr. Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it\nproper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of\nthings she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not\nreceived the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the\nvilla, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident.\nHad not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have\nproceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame\nMerle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel\nmore about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related the\nhistory of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member of\nan ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been glad\nto accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yet\nnot hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able\nto offer--a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her\nbrother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however,\nhad inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians\nwent, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-lived\nbrute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she had\nlost three within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristled\nwith pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and\ncorresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her\nmother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father,\nlost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally\nrich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in Gilbert\nOsmond, Madame Merle held--see that he had been brought up by a woman;\nthough, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more\nsensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be\ncalled. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death,\nand Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her\narrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity\nof judgement on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond,\napproved of political marriages. The Countess was very good company and\nnot really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was\nto observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said.\nMadame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake;\nhe appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be\nconfessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name.\nNaturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism,\nher violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his\nnerves, she was not HIS sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh,\nthe very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be\nhabitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times her\nvisitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had\ngiven her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almost\nexclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer;\nhow thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people in\nFlorence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she should\nlike to live somewhere else--in Paris, in London, in Washington; how\nimpossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little\nold lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life of\nsuffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interest\nto Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feel\nexempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess,\nand she could afford to do what was altogether best--not to appear so.\n\nIsabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her\nback, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had left\nParis after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked her\nway down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the\nbanks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her\nwith a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang\nof despair determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delight\nin her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as\na nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and\nIsabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to\nher friend's intelligence. Henrietta's arrival had been announced by\nMr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and\nexpecting to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached, called\nat Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment. Henrietta's own\nadvent occurred two days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion\namply accounted for by the fact that he had not seen her since the\ntermination of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his\nsituation was generally taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph\nTouchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked\na cigar there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on the\nsubject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentleman\ntook the joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that he\nregarded the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He liked\nMiss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on her\nshoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was not\nperpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she did, how\nwhat they did--and they had done things!--would look. Miss Stackpole\nnever cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care, pray why\nshould he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted awfully to see\nif she ever WOULD care. He was prepared to go as far as she--he didn't\nsee why he should break down first.\n\nHenrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightened\non her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of her\ncopious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes\nwith regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent,\nbristled with difficulties even more numerous than those she had\nencountered in England. But on the Continent there was the outer\nlife, which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily\nconvertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque islanders.\nOut of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously remarked, one seemed\nto see the right side of the tapestry; out of doors in England one\nseemed to see the wrong side, which gave one no notion of the figure.\nThe admission costs her historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of\nmore occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life. She\nhad been studying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sent\nto the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza,\nthe Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chanted\nTasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was at\nleast seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome before\nthe malaria should come on--she apparently supposed that it began on a\nfixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present but few days\nin Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and she pointed\nout to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he was a military man\nand as he had had a classical education--he had been bred at Eton, where\nthey study nothing but Latin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole--he\nwould be a most useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At this\njuncture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also,\nunder his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected\nto pass a portion of the next winter there--that was very well; but\nmeantime there was no harm in surveying the field. There were ten days\nleft of the beautiful month of May--the most precious month of all\nto the true Rome-lover. Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a\nforegone conclusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of her\nown sex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady's\nattention, would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remain\nwith Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn't\ncare to return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peace\nin Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to\nPalestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal,\nand assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing to\nbe despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of four\narranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, had\nresigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen that she\nnow inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One of\nIsabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before she\nstarted and mentioning her intention to him.\n\n\"I should like to be in Rome with you,\" he commented. \"I should like to\nsee you on that wonderful ground.\"\n\nShe scarcely faltered. \"You might come then.\"\n\n\"But you'll have a lot of people with you.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" Isabel admitted, \"of course I shall not be alone.\"\n\nFor a moment he said nothing more. \"You'll like it,\" he went on at last.\n\"They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it.\"\n\n\"Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear--the Niobe of Nations, you\nknow--it has been spoiled?\" she asked.\n\n\"No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often,\" he smiled. \"If I were\nto go, what should I do with my little girl?\"\n\n\"Can't you leave her at the villa?\"\n\n\"I don't know that I like that--though there's a very good old woman who\nlooks after her. I can't afford a governess.\"\n\n\"Bring her with you then,\" said Isabel promptly.\n\nMr. Osmond looked grave. \"She has been in Rome all winter, at her\nconvent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure.\"\n\n\"You don't like bringing her forward?\" Isabel enquired.\n\n\"No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world.\"\n\n\"I was brought up on a different system.\"\n\n\"You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you--you were exceptional.\"\n\n\"I don't see why,\" said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was not\nsome truth in the speech.\n\nMr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: \"If I thought it would\nmake her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her there\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Don't make her resemble me,\" said Isabel. \"Keep her like herself.\"\n\n\"I might send her to my sister,\" Mr. Osmond observed. He had almost\nthe air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his domestic\nmatters with Miss Archer.\n\n\"Yes,\" she concurred; \"I think that wouldn't do much towards making her\nresemble me!\"\n\nAfter she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the\nCountess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess's\ndrawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general,\nbut after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman\nhalf-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair. \"She wants me to go to\nRome with her,\" he remarked in a low voice.\n\n\"To go with her?\"\n\n\"To be there while she's there. She proposed it.\n\n\"I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented.\"\n\n\"Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging--she's very\nencouraging.\"\n\n\"I rejoice to hear it--but don't cry victory too soon. Of course you'll\ngo to Rome.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Osmond, \"it makes one work, this idea of yours!\"\n\n\"Don't pretend you don't enjoy it--you're very ungrateful. You've not\nbeen so well occupied these many years.\"\n\n\"The way you take it's beautiful,\" said Osmond. \"I ought to be grateful\nfor that.\"\n\n\"Not too much so, however,\" Madame Merle answered. She talked with\nher usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room.\n\"You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself that\nyou've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to\noblige me.\"\n\n\"The girl's not disagreeable,\" Osmond quietly conceded.\n\nMadame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips\nclosed with a certain firmness. \"Is that all you can find to say about\nthat fine creature?\"\n\n\"All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?\"\n\nShe made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to\nthe room. \"You're unfathomable,\" she murmured at last. \"I'm frightened\nat the abyss into which I shall have cast her.\"\n\nHe took it almost gaily. \"You can't draw back--you've gone too far.\"\n\n\"Very good; but you must do the rest yourself.\"\n\n\"I shall do it,\" said Gilbert Osmond.\n\nMadame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but when\nshe rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was awaiting\nher guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it he\nstood there detaining her. \"You're very indiscreet,\" she said rather\nwearily; \"you shouldn't have moved when I did.\"\n\nHe had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. \"I\nalways forget; I'm out of the habit.\"\n\n\"You're quite unfathomable,\" she repeated, glancing up at the windows of\nthe house, a modern structure in the new part of the town.\n\nHe paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. \"She's\nreally very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful.\"\n\n\"It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the\nbetter for me.\"\n\n\"I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the bargain\ncapable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault.\"\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\n\"Too many ideas.\"\n\n\"I warned you she was clever.\"\n\n\"Fortunately they're very bad ones,\" said Osmond.\n\n\"Why is that fortunate?\"\n\n\"Dame, if they must be sacrificed!\"\n\nMadame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke to\nthe coachman. But her friend again detained her. \"If I go to Rome what\nshall I do with Pansy?\"\n\n\"I'll go and see her,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\n\n\n\nI may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's response\nto the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the\npavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the\nthreshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression was\nsuch as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her\neagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history\nin the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an\nimagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she\nturned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her,\nbut moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked\nless than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking\nlistlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an\nintensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she\nwould even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she\nwas ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her,\nbut that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it\nwings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed\nthat she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her,\nand she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often\nin the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet\nnot seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph\nsaid, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing\ntourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into\nsolemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains\nin their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the\ncorners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.\nOur friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to\nlook at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been\nfor some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the\nmodern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered\nwith a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.\nHenrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been\npaved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the\ndeep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled\niron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had\nbegun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken\ncolumn and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta\nwandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to\nher to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a \"cheeky old boy,\" and Ralph\naddressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive\near of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about\nthe place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his\nlesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing\nto impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the\nForum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signori\nto go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The\nproposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much\nwandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity\nwhile she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much\nto her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly\nwent off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column\nnear the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but\nshe was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged\nrelics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the\ncorrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her\nthoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a\nconcatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to\nregions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman\npast to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination\nhad taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over\nthe nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she\nbent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering\nthe ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching\nfootsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She\nlooked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back\nto say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as\nshe was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale\nsurprise.\n\n\"Lord Warburton!\" Isabel exclaimed as she rose.\n\n\"I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you.\"\n\nShe looked about her to explain. \"I'm alone, but my companions have just\nleft me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there.\"\n\n\"Ah yes; I see.\" And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the\ndirection she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had\nrecovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly.\n\"Don't let me disturb you,\" he went on, looking at her dejected pillar.\n\"I'm afraid you're tired.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm rather tired.\" She hesitated a moment, but sat down again.\n\"Don't let me interrupt you,\" she added.\n\n\"Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no\nidea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passing\nthrough.\"\n\n\"You've been making a long journey,\" said Isabel, who had learned from\nRalph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.\n\n\"Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've been\nin Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens.\" He managed\nnot to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at the\ngirl he came down to nature. \"Do you wish me to leave you, or will you\nlet me stay a little?\"\n\nShe took it all humanely. \"I don't wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton;\nI'm very glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?\"\n\nThe fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a\nresting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for\na highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class\nseated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he\nhad asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as\nhe put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching\nthe answer; had given her too some information about himself which was\nnot wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once\nthat he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the\nencounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation\nadvisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things\nto their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being\nimpossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had\nbeen burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting,\nheterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands\nis wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with\nhis pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its\nseasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air\nof being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of\nthe British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those\nwho have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she\nhad always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every\none of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great\ndecent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures\nand ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by\nsome whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order;\nher uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her\nwinter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the\nsummer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own\nadventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At\nlast there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said\nthat it scarce needed his final words. \"I've written to you several\ntimes.\"\n\n\"Written to me? I've never had your letters.\"\n\n\"I never sent them. I burned them up.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" laughed Isabel, \"it was better that you should do that than I!\"\n\n\"I thought you wouldn't care for them,\" he went on with a simplicity\nthat touched her. \"It seemed to me that after all I had no right to\ntrouble you with letters.\"\n\n\"I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped\nthat--that--\" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the\nutterance of her thought.\n\n\"I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain good\nfriends.\" This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat\nenough; but then he was interested in making it appear so.\n\nShe found herself reduced simply to \"Please don't talk of all that\"; a\nspeech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.\n\n\"It's a small consolation to allow me!\" her companion exclaimed with\nforce.\n\n\"I can't pretend to console you,\" said the girl, who, all still as\nshe sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on\nthe answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was\npleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than\nhe. But her answer remained.\n\n\"It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in your\npower,\" she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.\n\n\"I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt\nto make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain's\ngreater than the pleasure.\" And she got up with a small conscious\nmajesty, looking for her companions.\n\n\"I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I only\njust want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it\nwere. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I\nexpressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I tried\nto forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in\nsomebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty.\nI didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far\naway as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't\ndistract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw\nyou. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I\nsaid to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you\nshows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably\ncharm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist;\nit's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few\nminutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon\nmy honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were.\" He had\nrecovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He\nmight have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and\nclearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a\npaper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And\nthe committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.\n\n\"I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton,\" Isabel answered. \"You may\nbe sure I shall always do that.\" And she added in a tone of which she\ntried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: \"There's no\nharm in that on either side.\"\n\nThey walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters\nand request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment\nno further reference to their great question, but dipped again into\nshallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave\nRome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad\nit was still so distant.\n\n\"Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?\" she\nenquired with some anxiety.\n\n\"Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one would\ntreat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to\nstop a week or two.\"\n\n\"Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!\"\n\nHis flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. \"You won't like\nthat. You're afraid you'll see too much of me.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leave\nthis delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you.\"\n\n\"Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful.\"\n\nThey had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. \"Poor\nLord Warburton!\" she said with a compassion intended to be good for both\nof them.\n\n\"Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful.\"\n\n\"You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow.\"\n\n\"If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it.\" At\nthis she walked in advance and he also proceeded. \"I'll never say a word\nto displease you.\"\n\n\"Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end.\"\n\n\"Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave.\"\n\n\"Give you leave to make me unhappy?\"\n\nHe hesitated. \"To tell you again--\" But he checked himself. \"I'll keep\nit down. I'll keep it down always.\"\n\nRalph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss\nStackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the\nmounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into\nsight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy\nqualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice \"Gracious,\nthere's that lord!\" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the\nausterity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet,\nand Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt\ntraveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. \"I don't\nsuppose you remember me, sir.\"\n\n\"Indeed I do remember you,\" said Lord Warburton. \"I asked you to come\nand see me, and you never came.\"\n\n\"I don't go everywhere I'm asked,\" Miss Stackpole answered coldly.\n\n\"Ah well, I won't ask you again,\" laughed the master of Lockleigh.\n\n\"If you do I'll go; so be sure!\"\n\nLord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling\nhad stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion\nto nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly \"Oh, you here,\nBantling?\" and a hand-shake.\n\n\"Well,\" said Henrietta, \"I didn't know you knew him!\"\n\n\"I guess you don't know every one I know,\" Mr. Bantling rejoined\nfacetiously.\n\n\"I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you.\"\n\n\"Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me,\" Lord Warburton laughed\nagain. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of\nrelief as they kept their course homeward.\n\nThe next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long\nletters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in\nneither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected\nsuitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon\nall good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians)\nfollow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been\nagreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great\nchurch. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton\npresented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two\nladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The\nvisitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to\nkeep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and\nfrank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left\nher to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his\ntravels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him\nwhether it would \"pay\" for her to visit those countries assured her they\noffered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but\nshe wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by\nproving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt\nher by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the\ntrouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and\nnothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover\nhis being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong\nsort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on\nbringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's\nand should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply\nthat he must follow his convenience.\n\nIn the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the\nfirst person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior\ntourists who are \"disappointed\" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller\nthan its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern\ncurtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found\nherself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down\nthrough the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of\nmarble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose\nand dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed\nand wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to\nthe seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint\nSophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end\nby calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet\nbegun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there is\nsomething almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant\nas much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures\nand groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their\nvarious intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid\nimmensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel\nand her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta\nwas obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered\nby comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed\nher protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more\naccentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the\ncircuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir\non the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne\nto them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside\nthe doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed\nin equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while\nthey stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta\nand Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond\nthe dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by\nclouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope\nthrough the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing\nstopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her.\nIsabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted\nwith Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short\ndistance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared\nto have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.\n\n\"So you decided to come?\" she said as she put out her hand.\n\n\"Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They\ntold me you had come here, and I looked about for you.\"\n\n\"The others are inside,\" she decided to say.\n\n\"I didn't come for the others,\" he promptly returned.\n\nShe looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard\nthis. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the\nmorning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's\nwords had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not\nthe effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to\neach companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr.\nBantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour\nand followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately,\nbut this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on\nperceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take\nthe case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however,\nfrom civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence,\nthat she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had\nmet Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say\nto Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr.\nTouchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris.\n\"I don't know what it's in you,\" she had been pleased to remark, \"but\nfor a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's\nthe only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don't\nappreciate.\"\n\n\"What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?\" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile\nenquiring of our young lady.\n\n\"It's very large and very bright,\" she contented herself with replying.\n\n\"It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom.\"\n\n\"Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?\" she\nasked with rather a liking for her phrase.\n\n\"I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody.\nBut I like it in a church as little as anywhere else.\"\n\n\"You ought indeed to be a Pope!\" Isabel exclaimed, remembering something\nhe had referred to in Florence.\n\n\"Ah, I should have enjoyed that!\" said Gilbert Osmond.\n\nLord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled\naway together. \"Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?\" his lordship\ndemanded.\n\n\"His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence,\" Ralph said.\n\n\"What is he besides?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's so\nlittle of one.\"\n\n\"Has he known Miss Archer long?\"\n\n\"Three or four weeks.\"\n\n\"Does she like him?\"\n\n\"She's trying to find out.\"\n\n\"And will she?\"\n\n\"Find out--?\" Ralph asked.\n\n\"Will she like him?\"\n\n\"Do you mean will she accept him?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lord Warburton after an instant; \"I suppose that's what I\nhorribly mean.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it,\" Ralph replied.\n\nHis lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. \"Then we must be\nperfectly quiet?\"\n\n\"As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!\" Ralph added.\n\n\"The chance she may?\"\n\n\"The chance she may not?\"\n\nLord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. \"Is he\nawfully clever?\"\n\n\"Awfully,\" said Ralph.\n\nHis companion thought. \"And what else?\"\n\n\"What more do you want?\" Ralph groaned.\n\n\"Do you mean what more does SHE?\"\n\nRalph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others.\n\"She wants nothing that WE can give her.\"\n\n\"Ah well, if she won't have You--!\" said his lordship handsomely as they\nwent.\n\n\n\n\n\nOn the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his\nfriends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they\nhad gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying\nthem a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when\nhe had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary\ntheatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act\nhad just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After\nscanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest\nof these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was\nseated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box;\nand beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They\nappeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their\ncompanions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative\ncoolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting\npair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At\nlast he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined\nhim. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper\nregions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his\nhat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.\n\n\"I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely\nand want company,\" was Ralph's greeting.\n\n\"You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted.\"\n\n\"Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't want me. Then\nMiss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss\nStackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either.\nThe opera's very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like\npeacocks. I feel very low.\"\n\n\"You had better go home,\" Lord Warburton said without affectation.\n\n\"And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over\nher.\"\n\n\"She seems to have plenty of friends.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's why I must watch,\" said Ralph with the same large\nmock-melancholy.\n\n\"If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me.\"\n\n\"No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about.\"\n\nLord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a\nfriend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer\ntemporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr.\nOsmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he\ncame in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in\nthe subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor\nthat Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a\nslight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing,\nquickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been\nmistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence\nof mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to\nindicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor\nLord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him,\nformally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with\nsuch arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of\nreparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play\nthem on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera\nbegan again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain\nif he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an\nhour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows\non his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from\nhis gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young\nlady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was\nanother interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord\nWarburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however;\nafter which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said\nnothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled again.\nWhy should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she\nwould have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was\nangry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry.\nVerdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and\nwalked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic\nstreets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under\nthe stars.\n\n\"What's the character of that gentleman?\" Osmond asked of Isabel after\nhe had retired.\n\n\"Irreproachable--don't you see it?\"\n\n\"He owns about half England; that's his character,\" Henrietta remarked.\n\"That's what they call a free country!\"\n\n\"Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!\" said Gilbert Osmond.\n\n\"Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?\"\ncried Miss Stackpole. \"He owns his tenants and has thousands of them.\nIt's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me.\nI don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences.\"\n\n\"It seems to me you own a human being or two,\" Mr. Bantling suggested\njocosely. \"I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me.\"\n\n\"Lord Warburton's a great radical,\" Isabel said. \"He has very advanced\nopinions.\"\n\n\"He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic\niron fence, some thirty miles round,\" Henrietta announced for the\ninformation of Mr. Osmond. \"I should like him to converse with a few of\nour Boston radicals.\"\n\n\"Don't they approve of iron fences?\" asked Mr. Bantling.\n\n\"Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were\ntalking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass.\"\n\n\"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?\" Osmond went on,\nquestioning Isabel.\n\n\"Well enough for all the use I have for him.\"\n\n\"And how much of a use is that?\"\n\n\"Well, I like to like him.\"\n\n\"'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!\" said Osmond.\n\n\"No\"--she considered--\"keep that for liking to DISlike.\"\n\n\"Do you wish to provoke me then,\" Osmond laughed, \"to a passion for\nHIM?\"\n\nShe said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a\ndisproportionate gravity. \"No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever\ndare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate,\" she more easily\nadded, \"is a very nice man.\"\n\n\"Of great ability?\" her friend enquired.\n\n\"Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks.\"\n\n\"As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking. How\ndetestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and\nhandsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your\nhigh favour! That's a man I could envy.\"\n\nIsabel considered him with interest. \"You seem to me to be always\nenvying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord\nWarburton.\"\n\n\"My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to\ndestroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy\nonly myself.\"\n\n\"You'd like to be the Pope?\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But\nwhy\"--Osmond reverted--\"do you speak of your friend as poor?\"\n\n\"Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they've\nhurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness,\" said Ralph,\njoining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so\ntransparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.\n\n\"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?\" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows\nas if the idea were perfectly fresh.\n\n\"It serves him right if you have,\" said Henrietta while the curtain rose\nfor the ballet.\n\nIsabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four\nhours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she\nencountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the\nlion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come\nin with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert\nOsmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase,\nentered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her\nalertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery.\n\"And I'm leaving Rome,\" he added. \"I must bid you goodbye.\" Isabel,\ninconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps\nbecause she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was\nthinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret,\nbut she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which\nmade him look at her rather unlightedly. \"I'm afraid you'll think me\nvery 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop.\"\n\n\"Oh no; you could easily change your mind.\"\n\n\"That's what I have done.\"\n\n\"Bon voyage then.\"\n\n\"You're in a great hurry to get rid of me,\" said his lordship quite\ndismally.\n\n\"Not in the least. But I hate partings.\"\n\n\"You don't care what I do,\" he went on pitifully.\n\nIsabel looked at him a moment. \"Ah,\" she said, \"you're not keeping your\npromise!\"\n\nHe coloured like a boy of fifteen. \"If I'm not, then it's because I\ncan't; and that's why I'm going.\"\n\n\"Good-bye then.\"\n\n\"Good-bye.\" He lingered still, however. \"When shall I see you again?\"\n\nIsabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: \"Some\nday after you're married.\"\n\n\"That will never be. It will be after you are.\"\n\n\"That will do as well,\" she smiled.\n\n\"Yes, quite as well. Good-bye.\"\n\nThey shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the\nshining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of\nthese presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their\nbeautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence.\nIt is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of\nGreek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude;\nwhich, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on\nthe spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially,\nbecause the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The\ngolden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so\nvivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw\na solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows\nof the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made\nthem more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm\nof their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their\nabsent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would\nsound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the\npolished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all\nbefore, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater\nbecause she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however,\nher attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional\ntourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and\nthen passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At\nthe end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance\nof his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands\nbehind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. \"I'm\nsurprised to find you alone, I thought you had company.\n\n\"So I have--the best.\" And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun.\n\n\"Do you call them better company than an English peer?\"\n\n\"Ah, my English peer left me some time ago.\" She got up, speaking with\nintention a little dryly.\n\nMr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest\nof his question. \"I'm afraid that what I heard the other evening is\ntrue: you're rather cruel to that nobleman.\"\n\nIsabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. \"It's not true. I'm\nscrupulously kind.\"\n\n\"That's exactly what I mean!\" Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such\nhappy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was\nfond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and\nnow that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example\nof his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of\ntaking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in\nhis collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert\nOsmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so\nmuch for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for\nits solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing\nhim to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of\nsuch conduct as Isabel's. It would be proper that the woman he might\nmarry should have done something of that sort.\n\n\n\n\n\nRalph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rather markedly\nqualified, as we know, his recognition of Gilbert Osmond's personal\nmerits; but he might really have felt himself illiberal in the light of\nthat gentleman's conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. Osmond\nspent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and ended\nby affecting them as the easiest of men to live with. Who wouldn't have\nseen that he could command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?--which\nperhaps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of superficial\nsociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel's invidious kinsman was\nobliged to admit that he was just now a delightful associate. His\ngood humour was imperturbable, his knowledge of the right fact, his\nproduction of the right word, as convenient as the friendly flicker of\na match for your cigarette. Clearly he was amused--as amused as a man\ncould be who was so little ever surprised, and that made him almost\napplausive. It was not that his spirits were visibly high--he would\nnever, in the concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as a\nknuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, to what\nhe called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer sometimes of too\nprecipitate a readiness. It was pity she had that fault, because if she\nhad not had it she would really have had none; she would have been as\nsmooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm. If he\nwas not personally loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing\ndays of the Roman May he knew a complacency that matched with slow\nirregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the\nsmall sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with\neverything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at\nonce. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening,\ngoing home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to\nwhich he prefixed the title of \"Rome Revisited.\" A day or two later he\nshowed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining\nto her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of\nlife by a tribute to the muse.\n\nHe took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have\nadmitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the\nfertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his\nspirit. But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever\nbeen in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation. This was\nsimply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human\nheart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the\nirritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded\nhimself. \"Ah no, I've not been spoiled; certainly I've not been\nspoiled,\" he used inwardly to repeat. \"If I do succeed before I die\nI shall thoroughly have earned it.\" He was too apt to reason as if\n\"earning\" this boon consisted above all of covertly aching for it and\nmight be confined to that exercise. Absolutely void of it, also, his\ncareer had not been; he might indeed have suggested to a spectator here\nand there that he was resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were,\nsome of them, now too old; others had been too easy. The present one had\nbeen less arduous than might have been expected, but had been easy--that\nis had been rapid--only because he had made an altogether exceptional\neffort, a greater effort than he had believed it in him to make. The\ndesire to have something or other to show for his \"parts\"--to show\nsomehow or other--had been the dream of his youth; but as the years went\non the conditions attached to any marked proof of rarity had affected\nhim more and more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugs\nof beer to advertise what one could \"stand.\" If an anonymous drawing on\na museum wall had been conscious and watchful it might have known this\npeculiar pleasure of being at last and all of a sudden identified--as\nfrom the hand of a great master--by the so high and so unnoticed fact of\nstyle. His \"style\" was what the girl had discovered with a little help;\nand now, beside herself enjoying it, she should publish it to the world\nwithout his having any of the trouble. She should do the thing FOR him,\nand he would not have waited in vain.\n\nShortly before the time fixed in advance for her departure this young\nlady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram running as follows: \"Leave\nFlorence 4th June for Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other\nviews. But can't wait if you dawdle in Rome.\" The dawdling in Rome was\nvery pleasant, but Isabel had different views, and she let her aunt know\nshe would immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that she had\ndone so, and he replied that, spending many of his summers as well as\nhis winters in Italy, he himself would loiter a little longer in the\ncool shadow of Saint Peter's. He would not return to Florence for ten\ndays more, and in that time she would have started for Bellaggio.\nIt might be months in this case before he should see her again. This\nexchange took place in the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our\nfriends at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was\nto take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond had found the\ngirl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friendship with a delightful\nAmerican family on the fourth floor and had mounted the interminable\nstaircase to pay them a visit. Henrietta contracted friendships, in\ntravelling, with great freedom, and had formed in railway-carriages\nseveral that were among her most valued ties. Ralph was making\narrangements for the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat alone in a\nwilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange;\nthe walls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors, the\npictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling was deeply vaulted and\npainted over with naked muses and cherubs. For Osmond the place was ugly\nto distress; the false colours, the sham splendour were like vulgar,\nbragging, lying talk. Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere,\npresented, on their arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in\nher lap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impatient\nto pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veil of pink\ntissue-paper burned on the table beside her and diffused a strange pale\nrosiness over the scene.\n\n\"You say you'll come back; but who knows?\" Gilbert Osmond said.\n\n\"I think you're much more likely to start on your voyage round the\nworld. You're under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what\nyou choose; you can roam through space.\"\n\n\"Well, Italy's a part of space,\" Isabel answered. \"I can take it on the\nway.\"\n\n\"On the way round the world? No, don't do that. Don't put us in a\nparenthesis--give us a chapter to ourselves. I don't want to see you on\nyour travels. I'd rather see you when they're over. I should like to see\nyou when you're tired and satiated,\" Osmond added in a moment. \"I shall\nprefer you in that state.\"\n\nIsabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. \"You turn\nthings into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think,\nwithout intending it. You've no respect for my travels--you think them\nridiculous.\"\n\n\"Where do you find that?\"\n\nShe went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the\npaper-knife. \"You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about\nas if the world belonged to me, simply because--because it has been put\ninto my power to do so. You don't think a woman ought to do that. You\nthink it bold and ungraceful.\"\n\n\"I think it beautiful,\" said Osmond. \"You know my opinions--I've treated\nyou to enough of them. Don't you remember my telling you that one ought\nto make one's life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first;\nbut then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be\ntrying to do with your own.\"\n\nShe looked up from her book. \"What you despise most in the world is bad,\nis stupid art.\"\n\n\"Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good.\"\n\n\"If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me,\" she went\non.\n\nOsmond gave a smile--a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their\nconversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had\nseen it before. \"You have one!\"\n\n\"That's exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd.\"\n\n\"I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it's one of the countries\nI want most to see. Can't you believe that, with my taste for old\nlacquer?\"\n\n\"I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You've a better excuse--the means of going. You're quite wrong in\nyour theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what has put it into your\nhead.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should\nhave the means to travel when you've not; for you know everything and I\nknow nothing.\"\n\n\"The more reason why you should travel and learn,\" smiled Osmond.\n\"Besides,\" he added as if it were a point to be made, \"I don't know\neverything.\"\n\nIsabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she\nwas thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased\nher to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have\nlikened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress\novermuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages\nor historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That\nmost of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a\nreflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done\nthe point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were\na danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be\nas well. Happy things don't repeat themselves, and her adventure wore\nalready the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from\nwhich, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the\nbreeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this\nstrange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better\nnot to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the\ngreater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a\npang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her\nsilent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. \"Go\neverywhere,\" he said at last, in a low, kind voice; \"do everything; get\neverything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by being triumphant?\"\n\n\"Well, doing what you like.\"\n\n\"To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things\none likes is often very tiresome.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Osmond with his quiet quickness. \"As I intimated just\nnow, you'll be tired some day.\" He paused a moment and then he went on:\n\"I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I\nwant to say to you.\"\n\n\"Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'm horrid when\nI'm tired,\" Isabel added with due inconsequence.\n\n\"I don't believe that. You're angry, sometimes--that I can believe,\nthough I've never seen it. But I'm sure you're never 'cross.'\"\n\n\"Not even when I lose my temper?\"\n\n\"You don't lose it--you find it, and that must be beautiful.\" Osmond\nspoke with a noble earnestness. \"They must be great moments to see.\"\n\n\"If I could only find it now!\" Isabel nervously cried.\n\n\"I'm not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I'm speaking very\nseriously.\" He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he\nbent his eyes on the floor. \"What I wish to say to you,\" he went on at\nlast, looking up, \"is that I find I'm in love with you.\"\n\nShe instantly rose. \"Ah, keep that till I am tired!\"\n\n\"Tired of hearing it from others?\" He sat there raising his eyes to her.\n\"No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must\nsay it now.\" She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped\nherself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this\nsituation, exchanging a long look--the large, conscious look of the\ncritical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply\nrespectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. \"I'm\nabsolutely in love with you.\"\n\nHe had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal\ndiscretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke\nfor his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time\nthey obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow\nthe slipping of a fine bolt--backward, forward, she couldn't have said\nwhich. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful\nand generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but,\nmorally speaking, she retreated before them--facing him still--as she\nhad retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. \"Oh don't say\nthat, please,\" she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread\nof having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread\ngreat was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have\nbanished all dread--the sense of something within herself, deep down,\nthat she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there\nlike a large sum stored in a bank--which there was a terror in having to\nbegin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.\n\n\"I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you,\" said Osmond. \"I've\ntoo little to offer you. What I have--it's enough for me; but it's not\nenough for you. I've neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages\nof any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it\ncan't offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It\ngives me pleasure, I assure you,\" he went on, standing there before her,\nconsiderately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken\nup, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of\nawkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm,\nrefined, slightly ravaged face. \"It gives me no pain, because it's\nperfectly simple. For me you'll always be the most important woman in\nthe world.\"\n\nIsabel looked at herself in this character--looked intently, thinking\nshe filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an\nexpression of any such complacency. \"You don't offend me; but you\nought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded,\ntroubled.\" \"Incommoded,\" she heard herself saying that, and it struck\nher as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her.\n\n\"I remember perfectly. Of course you're surprised and startled. But\nif it's nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave\nsomething that I may not be ashamed of.\"\n\n\"I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that I'm not\noverwhelmed,\" said Isabel with rather a pale smile. \"I'm not too\ntroubled to think. And I think that I'm glad I leave Rome to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Of course I don't agree with you there.\"\n\n\"I don't at all KNOW you,\" she added abruptly; and then she coloured as\nshe heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord\nWarburton.\n\n\"If you were not going away you'd know me better.\"\n\n\"I shall do that some other time.\"\n\n\"I hope so. I'm very easy to know.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she emphatically answered--\"there you're not sincere. You're\nnot easy to know; no one could be less so.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he laughed, \"I said that because I know myself. It may be a\nboast, but I do.\"\n\n\"Very likely; but you're very wise.\"\n\n\"So are you, Miss Archer!\" Osmond exclaimed.\n\n\"I don't feel so just now. Still, I'm wise enough to think you had\nbetter go. Good-night.\"\n\n\"God bless you!\" said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed\nto surrender. After which he added: \"If we meet again you'll find me as\nyou leave me. If we don't I shall be so all the same.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much. Good-bye.\"\n\nThere was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor; he might go of\nhis own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed. \"There's one thing more.\nI haven't asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you\nmust do me that justice. But there's a little service I should like to\nask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome's delightful, and\nit's a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry\nto leave it; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes.\"\n\n\"She doesn't even wish it!\" Isabel broke out strangely.\n\nOsmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match\nthese words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: \"Ah well, it's\nproper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that's proper;\nI go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't\nknow me, but when you do you'll discover what a worship I have for\npropriety.\"\n\n\"You're not conventional?\" Isabel gravely asked.\n\n\"I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional: I'm\nconvention itself. You don't understand that?\" And he paused a moment,\nsmiling. \"I should like to explain it.\" Then with a sudden, quick,\nbright naturalness, \"Do come back again,\" he pleaded. \"There are so many\nthings we might talk about.\"\n\nShe stood there with lowered eyes. \"What service did you speak of just\nnow?\"\n\n\"Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She's alone at\nthe villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn't at all my\nideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much,\" said Gilbert\nOsmond gently.\n\n\"It will be a great pleasure to me to go,\" Isabel answered. \"I'll tell\nher what you say. Once more good-bye.\"\n\nOn this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood\na moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of\ndeliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with\nfolded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not\ndiminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something\nthat for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but\nhere, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke\ndown. The working of this young lady's spirit was strange, and I can\nonly give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether\nnatural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last\nvague space it couldn't cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked\nambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the\nwinter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.\n\n\n\n\n\nShe returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, and\nRalph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought\nvery well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried\nhis companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's\npreference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme\nof travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little\ntrip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel was\nto have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs.\nTouchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of these\nto her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for\na moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame\nMerle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the\npoint of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle\nin the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that\ncountry, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, \"forever\")\nseemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense\ncrenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious\nprivilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had\nasked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he had\nalso made her a declaration of love.\n\n\"Ah, comme cela se trouve!\" Madame Merle exclaimed. \"I myself have been\nthinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I\ngo off.\"\n\n\"We can go together then,\" Isabel reasonably said: \"reasonably\" because\nthe proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had\nprefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like\nit better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic\nsentiment to her great consideration for her friend.\n\nThat personage finely meditated. \"After all, why should we both go;\nhaving, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?\"\n\n\"Very good; I can easily go alone.\"\n\n\"I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome\nbachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!\"\n\nIsabel stared. \"When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?\"\n\n\"They don't know he's away, you see.\"\n\n\"They? Whom do you mean?\"\n\n\"Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify.\"\n\n\"If you were going why shouldn't I?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman.\"\n\n\"Granting all that, you've not promised.\"\n\n\"How much you think of your promises!\" said the elder woman in mild\nmockery.\n\n\"I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?\"\n\n\"You're right,\" Madame Merle audibly reflected. \"I really think you wish\nto be kind to the child.\"\n\n\"I wish very much to be kind to her.\"\n\n\"Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd have\ncome if you hadn't. Or rather,\" Madame Merle added, \"DON'T tell her. She\nwon't care.\"\n\nAs Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding\nway which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend had\nmeant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals,\nthis lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of\nthe open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous\nquality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for\nthe vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose\nthat she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly\ndone? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which\nin the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had\ntime to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts\nof things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming\nat the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.\nOsmond's drawing-room; the little girl was \"practising,\" and Isabel was\npleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately\ncame in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's\nhouse with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an\nhour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the\npantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but\nconversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairs\nthat Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her;\nshe had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower\nof cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our\nadmiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned;\nand yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel\nwas fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding,\nas who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her,\nup to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not\nreally all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection\nof self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor,\nor was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that\nIsabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows\nhad been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there,\nthrough an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a\ngleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview\nwith the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this\nquestion. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface,\nsuccessfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor\ntalent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a\nfriend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new\nfrock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could\nbe felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to\nresist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,\neasily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to\ncling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave\nto walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on\nseveral works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her\nfather's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety\nof supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally\nexpect.\n\n\"Please tell me,\" she said, \"did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame\nCatherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time.\nPapa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education;\nit isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with me\nmore; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day he\nthought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the\nconvent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's\nnot rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for\nme, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough,\nand I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it's\npleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who\nwas my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she\nwas fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You\ndon't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished\nto keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that\npapa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!\"\nPansy went on with a sigh; \"I think papa might make that economy. At\nany rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any\ngentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like\nto marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some\nstrange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might\nthink, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been\nprincipally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you\nmust not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry,\nand he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.\nThat's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was\nvery kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really\nas yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When\ndid YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know\nhow old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the\nconvent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do\nanything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly\ntaught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left\ndirections for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off\nthat side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not\nto get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.\nIn Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I\npractise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish\nvery much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should\nhear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's\nwhat I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall\nnever have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the\nsqueak of a slate-pencil making flourishes.\"\n\nIsabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down\nto the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white\nhands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child\ngood-bye, held her close, looked at her long. \"Be very good,\" she said;\n\"give pleasure to your father.\"\n\n\"I think that's what I live for,\" Pansy answered. \"He has not much\npleasure; he's rather a sad man.\"\n\nIsabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it\nalmost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged\nher, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in\nher head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say\nto Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her\npleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner\nbecame conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with\nhorror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of\nthis she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where\nhe might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed\nstate. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She\nrose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a\nmoment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweet\nslimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged\nto confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in\ntalking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who\nwas so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once\nagain. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that\nopened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather\nwistfully beyond. \"I may go no further. I've promised papa not to pass\nthis door.\"\n\n\"You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable.\"\n\n\"I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?\"\n\n\"Not for a long time, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl,\" said Pansy, \"but\nI shall always expect you.\" And the small figure stood in the high, dark\ndoorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into\nthe brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as it\nopened.\n\n\n\n\n\nIsabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; an interval\nsufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however, during this\ninterval that we are closely concerned with her; our attention is\nengaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after\nher return to Palazzo Crescentini and a year from the date of the\nincidents just narrated. She was alone on this occasion, in one of the\nsmaller of the numerous rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses,\nand there was that in her expression and attitude which would have\nsuggested that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open,\nand though its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air of the\ngarden had come in through a broad interstice and filled the room with\nwarmth and perfume. Our young woman stood near it for some time, her\nhands clasped behind her; she gazed abroad with the vagueness of unrest.\nToo troubled for attention she moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not\nbe in her thought to catch a glimpse of her visitor before he should\npass into the house, since the entrance to the palace was not through\nthe garden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. She wished\nrather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture, and to judge\nby the expression of her face this attempt gave her plenty to do. Grave\nshe found herself, and positively more weighted, as by the experience of\nthe lapse of the year she had spent in seeing the world. She had ranged,\nshe would have said, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and\nwas therefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person from the\nfrivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to take the measure\nof Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She\nflattered herself she had harvested wisdom and learned a great deal\nmore of life than this light-minded creature had even suspected. If\nher thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead\nof fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have\nevoked a multitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would have\nbeen both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however, would have\nbeen the more numerous. With several of the images that might have been\nprojected on such a field we are already acquainted. There would be for\ninstance the conciliatory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund Ludlow's\nwife, who had come out from New York to spend five months with her\nrelative. She had left her husband behind her, but had brought\nher children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munificence and\ntenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, toward the last, had\nbeen able to snatch a few weeks from his forensic triumphs and, crossing\nthe ocean with extreme rapidity, had spent a month with the two ladies\nin Paris before taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet,\neven from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; so\nthat while her sister was with her Isabel had confined her movements to\na narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in Switzerland in\nthe month of July, and they had spent a summer of fine weather in an\nAlpine valley where the flowers were thick in the meadows and the shade\nof great chestnuts made a resting-place for such upward wanderings as\nmight be undertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. They had\nafterwards reached the French capital, which was worshipped, and with\ncostly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of as noisily vacant by Isabel,\nwho in these days made use of her memory of Rome as she might have done,\nin a hot and crowded room, of a phial of something pungent hidden in her\nhandkerchief.\n\nMrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts and\nwonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husband had joined\nher found further chagrin in his failure to throw himself into these\nspeculations. They all had Isabel for subject; but Edmund Ludlow, as\nhe had always done before, declined to be surprised, or distressed, or\nmystified, or elated, at anything his sister-in-law might have done\nor have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow's mental motions were sufficiently\nvarious. At one moment she thought it would be so natural for that young\nwoman to come home and take a house in New York--the Rossiters', for\ninstance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just round the\ncorner from her own; at another she couldn't conceal her surprise at the\ngirl's not marrying some member of one of the great aristocracies. On\nthe whole, as I have said, she had fallen from high communion with the\nprobabilities. She had taken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of\nfortune than if the money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her\nto offer just the proper setting for her sister's slightly meagre, but\nscarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less, however, than\nLily had thought likely--development, to Lily's understanding, being\nsomehow mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties.\nIntellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides; but she\nappeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs.\nLudlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily's conception of such\nachievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly what she had\nexpected of Isabel--to give it form and body. Isabel could have done\nas well as she had done in New York; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her\nhusband to know whether there was any privilege she enjoyed in Europe\nwhich the society of that city might not offer her. We know ourselves\nthat Isabel had made conquests--whether inferior or not to those she\nmight have effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter to\ndecide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacency that\nI again mention that she had not rendered these honourable victories\npublic. She had not told her sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor\nhad she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond's state of mind; and she had had\nno better reason for her silence than that she didn't wish to speak.\nIt was more romantic to say nothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of\nromance, she was as little disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she\nwould have been to close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing\nof these discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister's career\na strange anti-climax--an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel's\nsilence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to the\nfrequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened very\noften it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her\ncourage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as\ninheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it\nadded to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people.\n\nOur young lady's courage, however, might have been taken as reaching\nits height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver\nthings than spending the winter in Paris--Paris had sides by which it\nso resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose--and her close\ncorrespondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She\nhad never had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldness and\nwantonness of liberty, than when she turned away from the platform\nat the Euston Station on one of the last days of November, after the\ndeparture of the train that was to convey poor Lily, her husband and her\nchildren to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to regale;\nshe was very conscious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of\nwhat was good for her, and her effort was constantly to find something\nthat was good enough. To profit by the present advantage till the latest\nmoment she had made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers.\nShe would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow\nhad asked her, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and\nshe asked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the train move away;\nshe kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative\nchild who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and\nmade separation an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked\nback into the foggy London street. The world lay before her--she could\ndo whatever she chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the\npresent her choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walk back\nfrom Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of a November afternoon\nhad already closed in; the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked\nweak and red; our heroine was unattended and Euston Square was a long\nway from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a positive\nenjoyment of its dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order\nto get more sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obliging\npoliceman easily set her right again. She was so fond of the spectacle\nof human life that she enjoyed even the aspect of gathering dusk in the\nLondon streets--the moving crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops,\nthe flaring stalls, the dark, shining dampness of everything. That\nevening, at her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start\nin a day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touching\nat Florence--having gone first to Venice and then proceeded southward by\nAncona. She accomplished this journey without other assistance than that\nof her servant, for her natural protectors were not now on the ground.\nRalph Touchett was spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in\nthe September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram from\nthe Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliant correspondent a\nfresher field for her genius than the mouldering cities of Europe, and\nHenrietta was cheered on her way by a promise from Mr. Bantling that\nhe would soon come over to see her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to\napologise for not presenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt\nreplied characteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated,\nwere of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself never dealt\nin such articles. One either did the thing or one didn't, and what one\n\"would\" have done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the\nidea of a future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank,\nbut (a rare case with Mrs. Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She\neasily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because she\ntook it for a sign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there than\nformerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find a pretext\nfor going to Rome, and derived some comfort from learning that he had\nnot been guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her side, had not been a\nfortnight in Rome before she proposed to Madame Merle that they should\nmake a little pilgrimage to the East. Madame Merle remarked that her\nfriend was restless, but she added that she herself had always been\nconsumed with the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two\nladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months\nin Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest her in\nthese countries, though Madame Merle continued to remark that even among\nthe most classic sites, the scenes most calculated to suggest repose\nand reflexion, a certain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled\nrapidly and recklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup\nafter cup. Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess\ncirculating incognita, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel's\ninvitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to the girl's\nuncountenanced state. She played her part with the tact that might have\nbeen expected of her, effacing herself and accepting the position of a\ncompanion whose expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however,\nhad no hardships, and people who met this reserved though striking\npair on their travels would not have been able to tell you which\nwas patroness and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved on\nacquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on her friend,\nwho had found her from the first so ample and so easy. At the end of an\nintimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her better; her character\nhad revealed itself, and the admirable woman had also at last redeemed\nher promise of relating her history from her own point of view--a\nconsummation the more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related\nfrom the point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so\nfar as it concerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she might\nsay, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage, years\nbefore, of her youth and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who\nknew her only now would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in\nstartling and lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person\nso eprouvee could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in\nlife. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a considerable\ninsight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mechanical,\ncarried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso, or blanketed\nand bridled like the \"favourite\" of the jockey. She liked her as much\nas ever, but there was a corner of the curtain that never was lifted;\nit was as if she had remained after all something of a public performer,\ncondemned to emerge only in character and in costume. She had once\nsaid that she came from a distance, that she belonged to the \"old, old\"\nworld, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was the product of\na different moral or social clime from her own, that she had grown up\nunder other stars.\n\nShe believed then that at bottom she had a different morality. Of course\nthe morality of civilised persons has always much in common; but our\nyoung woman had a sense in her of values gone wrong or, as they said at\nthe shops, marked down. She considered, with the presumption of youth,\nthat a morality differing from her own must be inferior to it; and this\nconviction was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an\noccasional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person who had\nraised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was too high for\nthe narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives might,\nin certain lights, have been acquired at the court of some kingdom in\ndecadence, and there were several in her list of which our heroine had\nnot even heard. She had not heard of everything, that was very plain;\nand there were evidently things in the world of which it was not\nadvantageous to hear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since\nit so affected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, \"Heaven forgive\nher, she doesn't understand me!\" Absurd as it may seem this discovery\noperated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay in which there was\neven an element of foreboding. The dismay of course subsided, in the\nlight of some sudden proof of Madame Merle's remarkable intelligence;\nbut it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence.\nMadame Merle had once declared her belief that when a friendship ceases\nto grow it immediately begins to decline--there being no point of\nequilibrium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affection,\nin other words, was impossible--it must move one way or the other.\nHowever that might be, the girl had in these days a thousand uses for\nher sense of the romantic, which was more active than it had ever been.\nI do not allude to the impulse it received as she gazed at the Pyramids\nin the course of an excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the\nbroken columns of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point\ndesignated to her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as these\nemotions had remained. She came back by the last of March from Egypt\nand Greece and made another stay in Rome. A few days after her arrival\nGilbert Osmond descended from Florence and remained three weeks, during\nwhich the fact of her being with his old friend Madame Merle, in whose\nhouse she had gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he\nshould see her every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs.\nTouchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitation given long\nbefore, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Crescentini, Madame Merle on\nthis occasion remaining in Rome. She found her aunt alone; her cousin\nwas still at Corfu. Ralph, however, was expected in Florence from day\nto day, and Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was\nprepared to give him the most affectionate welcome.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood\nat the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any\nof the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past,\nbut to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,\nand she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she\nshould say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What\nhe would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing\nin the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction\ndoubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all\nclearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked\nin no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much,\nand as if she were \"worth more\" for it, like some curious piece in an\nantiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her\napprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his\ntray. \"Let the gentleman come in,\" she said, and continued to gaze out\nof the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had\nheard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she\nlooked round.\n\nCaspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to\nfoot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered\na greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's\nwe shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to\nher critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight,\nstrong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke\npositively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor\nweakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same\nvoluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in\nit of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled\nhard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This\ngave Isabel time to make a reflexion: \"Poor fellow, what great things\nhe's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his\nsplendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!\" It\ngave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: \"I can't tell\nyou how I hoped you wouldn't come!\"\n\n\"I've no doubt of that.\" And he looked about him for a seat. Not only\nhad he come, but he meant to settle.\n\n\"You must be very tired,\" said Isabel, seating herself, and generously,\nas she thought, to give him his opportunity.\n\n\"No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?\"\n\n\"Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?\"\n\n\"Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express.\nThese Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral.\"\n\n\"That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury\nme!\" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their\nsituation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly\nclear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all\nthis she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she\nwas devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked\nat her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such\na want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on\nher as a physical weight.\n\n\"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I\ncould!\" he candidly declared.\n\n\"I thank you immensely.\"\n\n\"I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man.\"\n\n\"That's very selfish of you!\" she returned with the ardour of a real\nconviction. \"If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right to\nbe.\"\n\n\"Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so.\nI don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellest\nthings you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've\ndone I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall\nfeel all my life.\"\n\nMr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness,\nin his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over\npropositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than\ntouched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave\nher a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure\nof this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. \"When did\nyou leave New York?\"\n\nHe threw up his head as if calculating. \"Seventeen days ago.\"\n\n\"You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains.\"\n\n\"I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had been\nable.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood,\" she coldly smiled.\n\n\"Not to you--no. But to me.\"\n\n\"You gain nothing that I see.\"\n\n\"That's for me to judge!\"\n\n\"Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself.\" And then, to\nchange the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.\nHe looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of\nHenrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young\nlady had been with him just before he left America. \"She came to see\nyou?\" Isabel then demanded.\n\n\"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I\nhad got your letter.\"\n\n\"Did you tell her?\" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Caspar Goodwood simply; \"I didn't want to do that. She'll\nhear it quick enough; she hears everything.\"\n\n\"I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me,\" Isabel\ndeclared, trying to smile again.\n\nCaspar, however, remained sternly grave. \"I guess she'll come right\nout,\" he said.\n\n\"On purpose to scold me?\"\n\n\"I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you tell me that,\" Isabel said. \"I must prepare for her.\"\n\nMr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last,\nraising them, \"Does she know Mr. Osmond?\" he enquired.\n\n\"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to\nplease Henrietta,\" she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar\nif she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't\nsay so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To\nwhich she made answer that she didn't know yet. \"I can only say it will\nbe soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old\nfriend of Mr. Osmond's.\"\n\n\"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?\" he demanded.\n\n\"I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends.\"\n\nHe went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions,\ndoing it quite without delicacy. \"Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert\nOsmond?\"\n\n\"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable\nman. He's not in business,\" said Isabel. \"He's not rich; he's not known\nfor anything in particular.\"\n\nShe disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she\nowed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor\nCaspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at\nher. \"Where does he come from? Where does he belong?\"\n\nShe had never been so little pleased with the way he said \"belawng.\" \"He\ncomes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy.\"\n\n\"You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?\"\n\n\"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy.\"\n\n\"Has he never gone back?\"\n\n\"Why should he go back?\" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. \"He has\nno profession.\"\n\n\"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United\nStates?\"\n\n\"He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents\nhimself with Italy.\"\n\n\"With Italy and with you,\" said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and\nno appearance of trying to make an epigram. \"What has he ever done?\" he\nadded abruptly.\n\n\"That I should marry him? Nothing at all,\" Isabel replied while her\npatience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. \"If he had done\ngreat things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;\nI'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him.\nYou can't.\"\n\n\"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in\nthe least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think\nhe's great, though no one else thinks so.\"\n\nIsabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion,\nand it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render\nperceptions she had never taken for fine. \"Why do you always come back\nto what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air\nof stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were\nnothing else that they might discuss.\n\n\"You see how little you gain,\" she accordingly broke out--\"how little\ncomfort or satisfaction I can give you.\"\n\n\"I didn't expect you to give me much.\"\n\n\"I don't understand then why you came.\"\n\n\"I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are.\"\n\n\"I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later\nwe should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been\npleasanter for each of us than this.\"\n\n\"Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do.\nYou'll be different then.\"\n\n\"Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see.\"\n\n\"That will make it all the worse,\" said Mr. Goodwood grimly.\n\n\"Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order to\nhelp you to resign yourself.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't care if you did!\"\n\nIsabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the\nwindow, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round\nher visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again\nand stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just\nquitted. \"Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for\nyou perhaps than for me.\"\n\n\"I wished to hear the sound of your voice,\" he said.\n\n\"You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet.\"\n\n\"It gives me pleasure, all the same.\" And with this he got up. She had\nfelt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in\nFlorence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She\nhad been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his\nmessenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better\npleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy\nimplications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights,\nreproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change\nher purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed;\nand now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's\nremarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that\nirritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart\nbeat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself\nthat she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the\nwrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness\nto swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a\nlittle. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no\npropriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden\nhorror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an\nopportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him\na month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her\nengagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire\nto defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to\ndesire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile\nheld himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which\nshe suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused\nher: \"I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know that,\" said Caspar.\n\n\"I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose.\"\n\n\"You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner\nthat I pretty well believed it.\"\n\nShe considered this an instant. \"No one can be more surprised than\nmyself at my present intention.\"\n\n\"You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe\nit,\" Caspar went on. \"I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I\nremembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and\nthat's partly why I came.\"\n\n\"If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There's\nno mistake whatever.\"\n\n\"I saw that as soon as I came into the room.\"\n\n\"What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?\" she asked with a\ncertain fierceness.\n\n\"I should like it better than this.\"\n\n\"You're very selfish, as I said before.\"\n\n\"I know that. I'm selfish as iron.\"\n\n\"Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see you again.\"\n\n\"Don't you call me reasonable now?\"\n\n\"I don't know what to say to you,\" she answered with sudden humility.\n\n\"I shan't trouble you for a long time,\" the young man went on. He made\na step towards the door, but he stopped. \"Another reason why I came was\nthat I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having\nchanged your mind.\"\n\nHer humbleness as suddenly deserted her. \"In explanation? Do you think\nI'm bound to explain?\"\n\nHe gave her one of his long dumb looks. \"You were very positive. I did\nbelieve it.\"\n\n\"So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?\"\n\n\"No, I suppose not. Well,\" he added, \"I've done what I wished. I've seen\nyou.\"\n\n\"How little you make of these terrible journeys,\" she felt the poverty\nof her presently replying.\n\n\"If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be\nat your ease about it.\" He turned away, this time in earnest, and no\nhand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.\n\nAt the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. \"I shall leave\nFlorence to-morrow,\" he said without a quaver.\n\n\"I'm delighted to hear it!\" she answered passionately. Five minutes\nafter he had gone out she burst into tears.\n\n\n\n\n\nHer fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had\nvanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this\nexpression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased;\nIsabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She\nhad an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact\npublic before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about\nit. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a\nsomewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more;\nshe waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the\nmid-day breakfast, and then she began. \"Aunt Lydia, I've something to\ntell you.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. \"You\nneedn't tell me; I know what it is.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you know.\"\n\n\"The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught.\nYou're going to marry that man.\"\n\n\"What man do you mean?\" Isabel enquired with great dignity.\n\n\"Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond.\"\n\n\"I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the\nprincipal thing he's known by?\"\n\n\"If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for\nhim!\" cried Mrs. Touchett. \"I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'm\ndisappointed.\"\n\n\"If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement\nyou're greatly mistaken,\" Isabel declared with a sort of ardent\ncoldness.\n\n\"You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman's\nhaving had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, your\nattractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she\nhadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he\nwas not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him.\"\n\n\"He has taken a great deal for himself!\" cried Isabel with a voluntary\nlaugh.\n\nMrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. \"I think he must, after all, to have\nmade you like him so much.\"\n\n\"I thought he even pleased YOU.\"\n\n\"He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him.\"\n\n\"Be angry with me, not with him,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this\nthat you refused Lord Warburton?\"\n\n\"Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since\nothers have done so?\"\n\n\"Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There's\nnothing OF him,\" Mrs. Touchett explained.\n\n\"Then he can't hurt me,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings,\nyou should know.\"\n\n\"I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?\"\n\n\"What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as\nthey go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership\nyou'll bring everything.\"\n\n\"Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?\"\nIsabel asked.\n\n\"He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such\nthings and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious.\nMany other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some\nother reason.\"\n\nIsabel hesitated a little. \"I think I value everything that's valuable.\nI care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a\nlittle.\"\n\n\"Give it to him then; but marry some one else.\"\n\n\"His name's good enough for me,\" the girl went on. \"It's a very pretty\nname. Have I such a fine one myself?\"\n\n\"All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen\nAmerican names. Do you marry him out of charity?\"\n\n\"It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my duty\nto explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don't\nremonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can't\ntalk about it.\"\n\n\"I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of\nintelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle.\"\n\n\"You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been very\nconsiderate.\"\n\n\"It was not considerate--it was convenient,\" said Mrs. Touchett. \"But I\nshall talk to Madame Merle.\"\n\n\"I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good\nfriend to me.\"\n\n\"Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me.\"\n\n\"What has she done to you?\"\n\n\"She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your\nengagement.\"\n\n\"She couldn't have prevented it.\"\n\n\"She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew she\ncould play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I\ndidn't understand that she would play two at the same time.\"\n\n\"I don't know what part she may have played to you,\" Isabel said;\n\"that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and\ndevoted.\"\n\n\"Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me\nshe was watching you only in order to interpose.\"\n\n\"She said that to please you,\" the girl answered; conscious, however, of\nthe inadequacy of the explanation.\n\n\"To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased\nto-day?\"\n\n\"I don't think you're ever much pleased,\" Isabel was obliged to reply.\n\"If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by\ninsincerity?\"\n\n\"She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you\nwere marching away, and she was really beating the drum.\"\n\n\"That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and\neven if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me.\"\n\n\"No, but some one else would.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean?\" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs.\nTouchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained\nher gaze rather than returned it. \"Would you have listened to Ralph?\"\n\n\"Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond.\"\n\n\"Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much\nfor you.\"\n\n\"I know he does,\" said Isabel; \"and I shall feel the value of it now,\nfor he knows that whatever I do I do with reason.\"\n\n\"He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it,\nand he argued the other way.\"\n\n\"He did it for the sake of argument,\" the girl smiled. \"You don't accuse\nhim of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?\"\n\n\"He never pretended he'd prevent it.\"\n\n\"I'm glad of that!\" cried Isabel gaily. \"I wish very much,\" she\npresently added, \"that when he comes you'd tell him first of my\nengagement.\"\n\n\"Of course I'll mention it,\" said Mrs. Touchett. \"I shall say nothing\nmore to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others.\"\n\n\"That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better the\nannouncement should come from you than from me.\"\n\n\"I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!\" And on this the aunt\nand the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her\nword, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence,\nhowever, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an\nhour before.\n\n\"From an old friend--an American gentleman,\" Isabel said with a colour\nin her cheek.\n\n\"An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman who\ncalls at ten o'clock in the morning.\"\n\n\"It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this\nevening.\"\n\n\"Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?\"\n\n\"He only arrived last night.\"\n\n\"He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?\" Mrs. Touchett cried.\n\"He's an American gentleman truly.\"\n\n\"He is indeed,\" said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what\nCaspar Goodwood had done for her.\n\nTwo days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs.\nTouchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed\nat first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of\nhis health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been\nshocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten\nhow ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she\nwondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed\nto living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to\nconventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently\ncomplete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural\noddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and\nstill ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper\nand unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the\nexorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was\naltogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of\nrelaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his\nhands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and\nshuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was\nperhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than\never as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own\ndisabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with\nRalph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his\nview of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was\npast finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness\nhad become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they\nstruck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be\ncharming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had\nhitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed\nnot a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him\nfrom all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of\nbeing exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful;\nhe had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to\nconsent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally\nsick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when she\nhad pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal\nshe had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had\na dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the\ngiver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility\nto feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should\nbe. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination\nof wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying.\n\nIsabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people,\nand she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now\npromised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was\nnot pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of\nher affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not\neven prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for\nit would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find\nfault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always\npretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it\nwas a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was\nnothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things\nbeing equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any\none, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should\nsquare with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended\nto believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was\nonly because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted\nhim Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the\nopposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a\nmarriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only\ngive her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had\nother employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the\ncare. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must\nhave seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing.\nAfter three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman\nwearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through\nthe form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily\nbelieve that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo\nCrescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had\nliterally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more\nsensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked\nand humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the\nworld in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the\nhouse like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden\nof the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head\nthrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the\nheart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could\nhe say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it?\nTo attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should\nsucceed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the\nman to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only\nin the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have\ndamned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to\ndissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope.\nMeanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were\ndaily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself\nlittle at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere,\nas she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She\nhad taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt\nfor the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved,\nand she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness,\nduring the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady,\njoined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while\nthrough the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.\n\n\n\n\n\nOne morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour before\nluncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the palace and,\ninstead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the court, passed\nbeneath another archway and entered the garden. A sweeter spot at this\nmoment could not have been imagined. The stillness of noontide hung over\nit, and the warm shade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious\ncaves. Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a\nstatue of Terpsichore--a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated\ndraperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his\nattitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light\nfootstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turning away she\nstood for a moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his\neyes; upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his\nown. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference she\nwas not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to brood\nover. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the languor of\nhis increased weakness, partly by worries connected with the property\ninherited from his father--the fruit of eccentric arrangements of\nwhich Mrs. Touchett disapproved and which, as she had told Isabel, now\nencountered opposition from the other partners in the bank. He ought to\nhave gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence;\nhe had not been there for months, and took no more interest in the bank\nthan in the state of Patagonia.\n\n\"I'm sorry I waked you,\" Isabel said; \"you look too tired.\"\n\n\"I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you.\"\n\n\"Are you tired of that?\"\n\n\"Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I never arrive.\"\n\n\"What do you wish to arrive at?\" she put to him, closing her parasol.\n\n\"At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your\nengagement.\"\n\n\"Don't think too much of it,\" she lightly returned.\n\n\"Do you mean that it's none of my business?\"\n\n\"Beyond a certain point, yes.\"\n\n\"That's the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have found me\nwanting in good manners. I've never congratulated you.\"\n\n\"Of course I've noticed that. I wondered why you were silent.\"\n\n\"There have been a good many reasons. I'll tell you now,\" Ralph said.\nHe pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at\nher. He leaned back under the protection of Bernini, his head against\nhis marble pedestal, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands\nlaid upon the rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable;\nhe hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she\nwas usually sorry for them, but she was determined not to help Ralph to\nutter a word that should not be to the honour of her high decision. \"I\nthink I've hardly got over my surprise,\" he went on at last. \"You were\nthe last person I expected to see caught.\"\n\n\"I don't know why you call it caught.\"\n\n\"Because you're going to be put into a cage.\"\n\n\"If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you,\" she answered.\n\n\"That's what I wonder at; that's what I've been thinking of.\"\n\n\"If you've been thinking you may imagine how I've thought! I'm satisfied\nthat I'm doing well.\"\n\n\"You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty\nbeyond everything. You wanted only to see life.\"\n\n\"I've seen it,\" said Isabel. \"It doesn't look to me now, I admit, such\nan inviting expanse.\"\n\n\"I don't pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial view\nof it and wanted to survey the whole field.\"\n\n\"I've seen that one can't do anything so general. One must choose a\ncorner and cultivate that.\"\n\n\"That's what I think. And one must choose as good a corner as possible.\nI had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters, that\nyou were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your silence put me\noff my guard.\"\n\n\"It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about. Besides, I knew\nnothing of the future. It has all come lately. If you had been on your\nguard, however,\" Isabel asked, \"what would you have done?\"\n\n\"I should have said 'Wait a little longer.'\"\n\n\"Wait for what?\"\n\n\"Well, for a little more light,\" said Ralph with rather an absurd smile,\nwhile his hands found their way into his pockets.\n\n\"Where should my light have come from? From you?\"\n\n\"I might have struck a spark or two.\"\n\nIsabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as they lay\nupon her knee. The mildness of this movement was accidental, for her\nexpression was not conciliatory. \"You're beating about the bush, Ralph.\nYou wish to say you don't like Mr. Osmond, and yet you're afraid.\"\n\n\"Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I'm willing to wound HIM,\nyes--but not to wound you. I'm afraid of you, not of him. If you marry\nhim it won't be a fortunate way for me to have spoken.\"\n\n\"IF I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?\"\n\n\"Of course that seems to you too fatuous.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Isabel after a little; \"it seems to me too touching.\"\n\n\"That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me.\"\n\nShe stroked out her long gloves again. \"I know you've a great affection\nfor me. I can't get rid of that.\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince\nyou how intensely I want you to do well.\"\n\n\"And how little you trust me!\"\n\nThere was a moment's silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. \"I\ntrust you, but I don't trust him,\" said Ralph.\n\nShe raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. \"You've said it now,\nand I'm glad you've made it so clear. But you'll suffer by it.\"\n\n\"Not if you're just.\"\n\n\"I'm very just,\" said Isabel. \"What better proof of it can there be than\nthat I'm not angry with you? I don't know what's the matter with me, but\nI'm not. I was when you began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought\nto be angry, but Mr. Osmond wouldn't think so. He wants me to know\neverything; that's what I like him for. You've nothing to gain, I know\nthat. I've never been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have\nmuch reason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good advice;\nyou've often done so. No, I'm very quiet; I've always believed in your\nwisdom,\" she went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a\nkind of contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be\njust; it touched Ralph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a\ncreature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a\nmoment he was absurdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had\nsaid. But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught a glimpse,\nas she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to advance in that\ndirection. \"I see you've some special idea; I should like very much to\nhear it. I'm sure it's disinterested; I feel that. It seems a strange\nthing to argue about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that\nif you expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You'll not move me\nan inch; it's too late. As you say, I'm caught. Certainly it won't be\npleasant for you to remember this, but your pain will be in your own\nthoughts. I shall never reproach you.\"\n\n\"I don't think you ever will,\" said Ralph. \"It's not in the least the\nsort of marriage I thought you'd make.\"\n\n\"What sort of marriage was that, pray?\"\n\n\"Well, I can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view of it, but I\nhad a negative. I didn't think you'd decide for--well, for that type.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with Mr. Osmond's type, if it be one? His being\nso independent, so individual, is what I most see in him,\" the girl\ndeclared. \"What do you know against him? You know him scarcely at all.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Ralph said, \"I know him very little, and I confess I haven't\nfacts and items to prove him a villain. But all the same I can't help\nfeeling that you're running a grave risk.\"\n\n\"Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk's as grave as mine.\"\n\n\"That's his affair! If he's afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he\nwould.\"\n\nIsabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing a while at her\ncousin. \"I don't think I understand you,\" she said at last coldly. \"I\ndon't know what you're talking about.\"\n\n\"I believed you'd marry a man of more importance.\"\n\nCold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a flame leaped\ninto her face. \"Of more importance to whom? It seems to me enough that\none's husband should be of importance to one's self!\"\n\nRalph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physically speaking\nhe proceeded to change it; he straightened himself, then leaned forward,\nresting a hand on each knee. He fixed his eyes on the ground; he had an\nair of the most respectful deliberation.\n\n\"I'll tell you in a moment what I mean,\" he presently said. He felt\nagitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the discussion he\nwished to discharge his mind. But he wished also to be superlatively\ngentle.\n\nIsabel waited a little--then she went on with majesty. \"In everything\nthat makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may\nbe nobler natures, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr.\nOsmond's is the finest I know; he's good enough for me, and interesting\nenough, and clever enough. I'm far more struck with what he has and what\nhe represents than with what he may lack.\"\n\n\"I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future,\" Ralph\nobserved without answering this; \"I had amused myself with planning out\na high destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it. You\nwere not to come down so easily or so soon.\"\n\n\"Come down, you say?\"\n\n\"Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you. You seemed to\nme to be soaring far up in the blue--to be, sailing in the bright light,\nover the heads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud--a\nmissile that should never have reached you--and straight you drop to\nthe ground. It hurts me,\" said Ralph audaciously, \"hurts me as if I had\nfallen myself!\"\n\nThe look of pain and bewilderment deepened in his companion's face. \"I\ndon't understand you in the least,\" she repeated. \"You say you amused\nyourself with a project for my career--I don't understand that.\nDon't amuse yourself too much, or I shall think you're doing it at my\nexpense.\"\n\nRalph shook his head. \"I'm not afraid of your not believing that I've\nhad great ideas for you.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?\" she pursued.\n\n\"I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving on now. There's\nnothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person she likes,\" said\npoor Isabel, wandering into the didactic.\n\n\"It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criticise, my\ndear cousin. I should have said that the man for you would have been a\nmore active, larger, freer sort of nature.\" Ralph hesitated, then added:\n\"I can't get over the sense that Osmond is somehow--well, small.\" He had\nuttered the last word with no great assurance; he was afraid she would\nflash out again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air of\nconsidering.\n\n\"Small?\" She made it sound immense.\n\n\"I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!\"\n\n\"He has a great respect for himself; I don't blame him for that,\" said\nIsabel. \"It makes one more sure to respect others.\"\n\nRalph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone.\n\n\"Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one's relation to\nthings--to others. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that.\"\n\n\"I've chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he's excellent.\"\n\n\"He's the incarnation of taste,\" Ralph went on, thinking hard how he\ncould best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attributes without putting\nhimself in the wrong by seeming to describe him coarsely. He wished\nto describe him impersonally, scientifically. \"He judges and measures,\napproves and condemns, altogether by that.\"\n\n\"It's a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite.\"\n\n\"It's exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as\nhis bride. But have you ever seen such a taste--a really exquisite\none--ruffled?\"\n\n\"I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband's.\"\n\nAt these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. \"Ah, that's\nwilful, that's unworthy of you! You were not meant to be measured in\nthat way--you were meant for something better than to keep guard over\nthe sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!\"\n\nIsabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stood for a moment\nlooking at each other as if he had flung down a defiance or an insult.\nBut \"You go too far,\" she simply breathed.\n\n\"I've said what I had on my mind--and I've said it because I love you!\"\n\nIsabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She had a sudden\nwish to strike him off. \"Ah then, you're not disinterested!\"\n\n\"I love you, but I love without hope,\" said Ralph quickly, forcing a\nsmile and feeling that in that last declaration he had expressed more\nthan he intended.\n\nIsabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness of the\ngarden; but after a little she turned back to him. \"I'm afraid your talk\nthen is the wildness of despair! I don't understand it--but it doesn't\nmatter. I'm not arguing with you; it's impossible I should; I've only\ntried to listen to you. I'm much obliged to you for attempting to\nexplain,\" she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just\nsprung up had already subsided. \"It's very good of you to try to warn\nme, if you're really alarmed; but I won't promise to think of what\nyou've said: I shall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it\nyourself; you've done your duty, and no man can do more. I can't explain\nto you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn't if I could.\" She\npaused a moment and then went on with an inconsequence that Ralph\nobserved even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of\nconcession. \"I can't enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond; I can't do it\njustice, because I see him in quite another way. He's not important--no,\nhe's not important; he's a man to whom importance is supremely\nindifferent. If that's what you mean when you call him 'small,' then\nhe's as small as you please. I call that large--it's the largest thing\nI know. I won't pretend to argue with you about a person I'm going to\nmarry,\" Isabel repeated. \"I'm not in the least concerned to defend Mr.\nOsmond; he's not so weak as to need my defence. I should think it would\nseem strange even to yourself that I should talk of him so quietly and\ncoldly, as if he were any one else. I wouldn't talk of him at all to any\none but you; and you, after what you've said--I may just answer you once\nfor all. Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage--what\nthey call a marriage of ambition? I've only one ambition--to be free to\nfollow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they've passed away.\nDo you complain of Mr. Osmond because he's not rich? That's just what I\nlike him for. I've fortunately money enough; I've never felt so thankful\nfor it as to-day. There have been moments when I should like to go and\nkneel down by your father's grave: he did perhaps a better thing than\nhe knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man--a man who has\nborne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference. Mr. Osmond\nhas never scrambled nor struggled--he has cared for no worldly prize. If\nthat's to be narrow, if that's to be selfish, then it's very well. I'm\nnot frightened by such words, I'm not even displeased; I'm only sorry\nthat you should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I'm\nsurprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when you see\none--you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! He knows\neverything, he understands everything, he has the kindest, gentlest,\nhighest spirit. You've got hold of some false idea. It's a pity, but\nI can't help it; it regards you more than me.\" Isabel paused a moment,\nlooking at her cousin with an eye illumined by a sentiment which\ncontradicted the careful calmness of her manner--a mingled sentiment,\nto which the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of\nhaving needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the nobleness\nand purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralph said\nnothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, but she was highly\nsolicitous; she was indifferent, but she was all in a passion. \"What\nsort of a person should you have liked me to marry?\" she asked suddenly.\n\"You talk about one's soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one\ntouches the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart in\none's bosom, and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother\nhas never forgiven me for not having come to a better understanding\nwith Lord Warburton, and she's horrified at my contenting myself with a\nperson who has none of his great advantages--no property, no title,\nno honours, no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor\nbrilliant belongings of any sort. It's the total absence of all these\nthings that pleases me. Mr. Osmond's simply a very lonely, a very\ncultivated and a very honest man--he's not a prodigious proprietor.\"\n\nRalph had listened with great attention, as if everything she said\nmerited deep consideration; but in truth he was only half thinking of\nthe things she said, he was for the rest simply accommodating himself\nto the weight of his total impression--the impression of her ardent good\nfaith. She was wrong, but she believed; she was deluded, but she was\ndismally consistent. It was wonderfully characteristic of her that,\nhaving invented a fine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not\nfor what he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as\nhonours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father about wishing\nto put it into her power to meet the requirements of her imagination. He\nhad done so, and the girl had taken full advantage of the luxury. Poor\nRalph felt sick; he felt ashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with\na low solemnity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion,\nand she closed it formally by turning away and walking back to the\nhouse. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into the court together\nand reached the big staircase. Here he stopped and Isabel paused,\nturning on him a face of elation--absolutely and perversely of\ngratitude. His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct\nclearer to her. \"Shall you not come up to breakfast?\" she asked.\n\n\"No; I want no breakfast; I'm not hungry.\"\n\n\"You ought to eat,\" said the girl; \"you live on air.\"\n\n\"I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and take another\nmouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I told you last year that\nif you were to get into trouble I should feel terribly sold. That's how\nI feel to-day.\"\n\n\"Do you think I'm in trouble?\"\n\n\"One's in trouble when one's in error.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Isabel; \"I shall never complain of my trouble to you!\"\nAnd she moved up the staircase.\n\nRalph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed her with\nhis eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walled court struck him and\nmade him shiver, so that he returned to the garden to breakfast on the\nFlorentine sunshine.\n\n\n\n\n\nIsabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse\nto tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The\ndiscreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin\nmade on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was\nsimply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming\nto Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to\nthrow into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she\nmarried to please herself. One did other things to please other people;\none did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfaction\nwas confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was\nin love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright\ndays, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his\nhopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief\nimpression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the\npassion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the\nloved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever\nknown before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope\nthat she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her\nnot having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of\nanecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,\non purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly\nconsole himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from\nher aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she\nwas not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk\nabout having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for\na personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry\nat all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the\nspectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made\nhim say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel\nflattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the\nmore easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little\nfree or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,\nin fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert\nOsmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She\ntasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,\nalmost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed\nand possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed\nvirtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's\nright was always made of the wrong of some one else.\n\nThe elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted\nmeanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on\nhis part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of\nmen, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,\nmade him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten\nand dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he\nnever forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which\npresented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.\nHe was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him\na present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live\nwith than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness\nbe all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired\nthe air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than\na quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one's\nthought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought\nreproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred\nit to be freshened in the reproduction even as \"words\" by music. His\negotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this\nlady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a\nplate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give\na decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served\ndessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he\ncould tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew\nperfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little\nfavour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her so\ncompletely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary\nto express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one\nmorning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. \"It's the difference in our\nfortune they don't like,\" he said. \"They think I'm in love with your\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?\" Isabel asked. \"How do you\nknow what they think?\"\n\n\"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett\nthe other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I\nshould have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you\nrich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course\nwhen a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.\nI don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having\nthe shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing\nthink--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so\nconcerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I\nhave taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend\nI'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's\nyours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow,\nbut a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've\nsufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life\ntried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than\nmost of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their\nbusiness to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they\nshould. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.\nMeanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to\nbe thankful for life and love.\" \"It has made me better, loving you,\" he\nsaid on another occasion; \"it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't\npretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want\na great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them.\nTheoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself\nI had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to\nhave morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really\nsatisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when\none has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the\nlamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and\nfinding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it\nproperly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you\nhow life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon\nawaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,\nand the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,\nthe air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you\nlove to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've\ngot what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty\nof admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're\nnot mean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.\nYou're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor\nchild to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It's\nall soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring.\"\n\nThey made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal\nof latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live\nfor the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had\nbeen a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy\nshould be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old\nacquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her\na future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire\nfor unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense\nthat life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one's\nenergies to a point. She had told Ralph she had \"seen life\" in a year\nor two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of\nthat of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,\nher theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient\nconviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed\nin a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away\nnumberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the\nsituation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the\nstars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the\nfact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be\nof use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she\ncould marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was\ngiving.\n\nHe brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who\nwas very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she\nwould always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who\nheld her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to\ngo and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore\na short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.\nShe found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the\nend of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an\nappeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance\nhad the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved.\nShe watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on\nthem--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,\npart of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the\nchildish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new\nrelation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. \"She doesn't\nknow,\" he said to Isabel; \"she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectly\nnatural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good\nfriends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it's\nthe way I like her to be. No, I'm not a failure, as I used to think;\nI've succeeded in two things. I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I've\nbrought up my child, as I wished, in the old way.\"\n\nHe was very fond, in all things, of the \"old way\"; that had struck\nIsabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. \"It occurs to me that\nyou'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her,\" she\nsaid. \"You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she\nmay be jealous.\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. I\nshould like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will\ncome into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be.\"\n\nIsabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as it\nsomehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it being\nmore anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told\nher a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,\nwho had made such a pretty little speech--\"Oh, then I shall have a\nbeautiful sister!\" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not\ncried, as he expected.\n\n\"Perhaps she had guessed it,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it\nwould be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her\ngood manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see for\nyourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person.\"\n\nThe meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whither\nPansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come\nin the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning\nthat they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the\nvisitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been\nushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her\naunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,\nwho thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in\ncompany. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have given\nlessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified\nthis conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself\nwhile they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, the\nyear before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive\nthe last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her\ntheory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.\n\n\"Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him,\" said this\nexcellent woman's pupil. \"It's very delightful; I think you'll suit very\nwell.\"\n\n\"You think I shall suit YOU?\"\n\n\"You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will\nsuit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not so\nquiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than many\nothers. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She's\nalways in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when she\ncomes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,\nbut I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably. You'll be a\ndelightful companion for papa.\"\n\n\"For you too, I hope,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myself\nthink of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I\nthink it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll be\nmy model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will be\nvery feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more than\nme. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be my\nstepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to be\ncruel; but I don't think you'll ever so much as pinch or even push me.\nI'm not afraid at all.\"\n\n\"My good little Pansy,\" said Isabel gently, \"I shall be ever so kind to\nyou.\" A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need\nit had intervened with the effect of a chill.\n\n\"Very well then, I've nothing to fear,\" the child returned with her\nnote of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to\nsuggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!\n\nHer description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini\nwas further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room\nwith a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead\nand then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.\nShe drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of\nturns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand\nbefore an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to\na composition of figures already sketched in. \"If you expect me to\ncongratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you care\nif I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being so\nclever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell\nfibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be\ngained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as you\nwouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paper\nflowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would be\nsure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very\nglad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend\nI'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the way\nyou're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and\noriginal, not banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family.\nOur family's very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and\nmy mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.\nBut we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up.\nI've great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to\ntalk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think\nthey ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose\nPansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to me\nfor--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing what\nhorrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had\ndesigns on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the\nstrongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be\ndisloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was\nenchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, you\nwon't respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.\nI should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the same, we shall be\nbetter friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and\nsee you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms with\nOsmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid\nof you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, you\nwon't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, your affair,\nand, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, if you can\nstand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go\nout of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir.\"\n\n\"Let her stay, please,\" said Isabel. \"I would rather hear nothing that\nPansy may not!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nOne afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of\npleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third\nfloor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame\nMerle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face\nand a lady's maid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room\nand requested the favour of his name. \"Mr. Edward Rosier,\" said the\nyoung man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear.\n\nThe reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an\nornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered\nthat he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of\nseveral winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits\nhe might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this\ncharming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him\nwhich changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary\nsequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at\nSaint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to\npay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the\nhousehold angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate,\nhe was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare\nhis passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go\ndown into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under\nbonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if\nhe were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in\nthe autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr.\nRosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it\non the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the\nyoung man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might\nexpose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in\nNovember lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the\nbrave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had\nat the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to\na certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain\nto finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably\nfinished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece.\nHe thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have\nthought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the\nbloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose\ntaste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate.\nThat he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods\nwould have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame\nMerle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every\nstyle, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He\nhad immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then \"By\nJove, she has some jolly good things!\" he had yearningly murmured. The\nroom was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression\nof faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved.\nRosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over\nthe tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with\nprincely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before\nthe fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce\nattached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately,\nas if he were smelling it.\n\n\"It's old Venetian,\" she said; \"it's rather good.\"\n\n\"It's too good for this; you ought to wear it.\"\n\n\"They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I can't wear mine,\" smiled the visitor.\n\n\"I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to wear.\"\n\nHis eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. \"You've some very\ngood things.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I hate them.\"\n\n\"Do you want to get rid of them?\" the young man quickly asked.\n\n\"No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!\"\n\n\"I love my things,\" said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his\nrecognitions. \"But it's not about them, nor about yours, that I came\nto talk to you.\" He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: \"I\ncare more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!\"\n\nMadame Merle opened wide eyes. \"Did you come to tell me that?\"\n\n\"I came to ask your advice.\"\n\nShe looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her\nlarge white hand. \"A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice.\"\n\n\"Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the case with a\nman in love. I've been in love before, and I know. But never so much as\nthis time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what\nyou think of my prospects. I'm afraid that for Mr. Osmond I'm not--well,\na real collector's piece.\"\n\n\"Do you wish me to intercede?\" Madame Merle asked with her fine arms\nfolded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left.\n\n\"If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There\nwill be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to\nbelieve her father will consent.\"\n\n\"You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you assume in\nrather an off-hand way that I think you a prize.\"\n\n\"You've been very kind to me,\" said the young man. \"That's why I came.\"\n\n\"I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It's very rare\nnow, and there's no telling what one may get by it.\" With which the\nleft-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave expression to the joke.\n\nBut he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently\nstrenuous. \"Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!\"\n\n\"I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse. Pardon me\nif I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I\nmust tell you, however, that I've not the marrying of Pansy Osmond.\"\n\n\"I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate with her\nfamily, and I thought you might have influence.\"\n\nMadame Merle considered. \"Whom do you call her family?\"\n\n\"Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere.\"\n\n\"Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed\na member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying\nher.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry for that,\" said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. \"I\nthink Mrs. Osmond would favour me.\"\n\n\"Very likely--if her husband doesn't.\"\n\nHe raised his eyebrows. \"Does she take the opposite line from him?\"\n\n\"In everything. They think quite differently.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Rosier, \"I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my business.\nShe's very fond of Pansy.\"\n\n\"Yes, she's very fond of Pansy.\"\n\n\"And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves\nher as if she were her own mother.\"\n\n\"You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor\nchild,\" said Madame Merle. \"Have you declared your sentiments?\"\n\n\"Never!\" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. \"Never till I've\nassured myself of those of the parents.\"\n\n\"You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; you observe the\nproprieties.\"\n\n\"I think you're laughing at me,\" the young man murmured, dropping back\nin his chair and feeling his small moustache. \"I didn't expect that of\nyou, Madame Merle.\"\n\nShe shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them.\n\"You don't do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and\nthe best you could adopt. Yes, that's what I think.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for\nthat,\" said Ned Rosier.\n\n\"I'm glad, after all, that you've told me,\" Madame Merle went on. \"Leave\nit to me a little; I think I can help you.\"\n\n\"I said you were the person to come to!\" her visitor cried with prompt\nelation.\n\n\"You were very clever,\" Madame Merle returned more dryly. \"When I say I\ncan help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a\nlittle if it is.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully decent, you know,\" said Rosier earnestly. \"I won't say I've\nno faults, but I'll say I've no vices.\"\n\n\"All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call\nvices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous? What have you got\nbesides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?\"\n\n\"I've a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year.\nWith the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an\nincome.\"\n\n\"Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you\nlive.\"\n\n\"Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris.\"\n\nMadame Merle's mouth rose to the left. \"It wouldn't be famous; you'd\nhave to make use of the teacups, and they'd get broken.\"\n\n\"We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything\npretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty as she one can\nafford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but\nmuslin--without the sprig,\" said Rosier reflectively.\n\n\"Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much obliged to you at\nany rate for that theory.\"\n\n\"It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enter into it.\nShe understands all that; that's why I love her.\"\n\n\"She's a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful.\nBut her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing.\"\n\nRosier scarce demurred. \"I don't in the least desire that he should. But\nI may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man.\"\n\n\"The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do\nsomething.\"\n\n\"For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!\" Madame Merle\nexclaimed with a laugh.\n\n\"I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Osmond,\" Madame Merle went on, \"will probably prefer to keep her\nmoney for her own children.\"\n\n\"Her own children? Surely she has none.\"\n\n\"She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago,\nsix months after his birth. Others therefore may come.\"\n\n\"I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendid woman.\"\n\nMadame Merle failed to burst into speech. \"Ah, about her there's much to\nbe said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactly made out that you're a\nparti. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income.\n\n\"Pardon me, I think it may be,\" said Rosier quite lucidly.\n\n\"You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!\"\n\n\"I think you underrate me.\"\n\n\"You're not so innocent as that? Seriously,\" said Madame Merle,\n\"of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a\ncombination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at, but\nthere might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline\nto believe he can do better.\"\n\n\"HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better\nthan marry the man she loves. For she does, you know,\" Rosier added\neagerly.\n\n\"She does--I know it.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the young man, \"I said you were the person to come to.\"\n\n\"But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her,\" Madame\nMerle went on.\n\n\"In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you say, we're\nan innocent couple. How did YOU know it?\"\n\n\"I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I'll find\nout for you.\"\n\nRosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. \"You say that rather coldly.\nDon't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be.\"\n\n\"I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages.\"\n\n\"Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to Mrs. Osmond.\"\n\n\"Gardez-vous-en bien!\" And Madame Merle was on her feet. \"Don't set her\ngoing, or you'll spoil everything.\"\n\nRosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess HAD been\nafter all the right person to come to. \"I don't think I understand\nyou. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to\nsucceed.\"\n\n\"Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the\nbetter, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't\nfor the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband\nmay have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you\nnot to multiply points of difference between them.\"\n\nPoor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand\nof Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste\nfor proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which\nhe concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner's \"best\nset\" came to his assistance. \"I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr.\nOsmond so very much!\" he exclaimed. \"No, but you should consider HER.\nYou say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?\"\n\n\"Not for the world.\"\n\n\"Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken a few\nsoundings.\"\n\n\"Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I'm in love.\"\n\n\"Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're not to heed\nwhat I say?\"\n\n\"You're very kind; I'll be very good,\" the young man promised. \"But I'm\nafraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard,\" he added in his mild voice as he went\nto the door.\n\nMadame Merle gave a short laugh. \"It has been said before. But his wife\nisn't easy either.\"\n\n\"Ah, she's a splendid woman!\" Ned Rosier repeated, for departure.\nHe resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was\nalready a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he\nhad given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself\nin spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected\nconstantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his\nmind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her\nde confiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been\nprecipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had\nincurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had\nknown Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her\na delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for\nassuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms,\ngracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had\nindeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration\namong the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance\n(Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being\nintimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these\nadvantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble\nfor him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt\nrather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the\nground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had\nappeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his\nbibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three\nof the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss\nOsmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say\nso to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like\nher to believe it.\n\nIt was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's,\nMrs. Osmond having an \"evening\"--she had taken the Thursday of each\nweek--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of\ncivility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in\na high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure\noverlooking a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese\nPalace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure,\nbut a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of\nevil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious\nfather he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in\na kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name,\nwhich smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which\nwas mentioned in \"Murray\" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague\nsurvey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio\nin the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the\nwide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain\ngushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he\ncould have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered\ninto the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on\nsettling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this\nhabitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough,\nand though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels\nhe could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details\nof the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the\nconviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up\nthere to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of\nbeing thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There\nwas one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he\nfound himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which\nwere on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very\nstrong in \"good things.\" It was a taste of Osmond's own--not at all of\nhers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when,\nafter asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even\nbetter \"French\" than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit\nthat they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman\nshould, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of\nher treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a\nlarge collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed\na number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his\ngreatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice.\nRosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own.\nFor \"advice\" read \"cash,\" he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert\nOsmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season\nconfirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may\nfreely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented\nhimself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls\nof the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really\nyearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme\nseriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about\nfor the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted\na gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took\neverything comfortable for granted.\n\n\n\n\n\nPansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a\nconcave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here\nMrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place\nto-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about\nthe fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it\ncontained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers.\nPansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the\nresort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before\nthe chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up\nand was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were\ntalking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an\nexpression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged\nwith objects more worth their while than the appearances actually\nthrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his\nattention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was\neven exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he\nhad come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his\nleft hand, without changing his attitude.\n\n\"How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about.\"\n\n\"Never fear; I shall find her,\" said Rosier cheerfully.\n\nOsmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so\nefficiently looked at. \"Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like\nit,\" he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there,\nbut she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or\nwould come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond,\nhaving a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly\nresentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of\nbeing quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without\nhelp, and then in a moment, \"I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte\nto-day,\" he said.\n\nOsmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his\nboot-sole, \"I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!\" he returned.\n\n\"I hope you're not losing your interest?\"\n\n\"In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest.\"\n\nRosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. \"You're not\nthinking of parting with a--a piece or two?\"\n\n\"No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier,\" said\nOsmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.\n\n\"Ah, you want to keep, but not to add,\" Rosier remarked brightly.\n\n\"Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match.\"\n\nPoor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of\nassurance. \"Ah, well, I have!\" was all he could murmur; and he knew\nhis murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the\nadjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She\nwas dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had\nsaid, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thought\nof her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his\nadmiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it\nwas based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for\nauthenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that\nsecret of a \"lustre\" beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,\nwhich his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him\nto recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such\ntastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her\nyouth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost\nsomething of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately\ntaken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all\nevents, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the\npicture of a gracious lady. \"You see I'm very regular,\" he said. \"But\nwho should be if I'm not?\"\n\n\"Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But we mustn't indulge in\ntender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady.\"\n\n\"Ah, please, what young lady?\" Rosier was immensely obliging; but this\nwas not what he had come for.\n\n\"She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to.\" Rosier\nhesitated a moment. \"Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He's within six feet\nof her.\"\n\nMrs. Osmond also hesitated. \"She's not very lively, and he doesn't like\ndull people.\"\n\n\"But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!\"\n\n\"I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so obliging.\"\n\n\"No, he's not--to me.\" And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled.\n\n\"That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women.\n\n\"So I tell him,\" she said, still smiling.\n\n\"You see I want some tea,\" Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond.\n\n\"That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady.\"\n\n\"Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The simple\ntruth is I'm dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, turning away, \"I can't help you there!\"\n\nFive minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink,\nwhom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in\nmaking to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken\nthe spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable\nof occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last,\nhowever, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little\nwhat promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to\nabandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy\nOsmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond\nas ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild\ncolloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his\nsmall sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at\nfirst not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at\nFlorence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the\nCascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters\nsacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at\nnineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out the\npart; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree\nthe quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style;\nand that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart\nattire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it\nwere lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have\nbeen just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was\nnot a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted.\nOnly he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed\nwere happy enough. \"No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique,\" he used\nto say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he\nhave admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had\nthe style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye.\nIt was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression\nin Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only\nlooked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier,\nwho thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her\ncharming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish\nprayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked\nhim--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him\nfeel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he\nhad never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, and\none couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing\nlight on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed\nof--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that\nthis nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had\nnever looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she\nhad read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune\nfille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and\nyet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men,\nnor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier\ncould not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of\nhospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but\nhe was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were\nthe most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he\nentertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater\nimportance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house.\nThere was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his\nguard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy;\nit would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a\nprepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in love\nwith her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of\ncircumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant\nby giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely\nhe himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl\nin so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her\nmother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that\nshe must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter\ndeparted together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be\nvirtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before;\nhe had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poor\nRosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond\nthe one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and\nlighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty\nall the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow;\nthere were several lamps; through the open door it looked the very\ntemple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture;\nhe was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of\nstretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the other\nmaiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on\nthe far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was\nfrightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured\nhim she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed\nfor that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go and\nlook at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He\nhad been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was\nof the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he\ndidn't really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He\ntherefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.\n\n\"Certainly, you may go,\" said Pansy; \"and if you like I'll show you.\"\nShe was not in the least frightened.\n\n\"That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind,\" Rosier\nmurmured.\n\nThey went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it\nseemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. \"It's not for\nwinter evenings; it's more for summer,\" she said. \"It's papa's taste; he\nhas so much.\"\n\nHe had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. He\nlooked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation.\n\"Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?\" he\nasked.\n\n\"Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature,\" said Pansy--\"and\nfor conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows\neverything.\"\n\nRosier was silent a little. \"There's one thing I'm sure he knows!\" he\nbroke out presently. \"He knows that when I come here it's, with all\nrespect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who's so charming--it's\nreally,\" said the young man, \"to see you!\"\n\n\"To see me?\" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes.\n\n\"To see you; that's what I come for,\" Rosier repeated, feeling the\nintoxication of a rupture with authority.\n\nPansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not\nneeded to make her face more modest. \"I thought it was for that.\"\n\n\"And it was not disagreeable to you?\"\n\n\"I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"I was afraid of offending you.\"\n\n\"You don't offend me,\" the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel\nhad kissed her.\n\n\"You like me then, Pansy?\" Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy.\n\n\"Yes--I like you.\"\n\nThey had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clock\nwas perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation from\nwithout. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him\nthe very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her\nhand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted,\nstill with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something\nineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; now\nanything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waiting\nfor him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever;\nbut when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree.\nRosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his\nheart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without a\nquestion. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow\nEmpire salottino. She had known it was for her he came, and yet like\nwhat a perfect little lady she had carried it off!\n\n\"You're very dear to me,\" he murmured, trying to believe that there was\nafter all such a thing as hospitality.\n\nShe looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. \"Did you say\npapa knows?\"\n\n\"You told me just now he knows everything.\"\n\n\"I think you must make sure,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!\" Rosier murmured in her ear;\nwhereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of\nconsistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate.\n\nThe other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame\nMerle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered.\nHow she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, for\nshe neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor\ndressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the\naudience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very\ntranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was\nbecause of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest\nthing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more\nstriking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master\nof the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these\ntwo--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the\ncommonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked\nif little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.\n\n\"He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared,\" Osmond said.\n\n\"And where's Pansy?\"\n\n\"In the other room. There are several people there.\"\n\n\"He's probably among them,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"Do you wish to see him?\" Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone.\n\nMadame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to the\neighth of a note. \"Yes, I should like to say to him that I've told you\nwhat he wants, and that it interests you but feebly.\"\n\n\"Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more--which is exactly\nwhat I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal.\"\n\n\"But you don't hate it.\"\n\n\"It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this\nevening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing's a great\nbore. There's no hurry.\"\n\n\"I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over.\"\n\n\"No, don't do that. He'll hang on.\"\n\n\"If I discourage him he'll do the same.\"\n\n\"Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain--which would be\nexceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably hold his tongue and go\nin for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a\ndonkey.\"\n\n\"Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's a nuisance--with his eternal majolica.\"\n\nMadame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. \"He's a gentleman,\nhe has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand\nfrancs!\"\n\n\"It's misery--'genteel' misery,\" Osmond broke in. \"It's not what I've\ndreamed of for Pansy.\"\n\n\"Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her.\"\n\n\"Do you believe him?\" Osmond asked absentmindedly.\n\n\"Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don't\nsuppose you consider that that matters.\"\n\n\"I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has\nthought of him.\"\n\n\"That opinion's more convenient,\" said Madame Merle quietly.\n\n\"Has she told you she's in love with him?\"\n\n\"For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?\" Madame Merle\nadded in a moment.\n\nOsmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other\nknee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine\nforefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while\nbefore him. \"This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what I\neducated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come\nup she should do what I prefer.\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid that she'll not do it.\"\n\n\"Well then, where's the hitch?\"\n\n\"I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of\nMr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful.\"\n\n\"I can't keep him. Keep him yourself.\"\n\n\"Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day.\"\nMadame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing\nabout her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit\nto interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the\nlast words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out\nof the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a\nfew steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her\nfather.\n\n\"He has spoken to her,\" Madame Merle went on to Osmond.\n\nHer companion never turned his head. \"So much for your belief in his\npromises. He ought to be horsewhipped.\"\n\n\"He intends to confess, poor little man!\"\n\nOsmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. \"It\ndoesn't matter,\" he murmured, turning away.\n\nPansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner\nof unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not more\nintimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly\nsmile.\n\n\"You're very late,\" the young creature gently said.\n\n\"My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be.\"\n\nMadame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward\nEdward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it\noff his mind, \"I've spoken to her!\" he whispered.\n\n\"I know it, Mr. Rosier.\"\n\n\"Did she tell you?\"\n\n\"Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come\nand see me to-morrow at a quarter past five.\" She was severe, and in\nthe manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of\ncontempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.\n\nHe had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor\nthe place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking\nwith an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady\nwas Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. \"You\nsaid just now you wouldn't help me,\" he began to Mrs. Osmond. \"Perhaps\nyou'll feel differently when you know--when you know--!\"\n\nIsabel met his hesitation. \"When I know what?\"\n\n\"That she's all right.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Well, that we've come to an understanding.\"\n\n\"She's all wrong,\" said Isabel. \"It won't do.\"\n\nPoor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush\ntestified to his sense of injury. \"I've never been treated so,\" he said.\n\"What is there against me, after all? That's not the way I'm usually\nconsidered. I could have married twenty times.\"\n\n\"It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once,\ncomfortably,\" Isabel added, smiling kindly. \"You're not rich enough for\nPansy.\"\n\n\"She doesn't care a straw for one's money.\"\n\n\"No, but her father does.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, he has proved that!\" cried the young man.\n\nIsabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without\nceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending\nto look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatly\narranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without\nseeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was\ncertain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used\nto being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such\na fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He\nsearched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire\nwas now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to\nIsabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a\nrude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of\nhim.\n\n\"I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago,\" he\nbegan. \"But you must remember my situation.\"\n\n\"I don't remember what you said,\" she answered coldly.\n\n\"Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me.\"\n\nShe was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: \"It's not\nthat I won't; I simply can't!\" Her manner was almost passionate.\n\n\"If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of your husband save\nas an angel.\"\n\n\"The inducement's great,\" said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he\nafterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the\neyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow\nthat he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked,\nand he took himself off.\n\n\n\n\n\nHe went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let\nhim off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop\nthere till something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher\nexpectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his\ndaughter a portion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if\none would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that\ntone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his\nfelicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it wouldn't be\na miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy\nher father, he might depend on that; so nothing was to be gained by\nprecipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a\nsort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of\nitself--it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own\nsituation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world,\nand Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly\ndeclared, one couldn't have everything one wanted; she had learned that\nlesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert\nOsmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter\ndropped for a few weeks and would himself write when he should have\nanything to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear.\n\n\"He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn't like it at\nall,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"I'm perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!\"\n\n\"If you do that he'll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the\nhouse, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to\nme.\"\n\n\"As little as possible? Who's to measure the possibility?\"\n\n\"Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world,\nbut don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about Pansy. I'll see\nthat she understands everything. She's a calm little nature; she'll take\nit quietly.\"\n\nEdward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was\nadvised, and awaited another Thursday evening before returning to\nPalazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that though he\nwent early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual,\nwas in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so\nthat, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him.\n\n\"I'm glad that you can take a hint,\" Pansy's father said, slightly\nclosing his keen, conscious eyes.\n\n\"I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be.\"\n\n\"You took it? Where did you take it?\"\n\nIt seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he waited a moment,\nasking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to. \"Madame Merle\ngave me, as I understood it, a message from you--to the effect that you\ndeclined to give me the opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain\nmy wishes to you.\" And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly.\n\n\"I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to\nMadame Merle?\"\n\n\"I asked her for an opinion--for nothing more. I did so because she had\nseemed to me to know you very well.\"\n\n\"She doesn't know me so well as she thinks,\" said Osmond.\n\n\"I'm sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for\nhope.\"\n\nOsmond stared into the fire a moment. \"I set a great price on my\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wishing to\nmarry her?\"\n\n\"I wish to marry her very well,\" Osmond went on with a dry impertinence\nwhich, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired.\n\n\"Of course I pretend she'd marry well in marrying me. She couldn't\nmarry a man who loves her more--or whom, I may venture to add, she loves\nmore.\"\n\n\"I'm not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter\nloves\"--and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile.\n\n\"I'm not theorising. Your daughter has spoken.\"\n\n\"Not to me,\" Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping\nhis eyes to his boot-toes.\n\n\"I have her promise, sir!\" cried Rosier with the sharpness of\nexasperation.\n\nAs their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted\nsome attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement\nhad subsided; then he said, all undisturbed: \"I think she has no\nrecollection of having given it.\"\n\nThey had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had\nuttered these last words the master of the house turned round again\nto the room. Before Rosier had time to reply he perceived that a\ngentleman--a stranger--had just come in, unannounced, according to the\nRoman custom, and was about to present himself to his host. The latter\nsmiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face\nand a large, fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman.\n\n\"You apparently don't recognise me,\" he said with a smile that expressed\nmore than Osmond's.\n\n\"Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you.\"\n\nRosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as\nusual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond\nin his path. He gave his hostess no greeting--he was too righteously\nindignant, but said to her crudely: \"Your husband's awfully\ncold-blooded.\"\n\nShe gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. \"You can't\nexpect every one to be as hot as yourself.\"\n\n\"I don't pretend to be cold, but I'm cool. What has he been doing to his\ndaughter?\"\n\n\"I've no idea.\"\n\n\"Don't you take any interest?\" Rosier demanded with his sense that she\ntoo was irritating.\n\nFor a moment she answered nothing; then, \"No!\" she said abruptly and\nwith a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word.\n\n\"Pardon me if I don't believe that. Where's Miss Osmond?\"\n\n\"In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there.\"\n\nRosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden by\nintervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely\ngiven to her occupation. \"What on earth has he done to her?\" he asked\nagain imploringly. \"He declares to me she has given me up.\"\n\n\"She has not given you up,\" Isabel said in a low tone and without\nlooking at him.\n\n\"Ah, thank you for that! Now I'll leave her alone as long as you think\nproper!\"\n\nHe had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware\nthat Osmond was coming toward her accompanied by the gentleman who had\njust entered. He judged the latter, in spite of the advantage of good\nlooks and evident social experience, a little embarrassed. \"Isabel,\"\nsaid her husband, \"I bring you an old friend.\"\n\nMrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend's,\nnot perfectly confident. \"I'm very happy to see Lord Warburton,\" she\nsaid. Rosier turned away and, now that his talk with her had been\ninterrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He\nhad a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond wouldn't notice what he did.\n\nIsabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased to observe\nhim. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felt a pleasure or\na pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her,\nwas plainly quite sure of his own sense of the matter; though his grey\neyes had still their fine original property of keeping recognition and\nattestation strictly sincere. He was \"heavier\" than of yore and looked\nolder; he stood there very solidly and sensibly.\n\n\"I suppose you didn't expect to see me,\" he said; \"I've but just\narrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I've lost\nno time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you were at home on\nThursdays.\"\n\n\"You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England,\" Osmond\nremarked to his wife.\n\n\"It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we're greatly\nflattered,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horrible inns,\"\nOsmond went on.\n\n\"The hotel seems very good; I think it's the same at which I saw you\nfour years since. You know it was here in Rome that we first met; it's a\nlong time ago. Do you remember where I bade you good-bye?\" his lordship\nasked of his hostess. \"It was in the Capitol, in the first room.\"\n\n\"I remember that myself,\" said Osmond. \"I was there at the time.\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry\nthat, somehow or other, it became almost a dismal memory, and I've never\ncared to come back till to-day. But I knew you were living here,\" her\nold friend went on to Isabel, \"and I assure you I've often thought of\nyou. It must be a charming place to live in,\" he added with a look,\nround him, at her established home, in which she might have caught the\ndim ghost of his old ruefulness.\n\n\"We should have been glad to see you at any time,\" Osmond observed with\npropriety.\n\n\"Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England since then. Till a\nmonth ago I really supposed my travels over.\"\n\n\"I've heard of you from time to time,\" said Isabel, who had already,\nwith her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken the measure of what\nmeeting him again meant for her.\n\n\"I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete\nblank.\"\n\n\"Like the good reigns in history,\" Osmond suggested. He appeared to\nthink his duties as a host now terminated--he had performed them so\nconscientiously. Nothing could have been more adequate, more\nnicely measured, than his courtesy to his wife's old friend. It\nwas punctilious, it was explicit, it was everything but natural--a\ndeficiency which Lord Warburton, who, himself, had on the whole a good\ndeal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. \"I'll leave you and\nMrs. Osmond together,\" he added. \"You have reminiscences into which I\ndon't enter.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you lose a good deal!\" Lord Warburton called after him, as\nhe moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation\nof his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the\ndeepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious.\n\"I'm really very glad to see you.\"\n\n\"It's very pleasant. You're very kind.\"\n\n\"Do you know that you're changed--a little?\"\n\nShe just hesitated. \"Yes--a good deal.\"\n\n\"I don't mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the\nbetter?\"\n\n\"I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to YOU,\" she bravely\nreturned.\n\n\"Ah well, for me--it's a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn't\nbe something to show for it.\" They sat down and she asked him about\nhis sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He\nanswered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments\nshe saw--or believed she saw--that he would press with less of his\nwhole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without\nchilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel\nfelt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's manner was\ncertainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or\nlike her at least, to know him for such. \"There's something I must tell\nyou without more delay,\" he resumed. \"I've brought Ralph Touchett with\nme.\"\n\n\"Brought him with you?\" Isabel's surprise was great.\n\n\"He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed.\"\n\n\"I'll go to see him,\" she immediately said.\n\n\"That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea you hadn't seen\nmuch of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a--a\nlittle more formal. That's why I hesitated--like an awkward Briton.\"\n\n\"I'm as fond of Ralph as ever,\" Isabel answered. \"But why has he come to\nRome?\" The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp.\n\n\"Because he's very far gone, Mrs. Osmond.\"\n\n\"Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined\nto give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England,\nindoors, in what he called an artificial climate.\"\n\n\"Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him\nthree weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has\nbeen getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He\nsmokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed;\nthe house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it\ninto his head to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it--neither did\nthe doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know,\nis in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea\nthat it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania.\nHe said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself\ncomfortable, but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted\nhim at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea\nand wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish,\nI made up my mind to come with him. I'm acting as--what do you call it\nin America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph's very moderate now. We\nleft England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He\ncan't keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the\ncold. He has got rather a good man, but I'm afraid he's beyond human\nhelp. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some\nsharp young doctor; but he wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my\nsaying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchett to\ndecide on going to America.\"\n\nIsabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. \"My\naunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When\nthe date comes round she starts; I think she'd have started if Ralph had\nbeen dying.\"\n\n\"I sometimes think he IS dying,\" Lord Warburton said.\n\nIsabel sprang up. \"I'll go to him then now.\"\n\nHe checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his\nwords. \"I don't mean I thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day,\nin the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of our reaching\nRome--he's very fond of Rome, you know--gave him strength. An hour ago,\nwhen I bade him goodnight, he told me he was very tired, but very happy.\nGo to him in the morning; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was\ncoming here; I didn't decide to till after we had separated. Then I\nremembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very\nThursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell you he's here, and let\nyou know you had perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he\nsaid he hadn't written to you.\" There was no need of Isabel's declaring\nthat she would act upon Lord Warburton's information; she looked, as she\nsat there, like a winged creature held back. \"Let alone that I wanted to\nsee you for myself,\" her visitor gallantly added.\n\n\"I don't understand Ralph's plan; it seems to me very wild,\" she said.\n\"I was glad to think of him between those thick walls at Gardencourt.\"\n\n\"He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company.\"\n\n\"You went to see him; you've been extremely kind.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, I had nothing to do,\" said Lord Warburton.\n\n\"We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things. Every one\nspeaks of you as a great statesman, and I'm perpetually seeing your name\nin the Times, which, by the way, doesn't appear to hold it in reverence.\nYou're apparently as wild a radical as ever.\"\n\n\"I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me.\nTouchett and I have kept up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way\nfrom London. I tell him he's the last of the Tories, and he calls me\nthe King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal\nappearance, every sign of the brute. So you see there's life in him\nyet.\"\n\nIsabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she abstained from\nasking them all. She would see for herself on the morrow. She perceived\nthat after a little Lord Warburton would tire of that subject--he had a\nconception of other possible topics. She was more and more able to say\nto herself that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she\nwas able to say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old,\nsuch an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resisted\nand reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new\ntrouble. But she was now reassured; she could see he only wished to live\nwith her on good terms, that she was to understand he had forgiven her\nand was incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This was\nnot a form of revenge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to\npunish her by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justice\nto believe it had simply occurred to him that she would now take a\ngood-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. It was the resignation\nof a healthy, manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never\nfester. British politics had cured him; she had known they would. She\ngave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are always free\nto plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course\nspoke of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he even\nwent so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as a very jolly\ntime. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her\nmarriage and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond's\nacquaintance--since he could hardly be said to have made it on the other\noccasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage in her\nhistory, but he didn't apologise to her for this. The only thing he\nimplied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was very\nmuch as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly, after a short\npause which he had occupied in smiling, as he looked about him, like a\nperson amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of\nguesses--\n\n\"Well now, I suppose you're very happy and all that sort of thing?\"\n\nIsabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remark struck her\nalmost as the accent of comedy. \"Do you suppose if I were not I'd tell\nyou?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know. I don't see why not.\"\n\n\"I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy.\"\n\n\"You've got an awfully good house.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit--it's my husband's.\"\n\n\"You mean he has arranged it?\"\n\n\"Yes, it was nothing when we came.\"\n\n\"He must be very clever.\"\n\n\"He has a genius for upholstery,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a\ntaste of your own.\"\n\n\"I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can never\npropose anything.\"\n\n\"Do you mean you accept what others propose?\"\n\n\"Very willingly, for the most part.\"\n\n\"That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something.\"\n\n\"It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in a few small\nways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to introduce you\nto some of these people.\"\n\n\"Oh, please don't; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young\nlady in the blue dress. She has a charming face.\"\n\n\"The one talking to the rosy young man? That's my husband's daughter.\"\n\n\"Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!\"\n\n\"You must make her acquaintance.\"\n\n\"In a moment--with pleasure. I like looking at her from here.\" He ceased\nto look at her, however, very soon; his eyes constantly reverted to Mrs.\nOsmond. \"Do you know I was wrong just now in saying you had changed?\" he\npresently went on. \"You seem to me, after all, very much the same.\"\n\n\"And yet I find it a great change to be married,\" said Isabel with mild\ngaiety.\n\n\"It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven't\ngone in for that.\"\n\n\"It rather surprises me.\"\n\n\"You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry,\" he\nadded more simply.\n\n\"It ought to be very easy,\" Isabel said, rising--after which she\nreflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she was hardly the\nperson to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined the\npang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having\ncontributed then to the facility.\n\nEdward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottoman beside Pansy's\ntea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her about trifles, and she\nasked him who was the new gentleman conversing with her stepmother.\n\n\"He's an English lord,\" said Rosier. \"I don't know more.\"\n\n\"I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea.\"\n\n\"Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you.\"\n\n\"Don't speak so loud every one will hear,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only\nthought in life was the wish the kettle would boil.\"\n\n\"It has just been filled; the servants never know!\"--and she sighed with\nthe weight of her responsibility.\n\n\"Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn't mean\nwhat you said a week ago.\"\n\n\"I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean\nwhat I say to you.\"\n\n\"He told me you had forgotten me.\"\n\n\"Ah no, I don't forget,\" said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed\nsmile.\n\n\"Then everything's just the very same?\"\n\n\"Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe.\"\n\n\"What has he done to you?\"\n\n\"He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he\nforbade me to marry you.\"\n\n\"You needn't mind that.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa.\"\n\n\"Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?\"\n\nShe raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a moment;\nthen she dropped six words into its aromatic depths. \"I love you just as\nmuch.\"\n\n\"What good will that do me?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, \"I don't know that.\"\n\n\"You disappoint me,\" groaned poor Rosier.\n\nShe was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. \"Please\ndon't talk any more.\"\n\n\"Is this to be all my satisfaction?\"\n\n\"Papa said I was not to talk with you.\"\n\n\"Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!\"\n\n\"I wish you'd wait a little,\" said the girl in a voice just distinct\nenough to betray a quaver.\n\n\"Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my life away.\"\n\n\"I'll not give you up--oh no!\" Pansy went on.\n\n\"He'll try and make you marry some one else.\"\n\n\"I'll never do that.\"\n\n\"What then are we to wait for?\"\n\nShe hesitated again. \"I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll help us.\" It\nwas in this manner that she for the most part designated her stepmother.\n\n\"She won't help us much. She's afraid.\"\n\n\"Afraid of what?\"\n\n\"Of your father, I suppose.\"\n\nPansy shook her little head. \"She's not afraid of any one. We must have\npatience.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's an awful word,\" Rosier groaned; he was deeply disconcerted.\nOblivious of the customs of good society, he dropped his head into his\nhands and, supporting it with a melancholy grace, sat staring at the\ncarpet. Presently he became aware of a good deal of movement about\nhim and, as he looked up, saw Pansy making a curtsey--it was still her\nlittle curtsey of the convent--to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond had\nintroduced.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIt will probably not surprise the reflective reader that Ralph Touchett\nshould have seen less of his cousin since her marriage than he had done\nbefore that event--an event of which he took such a view as could hardly\nprove a confirmation of intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we\nknow, and after this had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him\nto resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations. That\ndiscussion had made a difference--the difference he feared rather than\nthe one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl's zeal in carrying out her\nengagement, but it had come dangerously near to spoiling a friendship.\nNo reference was ever again made between them to Ralph's opinion of\nGilbert Osmond, and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence they\nmanaged to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was a\ndifference, as Ralph often said to himself--there was a difference. She\nhad not forgiven him, she never would forgive him: that was all he had\ngained. She thought she had forgiven him; she believed she didn't care;\nand as she was both very generous and very proud these convictions\nrepresented a certain reality. But whether or no the event should\njustify him he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was\nof the sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife she could never\nagain be his friend. If in this character she should enjoy the felicity\nshe expected, she would have nothing but contempt for the man who had\nattempted, in advance, to undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the\nother hand his warning should be justified the vow she had taken that he\nshould never know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as to make\nher hate him. So dismal had been, during the year that followed\nhis cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future; and if his\nmeditations appear morbid we must remember he was not in the bloom\nof health. He consoled himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed)\nbeautifully, and was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united\nto Mr. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of\nJune. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of\ncelebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicity was\nwhat she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided, in spite\nof Osmond's professed willingness to make a journey of any length, that\nthis characteristic would be best embodied in their being married by the\nnearest clergyman in the shortest time. The thing was done therefore at\nthe little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of\nMrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the Countess Gemini. That\nseverity in the proceedings of which I just spoke was in part the result\nof the absence of two persons who might have been looked for on the\noccasion and who would have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle\nhad been invited, but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had\nwritten a gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been\ninvited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by Mr.\nGoodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her profession; but\nshe had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame Merle's, intimating\nthat, had she been able to cross the Atlantic, she would have been\npresent not only as a witness but as a critic. Her return to Europe had\ntaken place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel\nin the autumn, in Paris, when she had indulged--perhaps a trifle too\nfreely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject\nof it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to\nIsabel that she had taken a step which put a barrier between them. \"It\nisn't in the least that you've married--it is that you have married\nHIM,\" she had deemed it her duty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen,\nmuch more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of\nhis hesitations and compunctions. Henrietta's second visit to Europe,\nhowever, was not apparently to have been made in vain; for just at the\nmoment when Osmond had declared to Isabel that he really must object to\nthat newspaper-woman, and Isabel had answered that it seemed to her he\ntook Henrietta too hard, the good Mr. Bantling had appeared upon\nthe scene and proposed that they should take a run down to Spain.\nHenrietta's letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she\nhad yet published, and there had been one in especial, dated from the\nAlhambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,' which generally passed for\nher masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband's\nnot seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even\nwondered if his sense of fun, or of the funny--which would be his sense\nof humour, wouldn't it?--were by chance defective. Of course she herself\nlooked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing\nto grudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond had thought their\nalliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn't imagine what they had in\ncommon. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow tourist was simply the most\nvulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned.\nAgainst this latter clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an\nardour that had made him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his\nwife's tastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked to\nknow people who were as different as possible from herself. \"Why\nthen don't you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman?\" Osmond\nhad enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid her\nwasherwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much.\n\nRalph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that\nhad followed her marriage; the winter that formed the beginning of her\nresidence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo, where he had been\njoined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him\nto England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she\ncouldn't induce him to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at\nSan Remo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter; but\nlate in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome.\nIt was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face\nwith Isabel; his desire to see her again was then of the keenest. She\nhad written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing\nhe wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she was making of her\nlife, and his mother had simply answered that she supposed she was\nmaking the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination that\ncommunes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no intimacy with\nher niece, whom she rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to\nbe living in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still\nremained of the opinion that her marriage had been a shabby affair. It\nhad given her no pleasure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she\nwas sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, she\nrubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always to minimise\nthe contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her\nthink of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs.\nTouchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been talked\nof before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person\nof Madame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs. Touchett had\nundergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had told her, without\ncircumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part; and Madame\nMerle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to think no one\nworth it, and who had performed the miracle of living, more or less,\nfor several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no symptom of\nirritation--Madame Merle now took a very high tone and declared that\nthis was an accusation from which she couldn't stoop to defend herself.\nShe added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour had been only\ntoo simple, that she had believed only what she saw, that she saw Isabel\nwas not eager to marry and Osmond not eager to please (his repeated\nvisits had been nothing; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top\nand he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to\nherself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown\ndust in her companion's eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event--she was\nunprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had played any part\nin it, double or single, was an imputation against which she proudly\nprotested. It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude,\nand of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming\nseasons, that Madame Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months\nin England, where her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had\ndone her a wrong; there are some things that can't be forgiven. But\nMadame Merle suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite\nin her dignity.\n\nRalph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in\nthis pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the\ngirl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the\ngame. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would\nalways wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in\nher union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should\nfall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he\nhad been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in\norder to know Isabel's real situation. At present, however, she neither\ntaunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was\njustified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was\nsomething fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was\nnot an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an\nadvertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a\nsorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to say about it than she\ncould say to Ralph. It belonged to the past, moreover; it had occurred\nsix months before and she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning.\nShe appeared to be leading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken\nof as having a \"charming position.\" He observed that she produced the\nimpression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed, among\nmany people, to be a privilege even to know her. Her house was not open\nto every one, and she had an evening in the week to which people\nwere not invited as a matter of course. She lived with a certain\nmagnificence, but you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive\nit; for there was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even\nto admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in\nall this, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabel had\nno faculty for producing studied impressions. She struck him as having\na great love of movement, of gaiety, of late hours, of long rides, of\nfatigue; an eagerness to be entertained, to be interested, even to be\nbored, to make acquaintances, to see people who were talked about, to\nexplore the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain\nof the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was\nmuch less discrimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of\ndevelopment on which he had been used to exercise his wit. There was\na kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity in some of her\nexperiments, which took him by surprise: it seemed to him that she even\nspoke faster, moved faster, breathed faster, than before her marriage.\nCertainly she had fallen into exaggerations--she who used to care so\nmuch for the pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight\nin good-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she never looked\nso charming as when in the genial heat of discussion she received a\ncrushing blow full in the face and brushed it away as a feather), she\nappeared now to think there was nothing worth people's either differing\nabout or agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was\nindifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was\ngreater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had\ngained no great maturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a\nbrilliancy in her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence\nto her beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity had bitten\nher? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent\nhead sustained a majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become\nquite another person; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed to\nrepresent something. What did Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself;\nand he could only answer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond.\n\"Good heavens, what a function!\" he then woefully exclaimed. He was lost\nin wonder at the mystery of things.\n\nHe recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at every turn. He\nsaw how he kept all things within limits; how he adjusted, regulated,\nanimated their manner of life. Osmond was in his element; at last he had\nmaterial to work with. He always had an eye to effect, and his effects\nwere deeply calculated. They were produced by no vulgar means, but the\nmotive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior\nwith a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense\nof exclusion, to make people believe his house was different from every\nother, to impart to the face that he presented to the world a cold\noriginality--this was the ingenious effort of the personage to whom\nIsabel had attributed a superior morality. \"He works with superior\nmaterial,\" Ralph said to himself; \"it's rich abundance compared with his\nformer resources.\" Ralph was a clever man; but Ralph had never--to his\nown sense--been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that under the\nguise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived exclusively for\nthe world. Far from being its master as he pretended to be, he was\nits very humble servant, and the degree of its attention was his only\nmeasure of success. He lived with his eye on it from morning till night,\nand the world was so stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything\nhe did was pose--pose so subtly considered that if one were not on the\nlookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man who lived\nso much in the land of consideration. His tastes, his studies, his\naccomplishments, his collections, were all for a purpose. His life on\nhis hill-top at Florence had been the conscious attitude of years. His\nsolitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his good manners, his\nbad manners, were so many features of a mental image constantly present\nto him as a model of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was\nnot to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's\ncuriosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feel great,\never, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most\ndirectly to please himself was his marrying Miss Archer; though in this\ncase indeed the gullible world was in a manner embodied in poor Isabel,\nwho had been mystified to the top of her bent. Ralph of course found\na fitness in being consistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had\nsuffered for it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little\nsketch of its articles for what they may at the time have been worth.\nIt was certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to his\ntheory--even the fact that during the month he spent in Rome at this\nperiod the husband of the woman he loved appeared to regard him not in\nthe least as an enemy.\n\nFor Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not that he\nhad the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none at all.\nHe was Isabel's cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill--it was on\nthis basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper enquiries,\nasked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter\nclimates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on\nthe few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not necessary;\nbut his manner had always the urbanity proper to conscious success in\nthe presence of conscious failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward\nthe end, a sharp inward vision of Osmond's making it of small ease to\nhis wife that she should continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not\njealous--he had not that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But\nhe made Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was\nstill left; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so when his\nsuspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he\nhad deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation: she had been\nconstantly wondering what fine principle was keeping him alive. She had\ndecided that it was his love of conversation; his conversation had been\nbetter than ever. He had given up walking; he was no longer a humorous\nstroller. He sat all day in a chair--almost any chair would serve, and\nwas so dependent on what you would do for him that, had not his talk\nbeen highly contemplative, you might have thought he was blind. The\nreader already knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and\nthe reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What kept\nRalph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen enough of\nthe person in the world in whom he was most interested: he was not yet\nsatisfied. There was more to come; he couldn't make up his mind to lose\nthat. He wanted to see what she would make of her husband--or what her\nhusband would make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and\nhe was determined to sit out the performance. His determination had held\ngood; it had kept him going some eighteen months more, till the time of\nhis return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such an\nair of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, though more\naccessible to confusions of thought in the matter of this strange,\nunremunerative--and unremunerated--son of hers than she had ever been\nbefore, had, as we have learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant\nland. If Ralph had been kept alive by suspense it was with a good deal\nof the same emotion--the excitement of wondering in what state she\nshould find him--that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day after Lord\nWarburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome.\n\nShe spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits. Gilbert\nOsmond called on him punctually, and on their sending their carriage for\nhim Ralph came more than once to Palazzo Roccanera. A fortnight elapsed,\nat the end of which Ralph announced to Lord Warburton that he thought\nafter all he wouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together\nafter a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna. They had\nleft the table, and Warburton, before the chimney, was lighting a cigar,\nwhich he instantly removed from his lips.\n\n\"Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?\"\n\n\"Well, I guess I won't go anywhere,\" said Ralph, from the sofa, all\nshamelessly.\n\n\"Do you mean you'll return to England?\"\n\n\"Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome.\"\n\n\"Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough.\"\n\n\"It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been.\"\n\nLord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as if trying\nto see it. \"You've been better than you were on the journey, certainly.\nI wonder how you lived through that. But I don't understand your\ncondition. I recommend you to try Sicily.\"\n\n\"I can't try,\" said poor Ralph. \"I've done trying. I can't move further.\nI can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charybdis! I\ndon't want to die on the Sicilian plains--to be snatched away, like\nProserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian shades.\"\n\n\"What the deuce then did you come for?\" his lordship enquired.\n\n\"Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really doesn't\nmatter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies, I've swallowed\nall climates. As I'm here I'll stay. I haven't a single cousin in\nSicily--much less a married one.\"\n\n\"Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?\"\n\n\"I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here Mrs. Osmond\nwill bury me. But I shall not die here.\"\n\n\"I hope not.\" Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflectively. \"Well,\nI must say,\" he resumed, \"for myself I'm very glad you don't insist on\nSicily. I had a horror of that journey.\"\n\n\"Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you\nin my train.\"\n\n\"I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone.\"\n\n\"My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this,\"\nRalph cried.\n\n\"I should have gone with you and seen you settled,\" said Lord Warburton.\n\n\"You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man.\"\n\n\"Then I should have come back here.\"\n\n\"And then you'd have gone to England.\"\n\n\"No, no; I should have stayed.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Ralph, \"if that's what we are both up to, I don't see where\nSicily comes in!\"\n\nHis companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last, looking\nup, \"I say, tell me this,\" he broke out; \"did you really mean to go to\nSicily when we started?\"\n\n\"Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first. Did you come\nwith me quite--platonically?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad.\"\n\n\"I suspect we've each been playing our little game.\"\n\n\"Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here\na while.\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign\nAffairs.\"\n\n\"I've seen him three times. He's very amusing.\"\n\n\"I think you've forgotten what you came for,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Perhaps I have,\" his companion answered rather gravely.\n\nThese two were gentlemen of a race which is not distinguished by the\nabsence of reserve, and they had travelled together from London to Rome\nwithout an allusion to matters that were uppermost in the mind of each.\nThere was an old subject they had once discussed, but it had lost its\nrecognised place in their attention, and even after their arrival\nin Rome, where many things led back to it, they had kept the same\nhalf-diffident, half-confident silence.\n\n\"I recommend you to get the doctor's consent, all the same,\" Lord\nWarburton went on, abruptly, after an interval.\n\n\"The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help\nit.\"\n\n\"What then does Mrs. Osmond think?\" Ralph's friend demanded. \"I've not\ntold her. She'll probably say that Rome's too cold and even offer to go\nwith me to Catania. She's capable of that.\"\n\n\"In your place I should like it.\"\n\n\"Her husband won't like it.\"\n\n\"Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you're not bound to\nmind his likings. They're his affair.\"\n\n\"I don't want to make any more trouble between them,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Is there so much already?\"\n\n\"There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make\nthe explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife's cousin.\"\n\n\"Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row if you stop\nhere?\"\n\n\"That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I was in Rome, and\nthen I thought it my duty to disappear. Now I think it's my duty to stop\nand defend her.\"\n\n\"My dear Touchett, your defensive powers--!\" Lord Warburton began with\na smile. But he saw something in his companion's face that checked him.\n\"Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice question,\" he\nobserved instead.\n\nRalph for a short time answered nothing. \"It's true that my defensive\npowers are small,\" he returned at last; \"but as my aggressive ones are\nstill smaller Osmond may after all not think me worth his gunpowder. At\nany rate,\" he added, \"there are things I'm curious to see.\"\n\n\"You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?\"\n\n\"I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply interested in Mrs.\nOsmond.\"\n\n\"So am I. But not as I once was,\" Lord Warburton added quickly. This was\none of the allusions he had not hitherto found occasion to make.\n\n\"Does she strike you as very happy?\" Ralph enquired, emboldened by this\nconfidence.\n\n\"Well, I don't know; I've hardly thought. She told me the other night\nshe was happy.\"\n\n\"Ah, she told YOU, of course,\" Ralph exclaimed, smiling.\n\n\"I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she\nmight have complained to.\"\n\n\"Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it--what she HAS\ndone--and she knows it. She'll complain to you least of all. She's very\ncareful.\"\n\n\"She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again.\"\n\n\"I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of YOUR duty.\"\n\n\"Ah no,\" said Lord Warburton gravely; \"none!\"\n\n\"Permit me to ask,\" Ralph went on, \"whether it's to bring out the fact\nthat you don't mean to make love to her that you're so very civil to the\nlittle girl?\"\n\nLord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood before the fire,\nlooking at it hard. \"Does that strike you as very ridiculous?\"\n\n\"Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her.\"\n\n\"I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when a girl of\nthat age has pleased me more.\"\n\n\"She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine.\"\n\n\"Of course there's the difference in our ages--more than twenty years.\"\n\n\"My dear Warburton,\" said Ralph, \"are you serious?\"\n\n\"Perfectly serious--as far as I've got.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad. And, heaven help us,\" cried Ralph, \"how cheered-up old\nOsmond will be!\"\n\nHis companion frowned. \"I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't propose for\nhis daughter to please HIM.\"\n\n\"He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same.\"\n\n\"He's not so fond of me as that,\" said his lordship.\n\n\"As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position is that\npeople needn't be fond of you at all to wish to be connected with you.\nNow, with me in such a case, I should have the happy confidence that\nthey loved me.\"\n\nLord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doing justice to general\naxioms--he was thinking of a special case. \"Do you judge she'll be\npleased?\"\n\n\"The girl herself? Delighted, surely.\"\n\n\"No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond.\"\n\nRalph looked at him a moment. \"My dear fellow, what has she to do with\nit?\"\n\n\"Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy.\"\n\n\"Very true--very true.\" And Ralph slowly got up. \"It's an interesting\nquestion--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her.\" He stood there\na moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. \"I\nhope, you know, that you're very--very sure. The deuce!\" he broke off.\n\"I don't know how to say it.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do; you know how to say everything.\"\n\n\"Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among Miss Osmond's merits\nher being--a--so near her stepmother isn't a leading one?\"\n\n\"Good heavens, Touchett!\" cried Lord Warburton angrily, \"for what do you\ntake me?\"\n\n\n\n\n\nIsabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady\nhaving indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had\nspent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a\nwinter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and\ngave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less\ninveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the\npast only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of\nthe sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood\nempty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a\ndanger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.\nFamiliarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame\nMerle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much\nwonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it\nwas a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social\nbattle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished\nsteel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more\nand more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with\ndisgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own\nideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who\nknew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her\nhighly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was\nmistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept\ngoing. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of\nlife were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew\nolder, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days\nwhen the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness\nwhat it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had\nbeen to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived\npossibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person\nshe had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:\nthere were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had\nsuppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she\nlived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel\nwould have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant\nfriend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had\nbecome aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of\nhaving made one's self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.\n\nBut, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed\nacquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again\na continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done\nsince her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations\nhad considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she\nwould have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this\nlady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself,\nand if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself\nbeaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an\nornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others\nin periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her\nfriend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be\nas firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,\nconsidering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside\nher own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which\nhad virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was\nalmost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear\nof being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion\nthat she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the\nvulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had\nnever indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to her\nperception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always \"quiet.\"\nBut in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the\nOsmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a\nlittle. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent.\nShe remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other\ninterests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and\nhis little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not\nafter all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of\ntheir affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was\nwanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid\nas we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.\n\n\"I MUST be on my guard,\" she said; \"I might so easily, without\nsuspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my\nintention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew\nyour husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you\nwere a silly woman you might be jealous. You're not a silly woman; I\nknow that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined not\nto get into trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's made\nbefore one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your\nhusband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn't\nlikely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so much less attractive than I\nwas. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn't\nbelong to me, you wouldn't make that reflection; you'd simply say I\nwas forgetting certain differences. I'm determined not to forget them.\nCertainly a good friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn't\nsuspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, in\nthe least; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myself\nuncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently\nprove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however,\nthat if you were to be jealous--that's the form it would take--I should\nbe sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be your\nhusband's.\"\n\nIsabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's theory that\nMadame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage. We know how she had\nat first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond's\nmarriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer's. That was the\nwork of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of\nthe eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint had\nbeen not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her duplicity: she had\nbrought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such\nguilt would not have been great, to Isabel's mind; she couldn't make\na crime of Madame Merle's having been the producing cause of the most\nimportant friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just\nbefore her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a\ntime when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the\ntone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If\nMadame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had\nbeen a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly\nstraightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert\nOsmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less\nconvenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk,\nthis roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. \"Don't you like\nMadame Merle?\" Isabel had once said to him. \"She thinks a great deal of\nyou.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you once for all,\" Osmond had answered. \"I liked her once\nbetter than I do to-day. I'm tired of her, and I'm rather ashamed of it.\nShe's so almost unnaturally good! I'm glad she's not in Italy; it makes\nfor relaxation--for a sort of moral detente. Don't talk of her too much;\nit seems to bring her back. She'll come back in plenty of time.\"\n\nMadame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late--too late,\nI mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime,\nif, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel's feelings were\nalso not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as\nacute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind,\nwhatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as\nthick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had a\nhand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of her titles to\nconsideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not\nso much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and\nIsabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would\nnot have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an\nimmediate horror at having made it. \"Whatever happens to me let me not\nbe unjust,\" she said; \"let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them\nupon others!\" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious\napology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make\nand of which I have given a sketch; for there was something\nirritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat\ndiscriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there\nwas nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of\nfears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had\njust made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little\nwhat she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to\nexplain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then\nsuggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;\nit would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner\none of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so\nwise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than\nIsabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in\nresolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had\nthey flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day.\nIt is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been\nsummed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should\nnot be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had\na great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously\ndiscouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to\npay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its\ndisappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to\nbe derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed\nher sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was\nimpossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever\na girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a\nfree agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.\nThere had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and\nchosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to\nrepair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.\nOne folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second\none would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a\ncertain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been\nright, for all that, in taking her precautions.\n\nOne day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in Rome Isabel\ncame back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general\ndetermination to be just that she was at present very thankful for\nPansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure\nand weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her\nlife that had the rightness of the young creature's attachment or\nthe sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft\npresence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more than\nan affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side\nher sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated\nas a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said\nto herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we\nmust look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was a direct\nadmonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent\nperhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could\nhardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child\nwas able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to\nremember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she\nnow perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her own grossness of\nvision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so\nextraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this\ndelicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It\nwas the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to\ninterfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests\nshe took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.\nOsmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her\ncompany; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay composed all\nof the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any\nprovocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion.\nThe young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel's society\nthan in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an\nintensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite\npleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel\nknew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of\npleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was\nnegative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which\ncertainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She\nwas therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she\nwas careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to\nIsabel's propositions and which might have implied that she could have\nthought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,\nand though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale\nwhen it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked\ntoward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes\nthe prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo\nRoccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a\nreasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to\npropose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances,\nfor she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this\nexercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy.\nSociety, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome\nparts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at\nthe door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this\nvehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative\nposture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken\nto drive for the first time.\n\nOn the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of\nthe city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await\nthem by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the\nCampagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate\nflowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a\nwalk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her\nfirst coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved\nbest, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with\na shorter undulation beside her father's wife, who afterwards, on their\nreturn to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit\nof the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of\nflowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching\nPalazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into\nwater. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually\noccupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was\nentered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond's rich\ndevices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just\nbeyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the\nreason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The\nimpression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as\nsomething new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take\nin the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her\nbonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were\nunaware she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly;\nbut what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their\ncolloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar\nsilence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would\nstartle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from\nthe fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her.\nHer head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck\nIsabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was\nan anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had\narrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing,\nface to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange\nideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they\nwere old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a\nmoment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their\nabsorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all\nover by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and\nhad welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had\ninstantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a\nwalk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room.\n\n\"I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn't I\nwaited for you,\" Madame Merle said.\n\n\"Didn't he ask you to sit down?\" Isabel asked with a smile.\n\nMadame Merle looked about her. \"Ah, it's very true; I was going away.\"\n\n\"You must stay now.\"\n\n\"Certainly. I came for a reason; I've something on my mind.\"\n\n\"I've told you that before,\" Isabel said--\"that it takes something\nextraordinary to bring you to this house.\"\n\n\"And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay\naway, I've always the same motive--the affection I bear you.\"\n\n\"Yes, you've told me that.\"\n\n\"You look just now as if you didn't believe it,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"Ah,\" Isabel answered, \"the profundity of your motives, that's the last\nthing I doubt!\"\n\n\"You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words.\"\n\nIsabel shook her head gravely. \"I know you've always been kind to me.\"\n\n\"As often as you would let me. You don't always take it; then one has\nto let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however, that I've come\nto-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to get rid of a trouble of\nmy own--to make it over to you. I've been talking to your husband about\nit.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles.\"\n\n\"Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do you, I\nsuppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It's\nabout poor Mr. Rosier.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel reflectively, \"it's his trouble then, not yours.\"\n\n\"He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a\nweek, to talk about Pansy.\"\n\n\"Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it.\"\n\nMadame Merle hesitated. \"I gathered from your husband that perhaps you\ndidn't.\"\n\n\"How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the\nmatter.\"\n\n\"It's probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it.\"\n\n\"It's nevertheless the sort of question in which he's rarely at fault.\"\n\n\"Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think.\nTo-day he doesn't.\"\n\n\"Haven't you been telling him?\" Isabel asked.\n\nMadame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. \"Do you know you're a\nlittle dry?\"\n\n\"Yes; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me.\"\n\n\"In that there's some reason. You're so near the child.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, \"for all the comfort I've given him! If you think me\ndry, I wonder what HE thinks.\"\n\n\"I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.\"\n\n\"I can do nothing.\"\n\n\"You can do more at least than I. I don't know what mysterious\nconnection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to\nme from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps\ncoming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his\nfeelings.\"\n\n\"He's very much in love,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Very much--for him.\"\n\n\"Very much for Pansy, you might say as well.\"\n\nMadame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. \"Don't you think she's\nattractive?\"\n\n\"The dearest little person possible--but very limited.\"\n\n\"She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's not\nunlimited.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Isabel, \"he has about the extent of one's\npocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders.\" Her humour had\nlately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed\nof exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor. \"He's very\nkind, very honest,\" she presently added; \"and he's not such a fool as he\nseems.\"\n\n\"He assures me that she delights in him,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"I don't know; I've not asked her.\"\n\n\"You've never sounded her a little?\"\n\n\"It's not my place; it's her father's.\"\n\n\"Ah, you're too literal!\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"I must judge for myself.\"\n\nMadame Merle gave her smile again. \"It isn't easy to help you.\"\n\n\"To help me?\" said Isabel very seriously. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to be careful?\nI notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of\nthe love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n'y peux rien,\nmoi! I can't talk to Pansy about him. Especially,\" added Madame Merle,\n\"as I don't think him a paragon of husbands.\"\n\nIsabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, \"You don't wash\nyour hands then!\" she said. After which again she added in another tone:\n\"You can't--you're too much interested.\"\n\nMadame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the\nintimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before.\nOnly this time the latter saw nothing. \"Ask him the next time, and\nyou'll see.\"\n\n\"I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let\nhim know that he's not welcome.\"\n\n\"Ah yes,\" said Madame Merle, \"I forgot that--though it's the burden of\nhis lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same,\" she\nwent on, \"Osmond doesn't dislike him so much as he thinks.\" She had got\nup as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her,\nand had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the\npoint she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not\nopening the way.\n\n\"That must have pleased him, if you've told him,\" she answered, smiling.\n\n\"Certainly I've told him; as far as that goes I've encouraged him. I've\npreached patience, have said that his case isn't desperate if he'll only\nhold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his\nhead to be jealous.\"\n\n\"Jealous?\"\n\n\"Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.\"\n\nIsabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose.\n\"Ah!\" she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame\nMerle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the\nmantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.\n\n\"Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in Lord\nWarburton's falling in love with Pansy,\" Madame Merle went on. Isabel\nwas silent a little; she turned away from the glass. \"It's true--there's\nnothing impossible,\" she returned at last, gravely and more gently.\n\n\"So I've had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.\"\n\n\"That I don't know.\"\n\n\"Ask him and you'll see.\"\n\n\"I shall not ask him,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course,\" Madame Merle\nadded, \"you've had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton's\nbehaviour than I.\"\n\n\"I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my stepdaughter\nvery much.\"\n\nMadame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. \"Likes her, you mean--as\nMr. Rosier means?\"\n\n\"I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know\nthat he's charmed with Pansy.\"\n\n\"And you've never told Osmond?\" This observation was immediate,\nprecipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle's lips.\n\nIsabel's eyes rested on her. \"I suppose he'll know in time; Lord\nWarburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself.\"\n\nMadame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly\nthan usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave\nthe treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been\nthinking it over a little: \"That would be better than marrying poor Mr.\nRosier.\"\n\n\"Much better, I think.\"\n\n\"It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It's really\nvery kind of him.\"\n\n\"Very kind of him?\"\n\n\"To drop his eyes on a simple little girl.\"\n\n\"I don't see that.\"\n\n\"It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond--\"\n\n\"After all, Pansy Osmond's the most attractive person he has ever\nknown!\" Isabel exclaimed.\n\nMadame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. \"Ah, a moment\nago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her.\"\n\n\"I said she was limited. And so she is. And so's Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"So are we all, if you come to that. If it's no more than Pansy\ndeserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier\nI won't admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse.\"\n\n\"Mr. Rosier's a nuisance!\" Isabel cried abruptly.\n\n\"I quite agree with you, and I'm delighted to know that I'm not expected\nto feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be\nclosed to him.\" And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared\nto depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an\ninconsequent request from Isabel.\n\n\"All the same, you know, be kind to him.\"\n\nShe lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend.\n\"I don't understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan't be kind to\nhim, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord\nWarburton.\"\n\n\"You had better wait till he asks her.\"\n\n\"If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially,\" said Madame Merle\nin a moment, \"if you make him.\"\n\n\"If I make him?\"\n\n\"It's quite in your power. You've great influence with him.\"\n\nIsabel frowned a little. \"Where did you learn that?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you--never!\" said Madame Merle, smiling.\n\n\"I certainly never told you anything of the sort.\"\n\n\"You MIGHT have done so--so far as opportunity went--when we were by\nway of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very\nlittle; I've often thought so since.\"\n\nIsabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction.\nBut she didn't admit it now--perhaps because she wished not to appear to\nexult in it. \"You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,\"\nshe simply returned.\n\n\"She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord\nWarburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full of the subject.\nOf course I think you've done better in doing as you did. But if you\nwouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of\nhelping him to marry some one else.\"\n\nIsabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting\nthe bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a moment she said,\nreasonably and gently enough: \"I should be very glad indeed if, as\nregards Pansy, it could be arranged.\" Upon which her companion, who\nseemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more\ntenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.\n\n\n\n\n\nOsmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time; coming\nvery late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had\nspent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had\nbeen sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged\nhis books and which he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton\nhad come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to\nbe at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour.\nIsabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on\npurpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to\nread; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if\nshe mightn't leave the room. She had come little by little to think\nwell of the idea of Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful\nLockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to\nexcite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the\nmatch to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was\nunhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by\ntheory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself\nof the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as\nopposed to doing. To \"do\"--it hardly mattered what--would therefore\nbe an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to\nconvince herself that she had done everything possible to content her\nhusband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife's\nlimpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married\nto an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was\nso sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her\nduty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good\nwife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely,\nand with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking\nhad other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired\noccupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse\nherself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to\nLord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming\ngirl. It was a little \"weird\" he should--being what he was; but there\nwas no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any\none--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her\ntoo small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was\nalways a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been\nlooking for. Still, who could say what men ever were looking for? They\nlooked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when\nthey saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more\nunaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for\nHER it might seem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different;\nbut he had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if he had,\nhe had completely got over it, and it was natural that, as that affair\nhad failed, he should think something of quite another sort might\nsucceed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but\nit came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what\nhappiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for\nher husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed\ntheir path!\n\nAt this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path\nlost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that\nPansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men--as sure as if\nshe had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome\nshe should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing\nherself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it\ninto his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It\nwas not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men;\nthe young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of\nthe type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It\nwas true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a\nstatesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and\nshe would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress.\n\nIt may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden\nstrangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this\ndifficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied\nin poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there\nwere always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly\naware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which\nmight prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her\nas rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under\ndeprecation--since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in\na very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes,\nshe would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she\nclung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier--especially as\nshe seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel\nwithout a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation\nmost interesting--he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy\nhad been of the rightest and easiest--Isabel noticed that for herself,\nas she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a\npatronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but\nquite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which\nshe followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough\nfor attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be\nkind--he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at\nGardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how\nshe herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been\nas simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She\nhad not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been\nas complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy,\nhowever, in spite of HER simplicity, really did understand, and was\nglad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and\nbouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry,\nthe famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society.\nShe looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with\nsweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet\noblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if\nshe were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded\nher, was better than Mr. Rosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such\nmoments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all\nto Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken\nof her--the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.\n\nIt was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch\nupon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had\nbeen on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and\nleaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in\nthis light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was\ntrying as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded\nafter a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all\nshe couldn't rise to it; something held her and made this impossible.\nIt was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a\ngeneral thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience,\nand Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common\ngenius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed--a sense that\nshe was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a\nwhile Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give\nPansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered\nif she had prevented something which would have happened if she\nhad absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she\npronounced--always mentally--that when their distinguished visitor\nshould wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know\nit. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel\nstudiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after\nhe should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to\nthis than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel\nof his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that\nshe could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her\ntransparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through.\n\nShe remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an\nhour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and\nthen sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had\ntransferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to\nOsmond's face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert\nobservation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not\nan exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had\nmade it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts,\nto know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her\nanswer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had\nrarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever\nthings she might have said. But she had learned caution--learned it in\na measure from her husband's very countenance. It was the same face she\nhad looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating,\non the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown\nslightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one\nas very distinguished.\n\n\"Has Lord Warburton been here?\" he presently asked.\n\n\"Yes, he stayed half an hour.\"\n\n\"Did he see Pansy?\"\n\n\"Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her.\"\n\n\"Did he talk with her much?\"\n\n\"He talked almost only to her.\"\n\n\"It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?\"\n\n\"I don't call it anything,\" said Isabel; \"I've waited for you to give it\na name.\"\n\n\"That's a consideration you don't always show,\" Osmond answered after a\nmoment.\n\n\"I've determined, this time, to try and act as you'd like. I've so often\nfailed of that.\"\n\nOsmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. \"Are you trying to\nquarrel with me?\"\n\n\"No, I'm trying to live at peace.\"\n\n\"Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself.\"\n\n\"What do you call it when you try to make me angry?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"I don't try; if I've done so it has been the most natural thing in the\nworld. Moreover I'm not in the least trying now.\"\n\nIsabel smiled. \"It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be angry\nagain.\"\n\n\"That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good.\"\n\n\"No--it's not good.\" She pushed away the book she had been reading and\ntook up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table.\n\n\"That's partly why I've not spoken to you about this business of my\ndaughter's,\" Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most\nfrequent with him. \"I was afraid I should encounter opposition--that you\ntoo would have views on the subject. I've sent little Rosier about his\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"You were afraid I'd plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven't you noticed that I've\nnever spoken to you of him?\"\n\n\"I've never given you a chance. We've so little conversation in these\ndays. I know he was an old friend of yours.\"\n\n\"Yes; he's an old friend of mine.\" Isabel cared little more for him than\nfor the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it was true that he\nwas an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to\nextenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which\nfortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they\nwere in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion\nof tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they\nbelonged to her unmarried life. \"But as regards Pansy,\" she added in a\nmoment, \"I've given him no encouragement.\"\n\n\"That's fortunate,\" Osmond observed.\n\n\"Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little.\"\n\n\"There's no use talking of him,\" Osmond said. \"As I tell you, I've\nturned him out.\"\n\n\"Yes; but a lover outside's always a lover. He's sometimes even more of\none. Mr. Rosier still has hope.\"\n\n\"He's welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit\nperfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton.\"\n\n\"Should you like that?\" Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not\nso affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for\nOsmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her.\nThe intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady\nWarburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But\nthat was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should\nhave put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that\nhe thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was\nunusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's constant intimation that for\nhim nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal\nwith the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter\nhad only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore\na lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord\nWarburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might\nnot be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary\nimplications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his\nwife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she\nwas face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost\ninvented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating,\nwould not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of\nher question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was\nterribly capable of humiliating her--all the more so that he was also\ncapable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an\nalmost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a\nsmall opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great\none.\n\nOsmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. \"I should like it\nextremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has\nanother advantage: he's an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for\nhim to come into the family. It's very odd Pansy's admirers should all\nbe your old friends.\"\n\n\"It's natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they\nsee Pansy. Seeing her it's natural they should fall in love with her.\"\n\n\"So I think. But you're not bound to do so.\"\n\n\"If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad,\" Isabel went\non frankly. \"He's an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only\nto sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won't sit perfectly still. If she\nloses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!\"\n\nOsmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire.\n\"Pansy would like to be a great lady,\" he remarked in a moment with a\ncertain tenderness of tone. \"She wishes above all to please,\" he added.\n\n\"To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps.\"\n\n\"No, to please me.\"\n\n\"Me too a little, I think,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like.\"\n\n\"If you're sure of that, it's very well,\" she went on.\n\n\"Meantime,\" said Osmond, \"I should like our distinguished visitor to\nspeak.\"\n\n\"He has spoken--to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to\nhim to believe she could care for him.\"\n\nOsmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, \"Why\ndidn't you tell me that?\" he asked sharply.\n\n\"There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the first\nchance that has offered.\"\n\n\"Did you speak to him of Rosier?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, a little.\"\n\n\"That was hardly necessary.\"\n\n\"I thought it best he should know, so that, so that--\" And Isabel\npaused.\n\n\"So that what?\"\n\n\"So that he might act accordingly.\"\n\n\"So that he might back out, do you mean?\"\n\n\"No, so that he might advance while there's yet time.\"\n\n\"That's not the effect it seems to have had.\"\n\n\"You should have patience,\" said Isabel. \"You know Englishmen are shy.\"\n\n\"This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU.\"\n\nShe had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to\nher. \"I beg your pardon; he was extremely so,\" she returned.\n\nHe answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the\npages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy's tapestry.\n\"You must have a great deal of influence with him,\" Osmond went on at\nlast. \"The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point.\"\n\nThis was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of\nhis saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said\nto herself. \"Why should I have influence?\" she asked. \"What have I ever\ndone to put him under an obligation to me?\"\n\n\"You refused to marry him,\" said Osmond with his eyes on his book.\n\n\"I must not presume too much on that,\" she replied.\n\nHe threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire\nwith his hands behind him. \"Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I\nshall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think\nthat over and remember how much I count on you.\" He waited a little,\nto give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently\nstrolled out of the room.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nShe had answered nothing because his words had put the situation before\nher and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them\nthat suddenly made vibrations deep, so that she had been afraid to trust\nherself to speak. After he had gone she leaned back in her chair and\nclosed her eyes; and for a long time, far into the night and still\nfurther, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation.\nA servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh\ncandles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had\nsaid; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion\nfrom another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton--this\nhad given her the start that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it\ntrue that there was something still between them that might be a handle\nto make him declare himself to Pansy--a susceptibility, on his part, to\napproval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto not\nasked herself the question, because she had not been forced; but now\nthat it was directly presented to her she saw the answer, and the answer\nfrightened her. Yes, there was something--something on Lord Warburton's\npart. When he had first come to Rome she believed the link that united\nthem to be completely snapped; but little by little she had been\nreminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair,\nbut there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself\nnothing was changed; what she once thought of him she always thought;\nit was needless this feeling should change; it seemed to her in fact a\nbetter feeling than ever. But he? had he still the idea that she might\nbe more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory\nof the few moments of intimacy through which they had once passed?\nIsabel knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition. But\nwhat were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they\nmingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor Pansy? Was\nhe in love with Gilbert Osmond's wife, and if so what comfort did he\nexpect to derive from it? If he was in love with Pansy he was not in\nlove with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother\nhe was not in love with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she\npossessed in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he would\ndo so for her sake and not for the small creature's own--was this the\nservice her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty\nwith which she found herself confronted--from the moment she admitted to\nherself that her old friend had still an uneradicated predilection for\nher society. It was not an agreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive\none. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were\npretending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another\nsatisfaction and what might be called other chances. Of this refinement\nof duplicity she presently acquitted him; she preferred to believe him\nin perfect good faith. But if his admiration for Pansy were a delusion\nthis was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered\namong these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way;\nsome of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then\nshe broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her\nimagination surely did her little honour and that her husband's did him\neven less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested as he need be, and she\nwas no more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this till\nthe contrary should be proved; proved more effectually than by a cynical\nintimation of Osmond's.\n\nSuch a resolution, however, brought her this evening but little peace,\nfor her soul was haunted with terrors which crowded to the foreground of\nthought as quickly as a place was made for them. What had suddenly set\nthem into livelier motion she hardly knew, unless it were the strange\nimpression she had received in the afternoon of her husband's being in\nmore direct communication with Madame Merle than she suspected. That\nimpression came back to her from time to time, and now she wondered it\nhad never come before. Besides this, her short interview with Osmond\nhalf an hour ago was a striking example of his faculty for making\neverything wither that he touched, spoiling everything for her that he\nlooked at. It was very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty;\nthe real fact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised a\npresumption against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye; as if his\npresence were a blight and his favour a misfortune. Was the fault in\nhimself, or only in the deep mistrust she had conceived for him? This\nmistrust was now the clearest result of their short married life; a gulf\nhad opened between them over which they looked at each other with eyes\nthat were on either side a declaration of the deception suffered. It\nwas a strange opposition, of the like of which she had never dreamed--an\nopposition in which the vital principle of the one was a thing of\ncontempt to the other. It was not her fault--she had practised no\ndeception; she had only admired and believed. She had taken all the\nfirst steps in the purest confidence, and then she had suddenly found\nthe infinite vista of a multiplied life to be a dark, narrow alley\nwith a dead wall at the end. Instead of leading to the high places of\nhappiness, from which the world would seem to lie below one, so that one\ncould look down with a sense of exaltation and advantage, and judge and\nchoose and pity, it led rather downward and earthward, into realms of\nrestriction and depression where the sound of other lives, easier\nand freer, was heard as from above, and where it served to deepen the\nfeeling of failure. It was her deep distrust of her husband--this was\nwhat darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated, but not\nso easily explained, and so composite in its character that much time\nand still more suffering had been needed to bring it to its actual\nperfection. Suffering, with Isabel, was an active condition; it was\nnot a chill, a stupor, a despair; it was a passion of thought, of\nspeculation, of response to every pressure. She flattered herself\nthat she had kept her failing faith to herself, however,--that no one\nsuspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it, and there were times when she\nthought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually--it was not till the first\nyear of their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had closed\nthat she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun to gather; it\nwas as if Osmond deliberately, almost malignantly, had put the lights\nout one by one. The dusk at first was vague and thin, and she could\nstill see her way in it. But it steadily deepened, and if now and again\nit had occasionally lifted there were certain corners of her prospect\nthat were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emanation from\nher own mind: she was very sure of that; she had done her best to be\njust and temperate, to see only the truth. They were a part, they were\na kind of creation and consequence, of her husband's very presence. They\nwere not his misdeeds, his turpitudes; she accused him of nothing--that\nis but of one thing, which was NOT a crime. She knew of no wrong he had\ndone; he was not violent, he was not cruel: she simply believed he hated\nher. That was all she accused him of, and the miserable part of it was\nprecisely that it was not a crime, for against a crime she might have\nfound redress. He had discovered that she was so different, that she was\nnot what he had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first\nhe could change her, and she had done her best to be what he would like.\nBut she was, after all, herself--she couldn't help that; and now there\nwas no use pretending, wearing a mask or a dress, for he knew her and\nhad made up his mind. She was not afraid of him; she had no apprehension\nhe would hurt her; for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort.\nHe would if possible never give her a pretext, never put himself in the\nwrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed eyes, saw that he\nwould have the better of her there. She would give him many pretexts,\nshe would often put herself in the wrong. There were times when she\nalmost pitied him; for if she had not deceived him in intention she\nunderstood how completely she must have done so in fact. She had effaced\nherself when he first knew her; she had made herself small, pretending\nthere was less of her than there really was. It was because she had been\nunder the extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken pains to\nput forth. He was not changed; he had not disguised himself, during the\nyear of his courtship, any more than she. But she had seen only half his\nnature then, as one saw the disk of the moon when it was partly masked\nby the shadow of the earth. She saw the full moon now--she saw the\nwhole man. She had kept still, as it were, so that he should have a free\nfield, and yet in spite of this she had mistaken a part for the whole.\n\nAh, she had been immensely under the charm! It had not passed away; it\nwas there still: she still knew perfectly what it was that made Osmond\ndelightful when he chose to be. He had wished to be when he made love\nto her, and as she had wished to be charmed it was not wonderful he\nhad succeeded. He had succeeded because he had been sincere; it never\noccurred to her now to deny him that. He admired her--he had told her\nwhy: because she was the most imaginative woman he had known. It might\nvery well have been true; for during those months she had imagined\na world of things that had no substance. She had had a more wondrous\nvision of him, fed through charmed senses and oh such a stirred\nfancy!--she had not read him right. A certain combination of features\nhad touched her, and in them she had seen the most striking of figures.\nThat he was poor and lonely and yet that somehow he was noble--that was\nwhat had interested her and seemed to give her her opportunity. There\nhad been an indefinable beauty about him--in his situation, in his mind,\nin his face. She had felt at the same time that he was helpless and\nineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a tenderness\nwhich was the very flower of respect. He was like a sceptical voyager\nstrolling on the beach while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yet\nnot putting to sea. It was in all this she had found her occasion. She\nwould launch his boat for him; she would be his providence; it would be\na good thing to love him. And she had loved him, she had so anxiously\nand yet so ardently given herself--a good deal for what she found in\nhim, but a good deal also for what she brought him and what might enrich\nthe gift. As she looked back at the passion of those full weeks she\nperceived in it a kind of maternal strain--the happiness of a woman who\nfelt that she was a contributor, that she came with charged hands. But\nfor her money, as she saw to-day, she would never have done it. And then\nher mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchett, sleeping under English turf,\nthe beneficent author of infinite woe! For this was the fantastic fact.\nAt bottom her money had been a burden, had been on her mind, which\nwas filled with the desire to transfer the weight of it to some other\nconscience, to some more prepared receptacle. What would lighten her\nown conscience more effectually than to make it over to the man with the\nbest taste in the world? Unless she should have given it to a hospital\nthere would have been nothing better she could do with it; and there was\nno charitable institution in which she had been as much interested as\nin Gilbert Osmond. He would use her fortune in a way that would make her\nthink better of it and rub off a certain grossness attaching to the good\nluck of an unexpected inheritance. There had been nothing very delicate\nin inheriting seventy thousand pounds; the delicacy had been all in Mr.\nTouchett's leaving them to her. But to marry Gilbert Osmond and bring\nhim such a portion--in that there would be delicacy for her as well.\nThere would be less for him--that was true; but that was his affair, and\nif he loved her he wouldn't object to her being rich. Had he not had the\ncourage to say he was glad she was rich?\n\nIsabel's cheek burned when she asked herself if she had really married\non a factitious theory, in order to do something finely appreciable with\nher money. But she was able to answer quickly enough that this was\nonly half the story. It was because a certain ardour took possession of\nher--a sense of the earnestness of his affection and a delight in\nhis personal qualities. He was better than any one else. This supreme\nconviction had filled her life for months, and enough of it still\nremained to prove to her that she could not have done otherwise. The\nfinest--in the sense of being the subtlest--manly organism she had ever\nknown had become her property, and the recognition of her having but\nto put out her hands and take it had been originally a sort of act of\ndevotion. She had not been mistaken about the beauty of his mind; she\nknew that organ perfectly now. She had lived with it, she had lived IN\nit almost--it appeared to have become her habitation. If she had been\ncaptured it had taken a firm hand to seize her; that reflection perhaps\nhad some worth. A mind more ingenious, more pliant, more cultivated,\nmore trained to admirable exercises, she had not encountered; and it was\nthis exquisite instrument she had now to reckon with. She lost herself\nin infinite dismay when she thought of the magnitude of HIS deception.\nIt was a wonder, perhaps, in view of this, that he didn't hate her more.\nShe remembered perfectly the first sign he had given of it--it had been\nlike the bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the real drama of\ntheir life. He said to her one day that she had too many ideas and that\nshe must get rid of them. He had told her that already, before their\nmarriage; but then she had not noticed it: it had come back to her only\nafterwards. This time she might well have noticed it, because he had\nreally meant it. The words had been nothing superficially; but when in\nthe light of deepening experience she had looked into them they had then\nappeared portentous. He had really meant it--he would have liked her to\nhave nothing of her own but her pretty appearance. She had known she had\ntoo many ideas; she had more even than he had supposed, many more than\nshe had expressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she\nHAD been hypocritical; she had liked him so much. She had too many ideas\nfor herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with\nsome one else. One couldn't pluck them up by the roots, though of course\none might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had not been\nthis, however, his objecting to her opinions; this had been nothing. She\nhad no opinions--none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in\nthe satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he had meant\nhad been the whole thing--her character, the way she felt, the way she\njudged. This was what she had kept in reserve; this was what he had not\nknown until he had found himself--with the door closed behind, as it\nwere--set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at\nlife which he took as a personal offence. Heaven knew that now at least\nit was a very humble, accommodating way! The strange thing was that\nshe should not have suspected from the first that his own had been so\ndifferent. She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly\nthat of an honest man and a gentleman. Hadn't he assured her that he had\nno superstitions, no dull limitations, no prejudices that had lost their\nfreshness? Hadn't he all the appearance of a man living in the open air\nof the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth\nand knowledge and believing that two intelligent people ought to look\nfor them together and, whether they found them or not, find at least\nsome happiness in the search? He had told her he loved the conventional;\nbut there was a sense in which this seemed a noble declaration. In that\nsense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency and of all the\nstately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had\ncontained nothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, she\nhad followed him further and he had led her into the mansion of his own\nhabitation, then, THEN she had seen where she really was.\n\nShe could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she\nhad taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls she had\nlived ever since; they were to surround her for the rest of her life.\nIt was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of\nsuffocation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air;\nOsmond's beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a small high\nwindow and mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering;\nfor physical suffering there might have been a remedy. She could come\nand go; she had her liberty; her husband was perfectly polite. He took\nhimself so seriously; it was something appalling. Under all his culture,\nhis cleverness, his amenity, under his good-nature, his facility, his\nknowledge of life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank\nof flowers. She had taken him seriously, but she had not taken him so\nseriously as that. How could she--especially when she had known him\nbetter? She was to think of him as he thought of himself--as the first\ngentleman in Europe. So it was that she had thought of him at first, and\nthat indeed was the reason she had married him. But when she began to\nsee what it implied she drew back; there was more in the bond than she\nhad meant to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every\none but some three or four very exalted people whom he envied, and for\neverything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own. That was very\nwell; she would have gone with him even there a long distance; for\nhe pointed out to her so much of the baseness and shabbiness of life,\nopened her eyes so wide to the stupidity, the depravity, the ignorance\nof mankind, that she had been properly impressed with the infinite\nvulgarity of things and of the virtue of keeping one's self unspotted by\nit. But this base, if noble world, it appeared, was after all what one\nwas to live for; one was to keep it forever in one's eye, in order\nnot to enlighten or convert or redeem it, but to extract from it some\nrecognition of one's own superiority. On the one hand it was despicable,\nbut on the other it afforded a standard. Osmond had talked to Isabel\nabout his renunciation, his indifference, the ease with which he\ndispensed with the usual aids to success; and all this had seemed to\nher admirable. She had thought it a grand indifference, an exquisite\nindependence. But indifference was really the last of his qualities;\nshe had never seen any one who thought so much of others. For herself,\navowedly, the world had always interested her and the study of her\nfellow creatures been her constant passion. She would have been willing,\nhowever, to renounce all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake of\na personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to make her\nbelieve it was a gain! This at least was her present conviction; and\nthe thing certainly would have been easier than to care for society as\nOsmond cared for it.\n\nHe was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had never really\ndone so; he had looked at it out of his window even when he appeared\nto be most detached from it. He had his ideal, just as she had tried to\nhave hers; only it was strange that people should seek for justice in\nsuch different quarters. His ideal was a conception of high prosperity\nand propriety, of the aristocratic life, which she now saw that he\ndeemed himself always, in essence at least, to have led. He had never\nlapsed from it for an hour; he would never have recovered from the shame\nof doing so. That again was very well; here too she would have agreed;\nbut they attached such different ideas, such different associations and\ndesires, to the same formulas. Her notion of the aristocratic life was\nsimply the union of great knowledge with great liberty; the knowledge\nwould give one a sense of duty and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But\nfor Osmond it was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated\nattitude. He was fond of the old, the consecrated, the transmitted;\nso was she, but she pretended to do what she chose with it. He had an\nimmense esteem for tradition; he had told her once that the best thing\nin the world was to have it, but that if one was so unfortunate as not\nto have it one must immediately proceed to make it. She knew that he\nmeant by this that she hadn't it, but that he was better off; though\nfrom what source he had derived his traditions she never learned. He\nhad a very large collection of them, however; that was very certain,\nand after a little she began to see. The great thing was to act in\naccordance with them; the great thing not only for him but for her.\nIsabel had an undefined conviction that to serve for another person than\ntheir proprietor traditions must be of a thoroughly superior kind; but\nshe nevertheless assented to this intimation that she too must march\nto the stately music that floated down from unknown periods in her\nhusband's past; she who of old had been so free of step, so desultory,\nso devious, so much the reverse of processional. There were certain\nthings they must do, a certain posture they must take, certain people\nthey must know and not know. When she saw this rigid system close about\nher, draped though it was in pictured tapestries, that sense of darkness\nand suffocation of which I have spoken took possession of her; she\nseemed shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted of\ncourse; at first very humorously, ironically, tenderly; then, as the\nsituation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. She had\npleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for\nthe aspect and denomination of their life--the cause of other instincts\nand longings, of quite another ideal.\n\nThen it was that her husband's personality, touched as it never had\nbeen, stepped forth and stood erect. The things she had said were\nanswered only by his scorn, and she could see he was ineffably ashamed\nof her. What did he think of her--that she was base, vulgar, ignoble?\nHe at least knew now that she had no traditions! It had not been in his\nprevision of things that she should reveal such flatness; her sentiments\nwere worthy of a radical newspaper or a Unitarian preacher. The real\noffence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her\nown at all. Her mind was to be his--attached to his own like a small\ngarden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the\nflowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional nosegay.\nIt would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already\nfar-reaching. He didn't wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was\nbecause she was clever that she had pleased him. But he expected her\nintelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from\ndesiring her mind to be a blank he had flattered himself that it would\nbe richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him and for\nhim, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his preferences; and\nIsabel was obliged to confess that this was no great insolence on the\npart of a man so accomplished and a husband originally at least so\ntender. But there were certain things she could never take in. To\nbegin with, they were hideously unclean. She was not a daughter of the\nPuritans, but for all that she believed in such a thing as chastity and\neven as decency. It would appear that Osmond was far from doing anything\nof the sort; some of his traditions made her push back her skirts. Did\nall women have lovers? Did they all lie and even the best have their\nprice? Were there only three or four that didn't deceive their husbands?\nWhen Isabel heard such things she felt a greater scorn for them than for\nthe gossip of a village parlour--a scorn that kept its freshness in\na very tainted air. There was the taint of her sister-in-law: did her\nhusband judge only by the Countess Gemini? This lady very often lied,\nand she had practised deceptions that were not simply verbal. It was\nenough to find these facts assumed among Osmond's traditions--it was\nenough without giving them such a general extension. It was her scorn\nof his assumptions, it was this that made him draw himself up. He\nhad plenty of contempt, and it was proper his wife should be as well\nfurnished; but that she should turn the hot light of her disdain upon\nhis own conception of things--this was a danger he had not allowed for.\nHe believed he should have regulated her emotions before she came to\nit; and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears had scorched on his\ndiscovering he had been too confident. When one had a wife who gave one\nthat sensation there was nothing left but to hate her.\n\nShe was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred, which at first\nhad been a refuge and a refreshment, had become the occupation and\ncomfort of his life. The feeling was deep, because it was sincere; he\nhad had the revelation that she could after all dispense with him. If\nto herself the idea was startling, if it presented itself at first as a\nkind of infidelity, a capacity for pollution, what infinite effect might\nit not be expected to have had upon HIM? It was very simple; he\ndespised her; she had no traditions and the moral horizon of a\nUnitarian minister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to understand\nUnitarianism! This was the certitude she had been living with now for\na time that she had ceased to measure. What was coming--what was before\nthem? That was her constant question. What would he do--what ought SHE\nto do? When a man hated his wife what did it lead to? She didn't hate\nhim, that she was sure of, for every little while she felt a passionate\nwish to give him a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she felt\nafraid, and it used to come over her, as I have intimated, that she\nhad deceived him at the very first. They were strangely married, at all\nevents, and it was a horrible life. Until that morning he had scarcely\nspoken to her for a week; his manner was as dry as a burned-out\nfire. She knew there was a special reason; he was displeased at Ralph\nTouchett's staying on in Rome. He thought she saw too much of her\ncousin--he had told her a week before it was indecent she should go to\nhim at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph's invalid\nstate had not appeared to make it brutal to denounce him; but having had\nto contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read all this\nas she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she was as perfectly\naware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her husband's\nrage as if Osmond had locked her into her room--which she was sure was\nwhat he wanted to do. It was her honest belief that on the whole she\nwas not defiant, but she certainly couldn't pretend to be indifferent to\nRalph. She believed he was dying at last and that she should never see\nhim again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that she had never\nknown before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now; how could anything be\na pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There\nwas an everlasting weight on her heart--there was a livid light on\neverything. But Ralph's little visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the\nhour that she sat with him her ache for herself became somehow her ache\nfor HIM. She felt to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never\nhad a brother, but if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying,\nhe would be dear to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of\nher there was perhaps some reason; it didn't make Gilbert look better to\nsit for half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him--it\nwas not that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It\nwas simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There\nwas something in Ralph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his\nbeing in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more\nspacious. He made her feel the good of the world; he made her feel what\nmight have been. He was after all as intelligent as Osmond--quite apart\nfrom his being better. And thus it seemed to her an act of devotion\nto conceal her misery from him. She concealed it elaborately; she\nwas perpetually, in their talk, hanging out curtains and before her\nagain--it lived before her again,--it had never had time to die--that\nmorning in the garden at Florence when he had warned her against Osmond.\nShe had only to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to\nfeel the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mystery,\nwhat a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? He was much more\nintelligent--to arrive at such a judgement as that. Gilbert had never\nbeen so deep, so just. She had told him then that from her at least he\nshould never know if he was right; and this was what she was taking\ncare of now. It gave her plenty to do; there was passion, exaltation,\nreligion in it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange\nexercises, and Isabel at present, in playing a part before her cousin,\nhad an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been a\nkindness perhaps if he had been for a single instant a dupe. As it was,\nthe kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him believe that he had\nonce wounded her greatly and that the event had put him to shame, but\nthat, as she was very generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge\nand even considerately forbore to flaunt her happiness in his face.\nRalph smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary\nform of consideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She\ndidn't wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy: that was\nthe great thing, and it didn't matter that such knowledge would rather\nhave righted him.\n\nFor herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the fire\nhad gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she was in\na fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great ones, but\nher vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by visions, was in a\nstate of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to\nher there, where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a\nmockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and\nwhat could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there\nhalf the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why\nPansy shouldn't be married as you would put a letter in the post-office?\nWhen the clock struck four she got up; she was going to bed at last, for\nthe lamp had long since gone out and the candles burned down to their\nsockets. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room\nand stood there gazing at a remembered vision--that of her husband and\nMadame Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.\n\n\n\n\n\nThree nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which\nOsmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as\nready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had\nnot extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on\nthose of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her\nfather she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought this\nunlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to\nbe a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper\nesteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual\nand kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her\nbouquet very tight and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time.\nShe made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a\nflutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want\nof partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was\nnot dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service\nfor some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward\nRosier. He stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a\nlook of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would\nhave made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom\na hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of\ngunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify\nher he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After\nhe had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly: \"It's all\npansies; it must be hers!\"\n\nIsabel smiled kindly. \"Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold.\"\n\n\"May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?\" the poor young man asked.\n\n\"No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly.\nBut may I not at least have a single flower?\"\n\nIsabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the\nbouquet. \"Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you.\"\n\n\"Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!\" Rosier exclaimed with\nhis glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.\n\n\"Don't put it into your button-hole,\" she said. \"Don't for the world!\"\n\n\"I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I\nwish to show her that I believe in her still.\"\n\n\"It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to\nothers. Her father has told her not to dance with you.\"\n\n\"And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs.\nOsmond,\" said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. \"You\nknow our acquaintance goes back very far--quite into the days of our\ninnocent childhood.\"\n\n\"Don't make me out too old,\" Isabel patiently answered. \"You come back\nto that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that,\nold friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry\nyou I should have refused you on the spot.\"\n\n\"Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere\nParisian trifler!\"\n\n\"I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by\nthat, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy.\"\n\n\"Very good; I see. You pity me--that's all.\" And Edward Rosier looked\nall round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to\nhim that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud\nto show that the deficiency struck him as general.\n\nIsabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the\ndignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things,\nwas against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness,\nafter all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more\nthan before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form,\nwas the most affecting thing in the world--young love struggling with\nadversity. \"Would you really be very kind to her?\" she finally asked in\na low tone.\n\nHe dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held\nin his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. \"You pity me; but\ndon't you pity HER a little?\"\n\n\"I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life.\"\n\n\"It will depend on what you call life!\" Mr. Rosier effectively said.\n\"She won't enjoy being tortured.\"\n\n\"There'll be nothing of that.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see.\"\n\n\"I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's coming\nback to me,\" Isabel added, \"and I must beg you to go away.\"\n\nRosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her\ncavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he\nwalked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved\nthis sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love.\n\nPansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh\nand cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her\nbouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers;\nwhereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at\nplay than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she\nsaid nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after\nhe had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare\nmisfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however,\nshe had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this\nknowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she\nresponded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under\nacute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth\nby a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had\nnot been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing\nthrough the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening;\nshe had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then\n\"Where's the little maid?\" he asked. It was in this manner that he had\nformed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.\n\n\"She's dancing,\" said Isabel. \"You'll see her somewhere.\"\n\nHe looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. \"She sees\nme, but she won't notice me,\" he then remarked. \"Are you not dancing?\"\n\n\"As you see, I'm a wall-flower.\"\n\n\"Won't you dance with me?\"\n\n\"Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid.\"\n\n\"One needn't prevent the other--especially as she's engaged.\"\n\n\"She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She\ndances very hard, and you'll be the fresher.\"\n\n\"She dances beautifully,\" said Lord Warburton, following her with his\neyes. \"Ah, at last,\" he added, \"she has given me a smile.\" He stood\nthere with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel\nobserved him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was\nstrange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It\nstruck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations,\nnor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement,\nwhich was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. \"I\nshould like to dance with you,\" he went on in a moment, turning back to\nIsabel; \"but I think I like even better to talk with you.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen\noughtn't to waltz.\"\n\n\"Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss\nOsmond?\"\n\n\"Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply like\na piece of kindness--as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you\ndance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own.\"\n\n\"And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?\"\n\n\"No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands.\"\n\n\"The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it.\"\n\n\"Amuse yourself with talking to me,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've always\nto be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous\nto-night. Will you absolutely not dance?\"\n\n\"I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here.\"\n\nHe was silent a little. \"You're wonderfully good to her,\" he said\nsuddenly.\n\nIsabel stared a little and smiled. \"Can you imagine one's not being?\"\n\n\"No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a\ngreat deal for her.\"\n\n\"I've taken her out with me,\" said Isabel, smiling still. \"And I've seen\nthat she has proper clothes.\"\n\n\"Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked to\nher, advised her, helped her to develop.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it.\"\n\nShe laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a certain\nvisible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete\nhilarity. \"We all try to live as near it as we can,\" he said after a\nmoment's hesitation.\n\nIsabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she\nwelcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she\nthought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted; there\nwas something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case\nof indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She\nfelt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in\nhis approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of\nnature. Yet for all that it didn't suit her that he should be too near\nher, that he should take too much of her good-will for granted. She was\nafraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She\nfelt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to\nflash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with\nanother rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the\nfirst and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were\ntoo many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which\nwere fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became apparent\nthat the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself\nto Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the\ninjury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her\nattention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and they were\nin direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way\nconnected--a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be\ntrying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it\nwas others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was\nwhat she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were\nso, as she feared, he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken\naccount of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious,\nmade the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back\ninto right relations with things the better. He immediately began\nto talk to Pansy--on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he\ndropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a\nlittle air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good\ndeal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his\nrobust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always\nseemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful\ncharacter that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she\nknew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and\nwandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till\nthe music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be\nalso engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered\nflush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's\ncomplete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan,\nto her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own\nimaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy's extreme\nadhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond\nhad given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's\nduenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and\ncontraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think\nshe obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was\nbecause her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.\n\nAfter Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her\nagain. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound\nhis thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. \"She has promised\nto dance with me later,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the cotillion.\"\n\nAt this he looked a little awkward. \"No, I didn't ask her for that. It's\na quadrille.\"\n\n\"Ah, you're not clever!\" said Isabel almost angrily. \"I told her to keep\nthe cotillion in case you should ask for it.\"\n\n\"Poor little maid, fancy that!\" And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. \"Of\ncourse I will if you like.\"\n\n\"If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it--!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her\nbook.\"\n\nIsabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there\nlooking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined\nto ask him to remove them. She didn't do so, however; she only said to\nhim, after a minute, with her own raised: \"Please let me understand.\"\n\n\"Understand what?\"\n\n\"You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my stepdaughter.\nYou've not forgotten it!\"\n\n\"Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, \"he didn't mention to me that he had heard from you.\"\n\nLord Warburton stammered a little. \"I--I didn't send my letter.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you forgot THAT.\"\n\n\"No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to\nwrite, you know. But I shall send it to-night.\"\n\n\"At three o'clock in the morning?\"\n\n\"I mean later, in the course of the day.\"\n\n\"Very good. You still wish then to marry her?\"\n\n\"Very much indeed.\"\n\n\"Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?\" And as her companion stared at\nthis enquiry Isabel added: \"If she can't dance with you for half an hour\nhow will she be able to dance with you for life?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Lord Warburton readily, \"I'll let her dance with other\npeople! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you--that you--\"\n\n\"That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing.\"\n\n\"Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet corner\nwhere we may sit down and talk.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Isabel gravely, \"you're much too considerate of me.\"\n\nWhen the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself,\nthinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions.\nIsabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that\nhe would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite\nof the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the\nground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to\nmake an exception in Lord Warburton's favour.\n\n\"After all I don't care to dance,\" he said; \"it's a barbarous amusement:\nI'd much rather talk.\" And he intimated that he had discovered exactly\nthe corner he had been looking for--a quiet nook in one of the smaller\nrooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere\nwith conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she\nwished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him,\nthough she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his\ndaughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant, however; that would\nmake it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon\nEdward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking\nat the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She\nstopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.\n\n\"Certainly not, if I can't dance with HER!\" he answered.\n\n\"You had better go away then,\" said Isabel with the manner of good\ncounsel.\n\n\"I shall not go till she does!\" And he let Lord Warburton pass without\ngiving him a look.\n\nThis nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he\nasked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him\nsomewhere before.\n\n\"It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad.\"\n\n\"He has reason. My husband won't listen to him.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with him?\" Lord Warburton enquired. \"He seems very\nharmless.\"\n\n\"He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever.\"\n\nLord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this\naccount of Edward Rosier. \"Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young\nfellow.\"\n\n\"So he is, but my husband's very particular.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see.\" And Lord Warburton paused a moment. \"How much money has he\ngot?\" he then ventured to ask.\n\n\"Some forty thousand francs a year.\"\n\n\"Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know.\"\n\n\"So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas.\"\n\n\"Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really\nan idiot, the young man?\"\n\n\"An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years old\nI myself was in love with him.\"\n\n\"He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day,\" Lord Warburton rejoined\nvaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, \"Don't you think we\nmight sit here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Wherever you please.\" The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a\nsubdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as\nour friends came in. \"It's very kind of you to take such an interest in\nMr. Rosier,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I\nwondered what ailed him.\"\n\n\"You're a just man,\" said Isabel. \"You've a kind thought even for a\nrival.\"\n\nLord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. \"A rival! Do you call him\nmy rival?\"\n\n\"Surely--if you both wish to marry the same person.\"\n\n\"Yes--but since he has no chance!\"\n\n\"I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It\nshows imagination.\"\n\n\"You like me for it?\" And Lord Warburton looked at her with an uncertain\neye. \"I think you mean you're laughing at me for it.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh\nat.\"\n\n\"Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do\nyou suppose one could do for him?\"\n\n\"Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you to imagine\nthat yourself,\" Isabel said. \"Pansy too would like you for that.\"\n\n\"Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already.\"\n\n\"Very much, I think.\"\n\nHe waited a little; he was still questioning her face. \"Well then, I\ndon't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him?\"\n\nA quick blush sprang to his brow. \"You told me she would have no wish\napart from her father's, and as I've gathered that he would favour\nme--!\" He paused a little and then suggested \"Don't you see?\" through\nhis blush.\n\n\"Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that\nit would probably take her very far.\"\n\n\"That seems to me a very proper feeling,\" said Lord Warburton.\n\n\"Certainly; it's a very proper feeling.\" Isabel remained silent for some\nmoments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music reached them\nwith its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last\nshe said: \"But it hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a\nman would wish to be indebted for a wife.\"\n\n\"I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!\"\n\n\"Yes, of course you must think that.\"\n\n\"I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course.\"\n\n\"No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry you,\nand I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're not in\nlove.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!\"\n\nIsabel shook her head. \"You like to think you are while you sit here\nwith me. But that's not how you strike me.\"\n\n\"I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what makes\nit so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable than Miss\nOsmond?\"\n\n\"No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons.\"\n\n\"I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons.\"\n\n\"Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't care a straw\nfor them.\"\n\n\"Ah, really in love--really in love!\" Lord Warburton exclaimed, folding\nhis arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a little. \"You\nmust remember that I'm forty-two years old. I won't pretend I'm as I\nonce was.\"\n\n\"Well, if you're sure,\" said Isabel, \"it's all right.\"\n\nHe answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking before\nhim. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned quickly to\nhis friend. \"Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?\" She met his eyes,\nand for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to\nbe satisfied she saw something that satisfied her; she saw in his\nexpression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own\naccount--that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a\nhope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know. Not for an\ninstant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying\nher step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or\nof thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely\npersonal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they\nwere conscious of at the moment.\n\n\"My dear Lord Warburton,\" she said, smiling, \"you may do, so far as I'm\nconcerned, whatever comes into your head.\"\n\nAnd with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room, where,\nwithin her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of\ngentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they\nhad been looking for her. While she talked with them she found herself\nregretting she had moved; it looked a little like running away--all the\nmore as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, however,\nand at any rate she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that\nwhen, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward Rosier still\nplanted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. \"You did\nright not to go away. I've some comfort for you.\"\n\n\"I need it,\" the young man softly wailed, \"when I see you so awfully\nthick with him!\"\n\n\"Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't be\nmuch, but what I can I'll do.\"\n\nHe looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. \"What has suddenly brought you\nround?\"\n\n\"The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!\" she answered,\nsmiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with\nPansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many\nother departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it\napproached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to\nreach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if\nshe had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a\nlittle air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by\na movement of her finger, murmured gently: \"Don't forget to send your\nletter to her father!\"\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase,\nto extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she\nstruggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an\nunaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town,\nwhere he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose\ntalent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an\nobliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who\nwon from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in\nFlorence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without\ncurrency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very\ndull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared\nto pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness\nneeded more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her\neyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she\nhad not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had\nbeen allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that\nthere were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been\nthere at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say.\nOr rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much\nmore to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated\nFlorence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter's. They\nare reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually\nsummed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City\nand that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The\nCountess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with\nher amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more\ninteresting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening\nparties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one\nhad heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had greatly\nincreased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than\nherself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual\nenough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, not\neven perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the\nscenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about\nher sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful\ntime. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which\nshe had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a\nweek there during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she\nhad not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't want\nher--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the\nsame, for after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. It was\nher husband who wouldn't let her, and the money question was always\na trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her\nsister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel's\npersonal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with\nclever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could\nnever understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really\nclever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that,\ndifferent as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she\nhad somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet\nupon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should\nboth know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived,\nwith Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was\nconstantly expecting that Isabel would \"look down\" on her, and she as\nconstantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would\nbegin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she\ncared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law\nregarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor\nCountess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as\nsoon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a\ngrasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband's sister, however;\nshe was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought\nher very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she\nwas like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably\npink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle\nwas apparently the Countess's spiritual principle, a little loose nut\nthat tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too\nanomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there\nwas no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage,\nhad not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst\nspecies--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said\nat another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she\nhad given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake.\nThe fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to\nthe Countess's going again to Rome; but at the period with which this\nhistory has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend\nseveral weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond\nhimself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very\nquiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had\nput into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any\nterms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her\nformer visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the\nmarriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious\nthoughts--if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious--of putting\nher on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was\nreassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an\neasy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it\nseemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the\ntaller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether\nIsabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see\nOsmond overtopped.\n\nSeveral days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the\ncard of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription \"Henrietta C.\nStackpole.\" The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she\ndidn't remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant\nthen remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the\nCountess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on\nseeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact\nreminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's;\nthe only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the only\nmodern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She\nrecognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole\nseemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly\ngood-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that\nsort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account\nof her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother\nwas not at all like Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at a\nglance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received\nan impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in\ndistant countries--in the character (the professional character) of\nliterary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown\nover a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet\n(oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of\nglossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of\nher \"Creole\" ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal\nand was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see,\nwas always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something\nbrisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost\nconscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever\nvaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The\nCountess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer\nwas much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained\nthat she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she\nknew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to\nsee something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett,\nbut Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence\nHenrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett\nwas not one of her admirations.\n\n\"Do you mean by that that I am?\" the Countess graciously asked.\n\n\"Well, I like you better than I do her,\" said Miss Stackpole. \"I seem to\nremember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don't\nknow whether it was an accident or whether it's your usual style. At\nany rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it\nafterwards in print.\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; \"I had no idea\nI ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.\"\n\n\"It was about the position of woman in this city,\" Miss Stackpole\nremarked. \"You threw a good deal of light upon it.\"\n\n\"The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And\nyou wrote it down and published it?\" the Countess went on. \"Ah, do let\nme see it!\"\n\n\"I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like,\" Henrietta said.\n\"I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I\nquoted your views.\"\n\nThe Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped\nhands. \"Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't mention my name? I\nshould have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my\nviews were; I have so many! But I'm not ashamed of them. I'm not at all\nlike my brother--I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of\nscandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he'd never\nforgive you.\"\n\n\"He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him,\" said Miss Stackpole\nwith bland dryness. \"That's another reason,\" she added, \"why I wanted to\ncome to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to think what I\nknew about you.\"\n\n\"I'm quite willing to be known by that,\" Henrietta declared. \"But that\nisn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my\nrelations with Isabel.\"\n\n\"Don't permit it,\" said the Countess.\n\n\"That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome.\"\n\n\"So am I!\" the Countess cried. \"We'll go together.\"\n\n\"With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll mention you\nby name as my companion.\"\n\nThe Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside\nher visitor. \"Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won't like it,\nbut he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know how to read.\"\n\nHenrietta's large eyes became immense. \"Doesn't know how to read? May I\nput that into my letter?\"\n\n\"Into your letter?\"\n\n\"In the Interviewer. That's my paper.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?\"\n\nHenrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess.\n\"She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered\nthat she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.\"\n\nThe Countess listened with extreme interest. \"The reason's Osmond,\" she\npregnantly remarked.\n\n\"Isabel ought to make a stand,\" said Miss Stackpole. \"I'm afraid she has\nchanged a great deal. I told her she would.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn't\nmy brother like you?\" the Countess ingenuously added.\n\n\"I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like me;\nI don't want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some\npeople did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless he gets a\ngood deal hated; that's the way he knows how his work goes on. And it's\njust the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of Isabel.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that she hates you?\" the Countess enquired.\n\n\"I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for.\"\n\n\"Dear me, what a tiresome errand!\" the Countess exclaimed.\n\n\"She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see there's a\ndifference. If you know anything,\" Miss Stackpole went on, \"I should\nlike to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.\"\n\nThe Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. \"I know\nvery little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn't like me\nany better than he appears to like you.\"\n\n\"Yet you're not a lady correspondent,\" said Henrietta pensively.\n\n\"Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me--I'm\nto stay in the house!\" And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her\nexultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole's\ndisappointment.\n\nThis lady, however, regarded it very placidly. \"I shouldn't have gone if\nshe HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and I'm glad I hadn't\nto make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I\nshouldn't have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn't have\nbeen happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that's\nnot all.\"\n\n\"Rome's very good just now,\" said the Countess; \"there are all sorts of\nbrilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?\"\n\n\"Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?\"\nHenrietta enquired.\n\n\"I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand seigneur. He's\nmaking love to Isabel.\"\n\n\"Making love to her?\"\n\n\"So I'm told; I don't know the details,\" said the Countess lightly. \"But\nIsabel's pretty safe.\"\n\nHenrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said\nnothing. \"When do you go to Rome?\" she enquired abruptly.\n\n\"Not for a week, I'm afraid.\"\n\n\"I shall go to-morrow,\" Henrietta said. \"I think I had better not wait.\"\n\n\"Dear me, I'm sorry; I'm having some dresses made. I'm told Isabel\nreceives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you\nat your pension.\" Henrietta sat still--she was lost in thought; and\nsuddenly the Countess cried: \"Ah, but if you don't go with me you can't\ndescribe our journey!\"\n\nMiss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking\nof something else and presently expressed it. \"I'm not sure that I\nunderstand you about Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all.\"\n\n\"Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?\" Henrietta\nenquired with unprecedented distinctness.\n\nThe Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: \"It's certain\nall the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!\" she added.\n\n\"That idea would be enough to prevent me,\" said Miss Stackpole. \"I\nshould want my own husband; I shouldn't want any one else's. Do you mean\nthat Isabel's guilty--guilty--?\" And she paused a little, choosing her\nexpression.\n\n\"Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that\nOsmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great\ndeal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalised.\"\n\n\"No, I'm just anxious,\" Henrietta said.\n\n\"Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more\nconfidence. I'll tell you,\" the Countess added quickly: \"if it will be a\ncomfort to you I engage to draw him off.\"\n\nMiss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her\ngaze. \"You don't understand me,\" she said after a while. \"I haven't the\nidea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for Isabel--in that way. I'm\nonly afraid she's unhappy--that's what I want to get at.\"\n\nThe Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and\nsarcastic. \"That may very well be; for my part I should like to know\nwhether Osmond is.\" Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.\n\n\"If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it,\" Henrietta\nwent on.\n\n\"You'll see; she'll tell you,\" said the Countess.\n\n\"Ah, she may NOT tell me--that's what I'm afraid of!\"\n\n\"Well, if Osmond isn't amusing himself--in his own old way--I flatter\nmyself I shall discover it,\" the Countess rejoined.\n\n\"I don't care for that,\" said Henrietta.\n\n\"I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her, but I can't\nhelp it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I\ncan't tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and\nmarry him for? If she had listened to me she'd have got rid of him. I'll\nforgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she\nhas simply allowed him to trample upon her I don't know that I shall\neven pity her. But I don't think that's very likely. I count upon\nfinding that if she's miserable she has at least made HIM so.\"\n\nHenrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful\nexpectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond\nunhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of\nfancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose\nmind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a\ncapacity for coarseness even there. \"It will be better if they love each\nother,\" she said for edification.\n\n\"They can't. He can't love any one.\"\n\n\"I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for\nIsabel. I shall positively start to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Isabel certainly has devotees,\" said the Countess, smiling very\nvividly. \"I declare I don't pity her.\"\n\n\"It may be I can't assist her,\" Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were\nwell not to have illusions.\n\n\"You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I believe that's\nwhat you came from America for,\" the Countess suddenly added.\n\n\"Yes, I wanted to look after her,\" Henrietta said serenely.\n\nHer hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an\neager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come.\n\"Ah, that's very pretty c'est bien gentil! Isn't it what they call\nfriendship?\"\n\n\"I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come.\"\n\n\"She's very happy--she's very fortunate,\" the Countess went on. \"She\nhas others besides.\" And then she broke out passionately. \"She's more\nfortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she--I've a very bad husband; he's a\ngreat deal worse than Osmond. And I've no friends. I thought I had, but\nthey're gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you've done for\nher.\"\n\nHenrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She\ngazed at her companion a moment, and then: \"Look here, Countess, I'll do\nanything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with you.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: \"only\ndescribe me in the newspaper!\"\n\nHenrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her\nunderstand that she could give no fictitious representation of her\njourney to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On\nquitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno, the sunny quay beside\nthe yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand\nall in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of\nFlorence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able\nto turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms\nthe approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the\nleft, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the\nhotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth\na small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after\nmeditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over\nher shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: \"Could\nI see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?\"\nHenrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with\nthis little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up\nhis station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home.\nThe porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about\ntwenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged\nit might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her\ncourse along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which\nshe presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings.\nMaking her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the\nupper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with\nantique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an\nempty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble\nfloor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but\nscantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of\nartistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had\nafter all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the\nlittle Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before the\nsacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands\nto him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special\ndevotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the most beautiful\npicture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she\nwas spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that\nthey must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite\nwork of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it\ninvolved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn\ninto the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a\nlittle exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood.\n\n\"I've just been at your hotel,\" she said. \"I left a card for you.\"\n\n\"I'm very much honoured,\" Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant\nit.\n\n\"It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you before and I know\nyou don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about something.\"\n\nHe looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. \"I shall be very glad\nto hear what you wish to say.\"\n\n\"You don't like to talk with me,\" said Henrietta. \"But I don't care for\nthat; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come\nand see me; but since I've met you here this will do as well.\"\n\n\"I was just going away,\" Goodwood stated; \"but of course I'll stop.\" He\nwas civil, but not enthusiastic.\n\nHenrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was\nso much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on\nany terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the\npictures.\n\n\"All I want to. I've been here an hour.\"\n\n\"I wonder if you've seen my Correggio,\" said Henrietta. \"I came up on\npurpose to have a look at it.\" She went into the Tribune and he slowly\naccompanied her.\n\n\"I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don't\nremember pictures--especially that sort.\" She had pointed out her\nfavourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to\ntalk with him.\n\n\"No,\" said Henrietta, \"it's about something less harmonious!\" They\nhad the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to\nthemselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus.\n\"I want you to do me a favour,\" Miss Stackpole went on.\n\nCaspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at\nthe sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man\nthan our earlier friend. \"I'm sure it's something I shan't like,\" he\nsaid rather loudly.\n\n\"No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no favour.\"\n\n\"Well, let's hear it,\" he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious\nof his patience.\n\n\"You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a favour.\nIndeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd let me I'd gladly do\nyou one.\" Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect,\nhad an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather\na hard surface, couldn't help being touched by it. When he was touched\nhe rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed,\nnor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more\ndirectly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued\ntherefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. \"I may say\nnow, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I've ever annoyed you (and\nI think sometimes I have) it's because I knew I was willing to suffer\nannoyance for you. I've troubled you--doubtless. But I'd TAKE trouble\nfor you.\"\n\nGoodwood hesitated. \"You're taking trouble now.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it's better on the\nwhole that you should go to Rome.\"\n\n\"I thought you were going to say that!\" he answered rather artlessly.\n\n\"You HAVE considered it then?\"\n\n\"Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it. Otherwise\nI shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what I stayed in Paris two\nmonths for. I was thinking it over.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because\nyou were so much attracted.\"\n\n\"Best for whom, do you mean?\" Goodwood demanded.\n\n\"Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.\"\n\n\"Oh, it won't do HER any good! I don't flatter myself that.\"\n\n\"Won't it do her some harm?--that's the question.\"\n\n\"I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But\nif you want to know, I do want to see her myself.\"\n\n\"Yes, and that's why you go.\"\n\n\"Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?\"\n\n\"How will it help you?--that's what I want to know,\" said Miss\nStackpole.\n\n\"That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking about\nin Paris.\"\n\n\"It will make you more discontented.\"\n\n\"Why do you say 'more' so?\" Goodwood asked rather sternly. \"How do you\nknow I'm discontented?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Henrietta, hesitating a little, \"you seem never to have\ncared for another.\"\n\n\"How do you know what I care for?\" he cried with a big blush. \"Just now\nI care to go to Rome.\"\n\nHenrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression.\n\"Well,\" she observed at last, \"I only wanted to tell you what I think;\nI had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my business. But\nnothing is any one's business, on that principle.\"\n\n\"It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your interest,\"\nsaid Caspar Goodwood. \"I shall go to Rome and I shan't hurt Mrs.\nOsmond.\"\n\n\"You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that's the real\nissue.\"\n\n\"Is she in need of help?\" he asked slowly, with a penetrating look.\n\n\"Most women always are,\" said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness\nand generalising less hopefully than usual. \"If you go to Rome,\" she\nadded, \"I hope you'll be a true friend--not a selfish one!\" And she\nturned off and began to look at the pictures.\n\nCaspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered\nround the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. \"You've heard\nsomething about her here,\" he then resumed. \"I should like to know what\nyou've heard.\"\n\nHenrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this\noccasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after\nthinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. \"Yes, I've\nheard,\" she answered; \"but as I don't want you to go to Rome I won't\ntell you.\"\n\n\"Just as you please. I shall see for myself,\" he said. Then\ninconsistently, for him, \"You've heard she's unhappy!\" he added.\n\n\"Oh, you won't see that!\" Henrietta exclaimed.\n\n\"I hope not. When do you start?\"\n\n\"To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?\"\n\nGoodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss\nStackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the\nsame character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at this moment an equal\ndistinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than a\nreference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant,\nand he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged.\nLady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of\nthings in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters\nhe supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But\nit was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss\nStackpole didn't take so much for granted. She took for granted that he\nwas always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when\nthey met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had\nrepeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no\nwish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking of\nher; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least\ncolloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing\nher lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn't\ncare so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him,\nthat she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now\nmade other reflections--which show how widely different, in effect, his\nill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond's. He desired to go immediately to\nRome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the\nEuropean railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee\nto knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found\none's self objecting with all the added vehemence of one's wish to have\nthe window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at\nleast at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But\nhe couldn't take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the\nmorning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected\nwoman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait\nlonger than he had patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day.\nShe worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in\na European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of\nirritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to\nput himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that;\nit was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some\nmoments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a\ntone of extreme distinctness, \"Of course if you're going to-morrow I'll\ngo too, as I may be of assistance to you.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!\" Henrietta returned\nimperturbably.\n\n\n\n\n\nI have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be\ndispleased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome. That knowledge\nwas very present to her as she went to her cousin's hotel the day\nafter she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his\nsincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient\nperception of the sources of Osmond's opposition. He wished her to have\nno freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle\nof freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself,\nthat it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that\nshe partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband's aversion to\nit, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had\nnot as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was\nher appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort\nof incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination,\nhowever; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary\ndecencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled\nher with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had\nlost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband's\nintentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the\nless, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back\nsomething she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and\nmonstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do\nnothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her\nto the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph;\nbut she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this\nprohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet\nmade it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband's wish\nfor the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD like her to be\nwith her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond's\nsore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively\ninterpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to\ndecide, and that wouldn't be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and\nher cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her\nwish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would\nstart even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself\nin this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward.\nIt was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed\npreferable to repudiating the most serious act--the single sacred\nact--of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous.\nTo break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open\nacknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that\ntheir whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be\nno condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal\nreadjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was\nto have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there\nwas no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel\nwent to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure\nof propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn't have been\na better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest\nappreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been particularly\nfree to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn't\nleave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This\nindeed was Gilbert's business as well as her own.\n\nShe came very soon to what she wished to speak of. \"I want you to answer\nme a question. It's about Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"I think I guess your question,\" Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out\nof which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.\n\n\"Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't say I can do that.\"\n\n\"You're intimate with him,\" she said; \"you've a great deal of\nobservation of him.\"\n\n\"Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!\"\n\n\"Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature.\"\n\n\"Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar,\" said Ralph\nwith an air of private amusement.\n\n\"To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?\"\n\n\"Very much, I think. I can make that out.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Isabel with a certain dryness.\n\nRalph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with\nmystification. \"You say that as if you were disappointed.\"\n\nIsabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully.\n\"It's after all no business of mine.\"\n\n\"You're very philosophic,\" said her cousin. And then in a moment: \"May I\nenquire what you're talking about?\"\n\nIsabel stared. \"I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants,\nof all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you that before,\nwithout eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I\nthink. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?\"\n\n\"Ah, for Pansy, no!\" cried Ralph very positively.\n\n\"But you said just now he did.\"\n\nRalph waited a moment. \"That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond.\"\n\nIsabel shook her head gravely. \"That's nonsense, you know.\"\n\n\"Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine.\"\n\n\"That would be very tiresome.\" She spoke, as she flattered herself, with\nmuch subtlety.\n\n\"I ought to tell you indeed,\" Ralph went on, \"that to me he has denied\nit.\"\n\n\"It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you\nthat he's in love with Pansy?\"\n\n\"He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, of\ncourse, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh.\"\n\n\"Does he really think it?\"\n\n\"Ah, what Warburton really thinks--!\" said Ralph.\n\nIsabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves\non which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked\nup, and then, \"Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!\" she cried abruptly and\npassionately.\n\nIt was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the\nwords shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of\nrelief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf\nbetween them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a\nmoment: \"How unhappy you must be!\"\n\nHe had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the\nfirst use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. \"When I\ntalk of your helping me I talk great nonsense,\" she said with a quick\nsmile. \"The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments!\nThe matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't\nundertake to see him through.\"\n\n\"He ought to succeed easily,\" said Ralph.\n\nIsabel debated. \"Yes--but he has not always succeeded.\"\n\n\"Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss\nOsmond capable of giving us a surprise?\"\n\n\"It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll let\nthe matter drop.\"\n\n\"He'll do nothing dishonourable,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to\nleave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it's cruel\nto attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up.\"\n\n\"Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburton\nisn't obliged to mind that.\"\n\n\"No, cruel to her,\" said Isabel. \"She would be very unhappy if she were\nto allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea\nseems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him. He has the\nmerit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance\nthat Lord Warburton isn't.\"\n\n\"He'd be very good to her,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not said\na word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow with\nperfect propriety.\"\n\n\"How would your husband like that?\"\n\n\"Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain\nsatisfaction himself.\"\n\n\"Has he commissioned you to obtain it?\" Ralph ventured to ask.\n\n\"It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's--an older\nfriend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in his\nintentions.\"\n\n\"Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?\"\n\nIsabel hesitated, frowning a little. \"Let me understand. Are you\npleading his cause?\"\n\n\"Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your stepdaughter's\nhusband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!\" said Ralph,\nsmiling. \"But I'm rather nervous lest your husband should think you\nhaven't pushed him enough.\"\n\nIsabel found herself able to smile as well as he. \"He knows me well\nenough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intention\nof pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to justify\nmyself!\" she said lightly.\n\nHer mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to\nRalph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural\nface and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage\ndesire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she should\nbe held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain\nthat this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form\nthat in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It could only\ntake the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of\nit--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It\nlittle mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own\nsatisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not\ndeceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt\ncold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcely\nmattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why did\nshe seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention?\nWhy did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her?\nHow could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her\nhumorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to be\nmentioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of her\ntrouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was\nbound to consider. \"You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same,\" he\nsaid in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce\nunderstood, \"You'll find yourselves thinking very differently,\" he\ncontinued.\n\n\"That may easily happen, among the most united couples!\" She took up her\nparasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. \"It's a\nmatter we can hardly quarrel about, however,\" she added; \"for almost all\nthe interest is on his side. That's very natural. Pansy's after all his\ndaughter--not mine.\" And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.\n\nRalph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him without\nhis letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an\nopportunity to lose. \"Do you know what his interest will make him say?\"\nhe asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--not\ndiscouragingly--and he went on. \"It will make him say that your want\nof zeal is owing to jealousy.\" He stopped a moment; her face made him\nafraid.\n\n\"To jealousy?\"\n\n\"To jealousy of his daughter.\"\n\nShe blushed red and threw back her head. \"You're not kind,\" she said in\na voice that he had never heard on her lips.\n\n\"Be frank with me and you'll see,\" he answered.\n\nBut she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he\ntried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her\nmind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going\nto the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was\nalways in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty\npatience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait.\nAt present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room\nfire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, in\naccordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought up\nand which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so that\nthe room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in Palazzo\nRoccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy's virginal\nbower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling.\nIts diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of\nhumanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel,\nthe latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel\nhad a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply as\npossible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself against\nbetraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or at\nleast too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to\nhave guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after she\nhad moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the\nfire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a\ncushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her\nstepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own\nlips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she\ndesired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke\nit. The girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and\nindeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of\na disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her\ntongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest;\nPansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabel\nhad yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of the\neffect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with\nher pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half\nin submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness\nof the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked\nout for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. When\nIsabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what might\nhave been going on in relation to her getting married, but that her\nsilence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire\nto leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer\nand nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep\nlonging, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she\nbegged her to advise her now.\n\n\"It's difficult for me to advise you,\" Isabel returned. \"I don't know\nhow I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get his\nadvice and, above all, you must act on it.\"\n\nAt this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. \"I think\nI should like your advice better than papa's,\" she presently remarked.\n\n\"That's not as it should be,\" said Isabel coldly. \"I love you very much,\nbut your father loves you better.\"\n\n\"It isn't because you love me--it's because you're a lady,\" Pansy\nanswered with the air of saying something very reasonable. \"A lady can\nadvise a young girl better than a man.\"\n\n\"I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's wishes.\"\n\n\"Ah yes,\" said the child eagerly, \"I must do that.\"\n\n\"But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for your\nown sake, it's for mine,\" Isabel went on. \"If I try to learn from you\nwhat you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act accordingly.\"\n\nPansy stared, and then very quickly, \"Will you do everything I want?\"\nshe asked.\n\n\"Before I say yes I must know what such things are.\"\n\nPansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to\nmarry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so\nif her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow it.\n\n\"Very well then, it's impossible,\" Isabel pronounced.\n\n\"Yes, it's impossible,\" said Pansy without a sigh and with the same\nextreme attention in her clear little face.\n\n\"You must think of something else then,\" Isabel went on; but Pansy,\nsighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the\nleast success.\n\n\"You think of those who think of you,\" she said with a faint smile. \"I\nknow Mr. Rosier thinks of me.\"\n\n\"He ought not to,\" said Isabel loftily. \"Your father has expressly\nrequested he shouldn't.\"\n\n\"He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps; but\nthere's none for you.\"\n\n\"I wish you would try to find one,\" the girl exclaimed as if she were\npraying to the Madonna.\n\n\"I should be very sorry to attempt it,\" said the Madonna with unusual\nfrigidity. \"If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you\nthink of him?\"\n\n\"No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!\" Isabel hypocritically cried.\n\nPansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking\nadvantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences of\ndisobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance that\nshe would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And\nshe announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might\nnever marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She\nappeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of\ncourse was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning.\nShe was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This\nmight seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy,\nevidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness\ntoward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only\nthe sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite\nintimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even\nby marrying him.\n\n\"Your father would like you to make a better marriage,\" said Isabel.\n\"Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large.\"\n\n\"How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myself\nso little money; why should I look for a fortune?\"\n\n\"Your having so little is a reason for looking for more.\" With which\nIsabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face\nwere hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was\nwhat one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on her own,\nalmost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light\nof the girl's preference.\n\n\"What should you like me to do?\" her companion softly demanded.\n\nThe question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous\nvagueness. \"To remember all the pleasure it's in your power to give your\nfather.\"\n\n\"To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?\"\n\nFor a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then she\nheard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention seemed to\nmake. \"Yes--to marry some one else.\"\n\nThe child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubting\nher sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting\nup from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small hands\nunclasped and then quavered out: \"Well, I hope no one will ask me!\"\n\n\"There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready\nto ask you.\"\n\n\"I don't think he can have been ready,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed.\"\n\n\"If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!\"\n\nIsabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment\nlooking into the fire. \"Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,\"\nshe resumed; \"of course you know it's of him I speak.\" She found\nherself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of\njustifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more\ncrudely than she had intended.\n\n\"He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean\nthat he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely.\"\n\nPansy shook her head with a little wise smile. \"Lord Warburton won't\npropose simply to please papa.\"\n\n\"Your father would like you to encourage him,\" Isabel went on\nmechanically.\n\n\"How can I encourage him?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Your father must tell you that.\"\n\nPansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if\nshe were in possession of a bright assurance. \"There's no danger--no\ndanger!\" she declared at last.\n\nThere was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her\nbelieving it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt accused\nof dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect\nshe was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that\nthere was a danger. But she didn't; she only said--in her embarrassment\nrather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, most\nfriendly.\n\n\"Yes, he has been very kind,\" Pansy answered. \"That's what I like him\nfor.\"\n\n\"Why then is the difficulty so great?\"\n\n\"I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want--what did you\nsay I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry,\nand he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's the\nmeaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you very\nmuch, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' I\nthink that's very kind, very noble,\" Pansy went on with deepening\npositiveness. \"That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't care\nfor me either. Ah no, there's no danger.\"\n\nIsabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which\nthis submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy's\nwisdom--began almost to retreat before it. \"You must tell your father\nthat,\" she remarked reservedly.\n\n\"I think I'd rather not,\" Pansy unreservedly answered.\n\n\"You oughtn't to let him have false hopes.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he\nbelieves that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa\nwon't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me,\" said\nthe child very lucidly.\n\nThere was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion\ndraw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility.\nPansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that\nshe herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock.\nNevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond,\nthat she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the\ninfluence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she\nretired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have\ndone her utmost.\n\n\"Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a\nnobleman.\"\n\nPansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for\nIsabel to pass. \"I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!\" she remarked very\ngravely.\n\n\n\n\n\nLord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several\ndays, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband said nothing\nto her about having received a letter from him. She couldn't fail to\nobserve, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that,\nthough it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their\ndistinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four\ndays he alluded to his absence.\n\n\"What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a\ntradesman with a bill?\"\n\n\"I know nothing about him,\" Isabel said. \"I saw him last Friday at the\nGerman ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you.\"\n\n\"He has never written to me.\"\n\n\"So I supposed, from your not having told me.\"\n\n\"He's an odd fish,\" said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's making\nno rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five\ndays to indite a letter. \"Does he form his words with such difficulty?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Isabel was reduced to replying. \"I've never had a letter\nfrom him.\"\n\n\"Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate\ncorrespondence.\"\n\nShe answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation\ndrop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the\nafternoon, her husband took it up again.\n\n\"When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you\nsay to him?\" he asked.\n\nShe just faltered. \"I think I told him not to forget it.\n\n\"Did you believe there was a danger of that?\"\n\n\"As you say, he's an odd fish.\"\n\n\"Apparently he has forgotten it,\" said Osmond. \"Be so good as to remind\nhim.\"\n\n\"Should you like me to write to him?\" she demanded.\n\n\"I've no objection whatever.\"\n\n\"You expect too much of me.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I shall disappoint you,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment.\"\n\n\"Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself!\nIf you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them\nyourself.\"\n\nFor a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: \"That\nwon't be easy, with you working against me.\"\n\nIsabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of\nlooking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of\nher but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully\ncruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable\nnecessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence.\nThat effect had never been so marked as now. \"I think you accuse me of\nsomething very base,\" she returned.\n\n\"I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come\nforward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's\nbase: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've no\ndoubt you've the finest ideas about it.\"\n\n\"I told you I would do what I could,\" she went on.\n\n\"Yes, that gained you time.\"\n\nIt came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him\nbeautiful. \"How much you must want to make sure of him!\" she exclaimed\nin a moment.\n\nShe had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her\nwords, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made\na comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had\nonce held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich\nenough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a\nhorrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her\nthat none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing\notherwise, however; he only said quickly: \"Yes, I want it immensely.\"\n\nAt this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed\nthe next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing\nOsmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress;\na movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a\nperception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English\naddress, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element\nof good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving\ntransitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel\nremarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking\nabout their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn't known\nwhat was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. \"No,\"\nhe explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; \"I'm only on the point of\ngoing.\" And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled\nto England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. \"I'm awfully\nsorry to leave poor Touchett!\" he ended by exclaiming.\n\nFor a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back\nin his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could only fancy\nhow he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where they were\nthe more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them.\nYet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it\nexpressive. \"You had better take poor Touchett with you,\" she heard her\nhusband say, lightly enough, in a moment.\n\n\"He had better wait for warmer weather,\" Lord Warburton answered. \"I\nshouldn't advise him to travel just now.\"\n\nHe sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon\nsee them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course\nhe strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the\nautumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such\npleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a\nmonth with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but\nonce; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and\nintelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get\non well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what\na good time she had had there and if she didn't want to try it again.\nDidn't she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really\nvery good. Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort\nof place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't they\ncome and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn't\nasked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to\ngive the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a\nmere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with\nTouchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the\npeople they must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord\nWarburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told\nhim that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a\ncountry she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England\nto be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense\nsuccess there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked\nif she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he liked\ngood-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he\nhadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind\nto leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What\ncould be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things\none wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other\nhand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply from a sense\nthat one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled\none's wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced\non him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set\nit down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond.\nHe was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her\ninstead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a\nlot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left\nthe house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.\n\nIf there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the\nannouncement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord\nWarburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other\nmanner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was\ncapable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked\nhim quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He\nwould do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the\nhabit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's power to\nfrustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on\nin her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was\nproper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said\nhimself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her\nalone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion.\nShe felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of\nloss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as\nhe saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl\nhis thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he\ntreated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so\nclever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond's\ncleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present\nappearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was\nsimply a part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpressive\nexactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on\nthis prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to\nirradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he\ntreated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his\nown advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so\nperfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an\ninward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not\nthe faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any\nsatisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction;\nshe wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same\ntime she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton.\nOsmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the\nadvantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it\nwas something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back\nin his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers and\nsuppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they\nwere addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little\nelse was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had\nkept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able\nto wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be\nable to look as if the leave-taker's movements had no relation to his\nown mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance was\nin its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position was after\nall an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't leave\nRome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short\nof fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe.\nOsmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that\nthey should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success\nPansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but\nleft Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.\nIsabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista\nwhich had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little\nfigure marching up the middle of it.\n\nLord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither\nIsabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of\ngiving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if\nit were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed\nand stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it\nwas not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would\nrather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had\nsomething to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she\nwas afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense\nwith explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good\ntaste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish\nto say just the last word of all to the ladies. \"I've a letter to write\nbefore dinner,\" he said; \"you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's\ndisengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of course when\nyou come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you\nabout the English expedition: she decides all those things.\"\n\nThe nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little\nspeech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole\nit was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he\nleft the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, \"Your\nhusband's very angry\"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to\nher. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: \"Oh, don't be\nanxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!\"\n\nIt was only when they had been left alone together that her friend\nshowed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair,\nhandling two or three of the objects that were near him. \"I hope he'll\nmake Miss Osmond come,\" he presently remarked. \"I want very much to see\nher.\"\n\n\"I'm glad it's the last time,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"So am I. She doesn't care for me.\"\n\n\"No, she doesn't care for you.\"\n\n\"I don't wonder at it,\" he returned. Then he added with inconsequence:\n\"You'll come to England, won't you?\"\n\n\"I think we had better not.\"\n\n\"Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have come\nto Lockleigh once, and you never did?\"\n\n\"Everything's changed since then,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we're concerned. To see\nyou under my roof\"--and he hung fire but an instant--\"would be a great\nsatisfaction.\"\n\nShe had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred.\nThey talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in,\nalready dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek.\nShe shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his\nface with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship\nprobably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.\n\n\"I'm going away,\" he said. \"I want to bid you good-bye.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Lord Warburton.\" Her voice perceptibly trembled.\n\n\"And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Lord Warburton,\" Pansy answered.\n\nHe lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. \"You ought to be very\nhappy--you've got a guardian angel.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I shall be happy,\" said Pansy in the tone of a person whose\ncertainties were always cheerful.\n\n\"Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should\never fail you, remember--remember--\" And her interlocutor stammered a\nlittle. \"Think of me sometimes, you know!\" he said with a vague laugh.\nThen he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone.\n\nWhen he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her\nstepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different.\n\n\"I think you ARE my guardian angel!\" she exclaimed very sweetly.\n\nIsabel shook her head. \"I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the most\nyour good friend.\"\n\n\"You're a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with\nme.\"\n\n\"I've asked your father nothing,\" said Isabel, wondering.\n\n\"He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a\nvery kind kiss.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, \"that was quite his own idea!\"\n\nShe recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she\nwas to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't put\nhimself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after\ntheir dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till\nlate in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him\nbefore going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his\nusual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his\ndaughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was\na partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his\nwife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she\nwould remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the\ndrawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak.\n\n\"I don't understand what you wish to do,\" he said in a moment. \"I should\nlike to know--so that I may know how to act.\"\n\n\"Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired.\"\n\n\"Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a\ncomfortable place.\" And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were\nscattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not,\nhowever, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair.\nThe fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew\nher cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. \"I think you're trying to\nhumiliate me,\" Osmond went on. \"It's a most absurd undertaking.\"\n\n\"I haven't the least idea what you mean,\" she returned.\n\n\"You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully.\"\n\n\"What is it that I've managed?\"\n\n\"You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again.\" And he\nstopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at\nher thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know\nthat she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of\nthought.\n\n\"If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come back\nyou're wrong,\" Isabel said. \"He's under none whatever.\"\n\n\"That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I don't\nmean he'll come from a sense of duty.\"\n\n\"There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome.\"\n\n\"Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible.\" And Osmond\nbegan to walk about again. \"However, about that perhaps there's no\nhurry,\" he added. \"It's rather a good idea of his that we should go\nto England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I\nthink I should try to persuade you.\"\n\n\"It may be that you'll not find my cousin,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as\npossible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told\nme so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must\nbe a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory\nof your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to\nsee where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was\nright. Pansy ought to see England.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt she would enjoy it,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off,\" Osmond continued;\n\"and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you\nthink me so very proud?\" he suddenly asked.\n\n\"I think you very strange.\"\n\n\"You don't understand me.\"\n\n\"No, not even when you insult me.\"\n\n\"I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain\nfacts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine.\nIt's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own\nhands.\"\n\n\"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?\" Isabel asked. \"I'm very tired of\nhis name.\"\n\n\"You shall hear it again before we've done with it.\"\n\nShe had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that\nthis ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a\nfall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange,\ntoo different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid\npassion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in\nwhat light he saw himself justified. \"I might say to you that I judge\nyou've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing,\" she returned in a\nmoment. \"But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be\nworth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse\nme.\"\n\n\"Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words\nplain enough?\"\n\n\"On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when\nyou told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I\naccepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it.\"\n\n\"You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me\nmore willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get\nhim out of the way.\"\n\n\"I think I see what you mean,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Where's the letter you told me he had written me?\" her husband\ndemanded.\n\n\"I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him.\"\n\n\"You stopped it on the way,\" said Osmond.\n\nIsabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered\nher to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first\ncousin to that of pity. \"Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!\" she\nexclaimed in a long murmur.\n\n\"I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've\ngot him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've placed\nme in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has\ntried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed.\"\n\n\"Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"That has nothing to do with the matter.\"\n\n\"And he doesn't care for Pansy.\"\n\n\"That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this\nparticular satisfaction,\" Osmond continued; \"you might have taken some\nother. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have\ntaken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet.\nThe idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her\nbefore I ever thought of it. I left it all to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend\nto such things yourself.\"\n\nHe looked at her a moment; then he turned away. \"I thought you were very\nfond of my daughter.\"\n\n\"I've never been more so than to-day.\"\n\n\"Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that\nperhaps is natural.\"\n\n\"Is this all you wished to say to me?\" Isabel asked, taking a candle\nthat stood on one of the tables.\n\n\"Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?\"\n\n\"I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another\nopportunity to try to stupefy me.\"\n\n\"It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high.\"\n\n\"Poor little Pansy!\" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had\ncome to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton's\ndeparture. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some\nimportance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame\nMerle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor\nof a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's\nhappiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of\nwomen might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at\nnight, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her\nfriend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to\nher that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve.\nIsabel's imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but\nevery now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when\nthe charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness\nof respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar\nGoodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to\nher immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to\nIsabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he\nmight not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage,\nhad had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she remembered\nrightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then\nhe had been the most discordant survival of her earlier time--the only\none in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her\nthat morning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it was like\na collision between vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist,\nno hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer\nwide. He had bumped against her prow, however, while her hand was on the\ntiller, and--to complete the metaphor--had given the lighter vessel a\nstrain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It\nhad been horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm\nthat (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only\nperson with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she\ncouldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried\nwith rage, after he had left her, at--she hardly knew what: she tried to\nthink it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with\nhis unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had done his best\nto darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent,\nand yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a\nviolence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her\nown fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted\nthree or four days.\n\nThe effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the\nfirst year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a\nthankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think\nof a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do\nnothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to\ndoubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord\nWarburton's; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive,\nuncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could\nnever say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as\nshe was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith\nin Mr. Goodwood's compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton factory\nwas not a compensation for anything--least of all for having failed\nto marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what\nhe had--save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic\nenough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If\nhe extended his business--that, to the best of her belief, was the\nonly form exertion could take with him--it would be because it was an\nenterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because\nhe might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of\nbareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in memory\nor in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social\ndrapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of\nhuman contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never\nheard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this\nimpression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from\ntime to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston--her imagination was\nall bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had\nthought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had more\nthan once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband\nabout him--never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a\nreserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence\nin Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man's\ndisappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her,\nshe had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs\ncould have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come\nto the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that,\nconsidering his grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone.\nNevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him.\nIt was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him;\neven after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her\nthat particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had\nthe assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he\nhad become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to\nset herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel\nthat her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault.\nShe had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace\nwith the world--to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to\nher from time to time that there was an account still to be settled\nwith Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day\non terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was\ncoming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for\nhim than for any one else to make out--since he WOULD make it out, as\nover a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort--the intimate\ndisarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had\ninvested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only\na part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her\nstress. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he\nspent several days without coming to see her.\n\nHenrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and\nIsabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw\nherself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping\nher conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been\nsuperficial--the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather\nenriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been humorously\ncriticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still\nmarked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as\nkeen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her\nremarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had\nput up no shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her\nopinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite\nunchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had\nnever been vague; though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had\nmanaged to be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason for\neverything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when\nshe came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having\nalready seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn't for a moment pretend\nthat the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do\nwith her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her\nindependence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to\nit. \"It's nothing to come to Europe,\" she said to Isabel; \"it doesn't\nseem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay\nat home; this is much more important.\" It was not therefore with a sense\nof doing anything very important that she treated herself to another\npilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully\ninspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her\nknowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to\nbe there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a\nperfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after\nall a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so\nlittle. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the\nother's fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because\nshe had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but\nshe had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satisfactions just\nnow were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still\nhave been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified\nin having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large\nconcessions with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all\nabatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however,\nthat she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this\nconfidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not\nin the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point\nwith the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of\nbeing wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph,\nnor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.\n\n\"Yes, I'm wretched,\" she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say\nit; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.\n\n\"What does he do to you?\" Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were\nenquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.\n\n\"He does nothing. But he doesn't like me.\"\n\n\"He's very hard to please!\" cried Miss Stackpole. \"Why don't you leave\nhim?\"\n\n\"I can't change that way,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that you've made a\nmistake. You're too proud.\"\n\n\"I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my mistake. I\ndon't think that's decent. I'd much rather die.\"\n\n\"You won't think so always,\" said Henrietta.\n\n\"I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to\nme I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one's deeds. I married\nhim before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impossible to do\nanything more deliberate. One can't change that way,\" Isabel repeated.\n\n\"You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don't mean\nto say you like him.\"\n\nIsabel debated. \"No, I don't like him. I can tell you, because I'm weary\nof my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce it on the housetops.\"\n\nHenrietta gave a laugh. \"Don't you think you're rather too considerate?\"\n\n\"It's not of him that I'm considerate--it's of myself!\" Isabel answered.\n\nIt was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in\nMiss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to a\nyoung lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal\nroof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she\nwould leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered\nthat he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta\nthat as Osmond didn't like her she couldn't invite her to dine, but\nthey could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss\nStackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly to\ndrive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the\nopposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated authoress with a\nrespectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She\ncomplained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should\nremember everything one said. \"I don't want to be remembered that way,\"\nMiss Stackpole declared; \"I consider that my conversation refers only\nto the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits\nthere, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring\nthem out some day against me.\" She could not teach herself to think\nfavourably of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of\npersonal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even\nuncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a\nlittle the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her,\nso that he might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immediate\nacceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong--it being in\neffect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot\nenjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held\nto his credit, and yet he held to his objections--all of which were\nelements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that\nMiss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice,\nso that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she\nmight judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the\nmoment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was\nnothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself\noff. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife's\nfriends; he took occasion to call Isabel's attention to it.\n\n\"You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make\na new collection,\" he said to her one morning in reference to nothing\nvisible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived\nthe remark of all brutal abruptness. \"It's as if you had taken the\ntrouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common\nwith. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited ass--besides his\nbeing the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably\ntiresome that one can't tell him so; one must spare him on account of\nhis health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him\nprivileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's so desperately ill there's\nonly one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can't\nsay much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it,\nthe cool insolence of that performance was something rare! He comes and\nlooks at one's daughter as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries\nthe door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and\nalmost thinks he'll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a\nlease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he\ndoesn't think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a\npiano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month's lodging in the\npoor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most\nwonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn't\na nerve in one's body that she doesn't set quivering. You know I never\nhave admitted that she's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of\na new steel pen--the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel\npen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks\nand moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that\nshe doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see her, but I\nhear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can't get\nrid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone\nin which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give\nyou great comfort. I don't like at all to think she talks about me--I\nfeel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat.\"\n\nHenrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather\nless than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of\nwhich the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let\nher friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that\nshe was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what\ncomfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling\non her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of\nseeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight\nin front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time.\nIsabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must\nhave been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs.\nTouchett's door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed\njust as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour\nof his cravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a\nstrangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh\nto be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and\nmore overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached\nhigh enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back\nafter him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like\na February sky.\n\nMiss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the\nlatest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States\nthe year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him\nconsiderable attention. She didn't know how much he had enjoyed it, but\nshe would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn't the same man\nwhen he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his eyes and\nshown him that England wasn't everything. He had been very much liked in\nmost places, and thought extremely simple--more simple than the English\nwere commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him\naffected; she didn't know whether they meant that his simplicity was an\naffectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all\nthe chambermaids were farmers' daughters--or all the farmers' daughters\nwere chambermaids--she couldn't exactly remember which. He hadn't seemed\nable to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much\nfor him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of\neverything--as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had\nchosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed\nreally fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one\nhe had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest;\nhe wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled\ntogether from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting\ncities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted\nto know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of\ngeography--had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was\nperpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never\nto have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was\nunprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to\nconfess at last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent\nsome pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream\nfrom the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea--that you\ncould get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans,\nnor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite\noverwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was\nthe biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England,\nhunting--\"hunting round\" Henrietta called it. These amusements were\nthose of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the\npleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England\nthat we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in\nkeeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join\nher in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come\nover. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of\nthe ancient regime. They didn't agree about that, but that was what she\nliked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been\nswept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered\non the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking\nall round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the\nsubject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it\nnow; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was\ndetermined that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady\nPensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight.\nThe mystery about that other one had never been explained.\n\nCaspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel\na note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she would be\nat home at six o'clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what\nhe was coming for--what good he expected to get of it. He had presented\nhimself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise, who\nwould take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel's hospitality,\nhowever, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in\nappearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at\nleast that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had\nbeen misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not\ndisappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had\nnot come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he\nhad come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the\nvery simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come\nfor his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction with a good deal of\neagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the\nghost of this gentleman's ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome\nfor his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared\nfor amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his\nheartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were\nat an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but\nhe had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe\nhe was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence,\nthough he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light\nupon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general\ntopics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before,\n\"Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn't talk.\" He spoke a good\ndeal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is,\nhow much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated\nto simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't\nlike her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as\nhaving been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say\nof him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis\nexhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert;\nit was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday\nevenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband\nstill held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of not\ninviting them.\n\nTo the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early;\nhe appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every\nnow and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about\nhim; she thought he might know that she didn't know what to do with him.\nBut she couldn't call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was\nonly extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made a man very\ndifferent from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with\nHIM. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering\nherself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of\nwomen. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any\npersonal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed\nprobable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case\nhe had an irresistible need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of\nthis principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy\nto a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat\nwith coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry\nher, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would\nhave been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which\nwould strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper air.\nHe declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't easy at\nfirst, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the\ntop of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a\nlittle fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and\nhe gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that\nMr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished\nto; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being\ninaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to\ndinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even\ndesired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was\nvery original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English\nportmanteau,--he had plenty of straps and buckles which would never wear\nout, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the\nCampagna and devoted much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly\nin the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to\nhim one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And\nthen she added smiling:\n\n\"I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you.\"\n\n\"You're the person in the world who has most right,\" he answered. \"I've\ngiven you assurances that I've never given any one else.\"\n\nThe service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill\nat the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr.\nGoodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow\nwas; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt.\nCaspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not\nsupposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the\nplace of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the\nHotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of\nGardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular\nchange had in fact occurred in this lady's relations with Ralph\nTouchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on\nhearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her\nown motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit--always under\nthe conviction that they were great enemies. \"Oh yes, we're intimate\nenemies,\" Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely--as freely as the\nhumour of it would allow--of coming to worry him to death. In reality\nthey became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should\nnever have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had\nalways done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent\nfellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about\neverything, that is, but Isabel--a topic as to which Ralph always had\na thin forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved\na great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with\nHenrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their\ninevitable difference of view--Ralph having amused himself with taking\nthe ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli.\nCaspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after\nhe had been left alone with his host he found there were various other\nmatters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had\njust gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole's\nmerits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither,\nafter the first allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond--a\ntheme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very\nsorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant\nman, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done.\nThere was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in\nthis case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris.\nIt seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully\ndisposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she\nhad converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making\nhim travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather\nshould allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr.\nGoodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this,\nand she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a\nconstant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the\noccurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely\nentered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in\none of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the dark ivy would\ncluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel\nin these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past\nwas more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had\nspent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I\nsay, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster;\nfor several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The\nCountess Gemini arrived from Florence--arrived with her trunks, her\ndresses, her chatter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the\nunholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been\naway somewhere,--no one, not even Pansy, knew where,--reappeared in Rome\nand began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame\nMerle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: \"What\non earth did you do with Lord Warburton?\" As if it were any business of\nhers!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOne day, toward the end of February, Ralph Touchett made up his mind to\nreturn to England. He had his own reasons for this decision, which\nhe was not bound to communicate; but Henrietta Stackpole, to whom he\nmentioned his intention, flattered herself that she guessed them. She\nforbore to express them, however; she only said, after a moment, as she\nsat by his sofa: \"I suppose you know you can't go alone?\"\n\n\"I've no idea of doing that,\" Ralph answered. \"I shall have people with\nme.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'people'? Servants whom you pay?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Ralph jocosely, \"after all, they're human beings.\"\n\n\"Are there any women among them?\" Miss Stackpole desired to know.\n\n\"You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven't a soubrette in\nmy employment.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Henrietta calmly, \"you can't go to England that way. You\nmust have a woman's care.\"\n\n\"I've had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will last me a\ngood while.\"\n\n\"You've not had enough of it yet. I guess I'll go with you,\" said\nHenrietta.\n\n\"Go with me?\" Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa.\n\n\"Yes, I know you don't like me, but I'll go with you all the same. It\nwould be better for your health to lie down again.\"\n\nRalph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. \"I like you very\nmuch,\" he said in a moment.\n\nMiss Stackpole gave one of her infrequent laughs. \"You needn't think\nthat by saying that you can buy me off. I'll go with you, and what is\nmore I'll take care of you.\"\n\n\"You're a very good woman,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"Wait till I get you safely home before you say that. It won't be easy.\nBut you had better go, all the same.\"\n\nBefore she left him, Ralph said to her: \"Do you really mean to take care\nof me?\"\n\n\"Well, I mean to try.\"\n\n\"I notify you then that I submit. Oh, I submit!\" And it was perhaps a\nsign of submission that a few minutes after she had left him alone he\nburst into a loud fit of laughter. It seemed to him so inconsequent,\nsuch a conclusive proof of his having abdicated all functions and\nrenounced all exercise, that he should start on a journey across Europe\nunder the supervision of Miss Stackpole. And the great oddity was that\nthe prospect pleased him; he was gratefully, luxuriously passive. He\nfelt even impatient to start; and indeed he had an immense longing to\nsee his own house again. The end of everything was at hand; it seemed\nto him he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But he wanted to\ndie at home; it was the only wish he had left--to extend himself in the\nlarge quiet room where he had last seen his father lie, and close his\neyes upon the summer dawn.\n\nThat same day Caspar Goodwood came to see him, and he informed his\nvisitor that Miss Stackpole had taken him up and was to conduct him back\nto England. \"Ah then,\" said Caspar, \"I'm afraid I shall be a fifth wheel\nto the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with you.\"\n\n\"Good heavens--it's the golden age! You're all too kind.\"\n\n\"The kindness on my part is to her; it's hardly to you.\"\n\n\"Granting that, SHE'S kind,\" smiled Ralph.\n\n\"To get people to go with you? Yes, that's a sort of kindness,\" Goodwood\nanswered without lending himself to the joke. \"For myself, however,\" he\nadded, \"I'll go so far as to say that I would much rather travel with\nyou and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone.\"\n\n\"And you'd rather stay here than do either,\" said Ralph. \"There's really\nno need of your coming. Henrietta's extraordinarily efficient.\"\n\n\"I'm sure of that. But I've promised Mrs. Osmond.\"\n\n\"You can easily get her to let you off.\"\n\n\"She wouldn't let me off for the world. She wants me to look after you,\nbut that isn't the principal thing. The principal thing is that she\nwants me to leave Rome.\"\n\n\"Ah, you see too much in it,\" Ralph suggested.\n\n\"I bore her,\" Goodwood went on; \"she has nothing to say to me, so she\ninvented that.\"\n\n\"Oh then, if it's a convenience to her I certainly will take you with\nme. Though I don't see why it should be a convenience,\" Ralph added in a\nmoment.\n\n\"Well,\" said Caspar Goodwood simply, \"she thinks I'm watching her.\"\n\n\"Watching her?\"\n\n\"Trying to make out if she's happy.\"\n\n\"That's easy to make out,\" said Ralph. \"She's the most visibly happy\nwoman I know.\"\n\n\"Exactly so; I'm satisfied,\" Goodwood answered dryly. For all his\ndryness, however, he had more to say. \"I've been watching her; I was\nan old friend and it seemed to me I had the right. She pretends to be\nhappy; that was what she undertook to be; and I thought I should like to\nsee for myself what it amounts to. I've seen,\" he continued with a harsh\nring in his voice, \"and I don't want to see any more. I'm now quite\nready to go.\"\n\n\"Do you know it strikes me as about time you should?\" Ralph rejoined.\nAnd this was the only conversation these gentlemen had about Isabel\nOsmond.\n\nHenrietta made her preparations for departure, and among them she found\nit proper to say a few words to the Countess Gemini, who returned at\nMiss Stackpole's pension the visit which this lady had paid her in\nFlorence.\n\n\"You were very wrong about Lord Warburton,\" she remarked to the\nCountess. \"I think it right you should know that.\"\n\n\"About his making love to Isabel? My poor lady, he was at her house\nthree times a day. He has left traces of his passage!\" the Countess\ncried.\n\n\"He wished to marry your niece; that's why he came to the house.\"\n\nThe Countess stared, and then with an inconsiderate laugh: \"Is that the\nstory that Isabel tells? It isn't bad, as such things go. If he wishes\nto marry my niece, pray why doesn't he do it? Perhaps he has gone to buy\nthe wedding-ring and will come back with it next month, after I'm gone.\"\n\n\"No, he'll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn't wish to marry him.\"\n\n\"She's very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel, but I didn't\nknow she carried it so far.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you,\" said Henrietta coldly, and reflecting that\nthe Countess was unpleasantly perverse. \"I really must stick to my\npoint--that Isabel never encouraged the attentions of Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All we know is that my\nbrother's capable of everything.\"\n\n\"I don't know what your brother's capable of,\" said Henrietta with\ndignity.\n\n\"It's not her encouraging Warburton that I complain of; it's her sending\nhim away. I want particularly to see him. Do you suppose she thought\nI would make him faithless?\" the Countess continued with audacious\ninsistence. \"However, she's only keeping him, one can feel that. The\nhouse is full of him there; he's quite in the air. Oh yes, he has left\ntraces; I'm sure I shall see him yet.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Henrietta after a little, with one of those inspirations\nwhich had made the fortune of her letters to the Interviewer, \"perhaps\nhe'll be more successful with you than with Isabel!\"\n\nWhen she told her friend of the offer she had made Ralph Isabel replied\nthat she could have done nothing that would have pleased her more. It\nhad always been her faith that at bottom Ralph and this young woman were\nmade to understand each other. \"I don't care whether he understands me\nor not,\" Henrietta declared. \"The great thing is that he shouldn't die\nin the cars.\"\n\n\"He won't do that,\" Isabel said, shaking her head with an extension of\nfaith.\n\n\"He won't if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I don't know\nwhat you want to do.\"\n\n\"I want to be alone,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You won't be that so long as you've so much company at home.\"\n\n\"Ah, they're part of the comedy. You others are spectators.\"\n\n\"Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?\" Henrietta rather grimly asked.\n\n\"The tragedy then if you like. You're all looking at me; it makes me\nuncomfortable.\"\n\nHenrietta engaged in this act for a while. \"You're like the stricken\ndeer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense of\nhelplessness!\" she broke out.\n\n\"I'm not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do.\"\n\n\"It's not you I'm speaking of; it's myself. It's too much, having come\non purpose, to leave you just as I find you.\"\n\n\"You don't do that; you leave me much refreshed,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"Very mild refreshment--sour lemonade! I want you to promise me\nsomething.\"\n\n\"I can't do that. I shall never make another promise. I made such a\nsolemn one four years ago, and I've succeeded so ill in keeping it.\"\n\n\"You've had no encouragement. In this case I should give you the\ngreatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes; that's what I want\nyou to promise.\"\n\n\"The worst? What do you call the worst?\"\n\n\"Before your character gets spoiled.\"\n\n\"Do you mean my disposition? It won't get spoiled,\" Isabel answered,\nsmiling. \"I'm taking very good care of it. I'm extremely struck,\" she\nadded, turning away, \"with the off-hand way in which you speak of a\nwoman's leaving her husband. It's easy to see you've never had one!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Henrietta as if she were beginning an argument, \"nothing is\nmore common in our Western cities, and it's to them, after all, that we\nmust look in the future.\" Her argument, however, does not concern this\nhistory, which has too many other threads to unwind. She announced to\nRalph Touchett that she was ready to leave Rome by any train he might\ndesignate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself together for departure.\nIsabel went to see him at the last, and he made the same remark that\nHenrietta had made. It struck him that Isabel was uncommonly glad to get\nrid of them all.\n\nFor all answer to this she gently laid her hand on his, and said in a\nlow tone, with a quick smile: \"My dear Ralph--!\"\n\nIt was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he went on in the\nsame way, jocosely, ingenuously: \"I've seen less of you than I might,\nbut it's better than nothing. And then I've heard a great deal about\nyou.\"\n\n\"I don't know from whom, leading the life you've done.\"\n\n\"From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never let other\npeople speak of you. They always say you're 'charming,' and that's so\nflat.\"\n\n\"I might have seen more of you certainly,\" Isabel said. \"But when one's\nmarried one has so much occupation.\"\n\n\"Fortunately I'm not married. When you come to see me in England I\nshall be able to entertain you with all the freedom of a bachelor.\" He\ncontinued to talk as if they should certainly meet again, and succeeded\nin making the assumption appear almost just. He made no allusion to\nhis term being near, to the probability that he should not outlast the\nsummer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality\nwas sufficiently distinct without their erecting finger-posts in\nconversation. That had been well enough for the earlier time, though\nabout this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had never been egotistic.\nIsabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into which he should\ndivide it, of the precautions he should take. \"Henrietta's my greatest\nprecaution,\" he went on. \"The conscience of that woman's sublime.\"\n\n\"Certainly she'll be very conscientious.\"\n\n\"Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her duty that\nshe goes with me. There's a conception of duty for you.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's a generous one,\" said Isabel, \"and it makes me deeply\nashamed. I ought to go with you, you know.\"\n\n\"Your husband wouldn't like that.\"\n\n\"No, he wouldn't like it. But I might go, all the same.\"\n\n\"I'm startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being a\ncause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!\"\n\n\"That's why I don't go,\" said Isabel simply--yet not very lucidly.\n\nRalph understood well enough, however. \"I should think so, with all\nthose occupations you speak of.\"\n\n\"It isn't that. I'm afraid,\" said Isabel. After a pause she repeated, as\nif to make herself, rather than him, hear the words: \"I'm afraid.\"\n\nRalph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangely\ndeliberate--apparently so void of emotion. Did she wish to do public\npenance for a fault of which she had not been convicted? or were her\nwords simply an attempt at enlightened self-analysis? However this\nmight be, Ralph could not resist so easy an opportunity. \"Afraid of your\nhusband?\"\n\n\"Afraid of myself!\" she said, getting up. She stood there a moment and\nthen added: \"If I were afraid of my husband that would be simply my\nduty. That's what women are expected to be.\"\n\n\"Ah yes,\" laughed Ralph; \"but to make up for it there's always some man\nawfully afraid of some woman!\"\n\nShe gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a different\nturn. \"With Henrietta at the head of your little band,\" she exclaimed\nabruptly, \"there will be nothing left for Mr. Goodwood!\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear Isabel,\" Ralph answered, \"he's used to that. There is\nnothing left for Mr. Goodwood.\"\n\nShe coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leave him. They\nstood together a moment; both her hands were in both of his. \"You've\nbeen my best friend,\" she said.\n\n\"It was for you that I wanted--that I wanted to live. But I'm of no use\nto you.\"\n\nThen it came over her more poignantly that she should not see him again.\nShe could not accept that; she could not part with him that way. \"If you\nshould send for me I'd come,\" she said at last.\n\n\"Your husband won't consent to that.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I can arrange it.\"\n\n\"I shall keep that for my last pleasure!\" said Ralph.\n\nIn answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday, and that\nevening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roccanera. He was among the\nfirst to arrive, and he spent some time in conversation with Gilbert\nOsmond, who almost always was present when his wife received. They sat\ndown together, and Osmond, talkative, communicative, expansive, seemed\npossessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety. He leaned back with his\nlegs crossed, lounging and chatting, while Goodwood, more restless, but\nnot at all lively, shifted his position, played with his hat, made the\nlittle sofa creak beneath him. Osmond's face wore a sharp, aggressive\nsmile; he was as a man whose perceptions have been quickened by good\nnews. He remarked to Goodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him;\nhe himself should particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligent\nmen--they were surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sure to come\nback; there was something very refreshing, to an inveterate Italian like\nhimself, in talking with a genuine outsider.\n\n\"I'm very fond of Rome, you know,\" Osmond said; \"but there's nothing\nI like better than to meet people who haven't that superstition. The\nmodern world's after all very fine. Now you're thoroughly modern and yet\nare not at all common. So many of the moderns we see are such very poor\nstuff. If they're the children of the future we're willing to die young.\nOf course the ancients too are often very tiresome. My wife and I like\neverything that's really new--not the mere pretence of it. There's\nnothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity. We see plenty\nof that in forms that offer themselves as a revelation of progress, of\nlight. A revelation of vulgarity! There's a certain kind of vulgarity\nwhich I believe is really new; I don't think there ever was anything\nlike it before. Indeed I don't find vulgarity, at all, before the\npresent century. You see a faint menace of it here and there in the\nlast, but to-day the air has grown so dense that delicate things\nare literally not recognised. Now, we've liked you--!\" With which\nhe hesitated a moment, laying his hand gently on Goodwood's knee and\nsmiling with a mixture of assurance and embarrassment. \"I'm going to say\nsomething extremely offensive and patronising, but you must let me\nhave the satisfaction of it. We've liked you because--because you've\nreconciled us a little to the future. If there are to be a certain\nnumber of people like you--a la bonne heure! I'm talking for my wife as\nwell as for myself, you see. She speaks for me, my wife; why shouldn't\nI speak for her? We're as united, you know, as the candlestick and the\nsnuffers. Am I assuming too much when I say that I think I've understood\nfrom you that your occupations have been--a--commercial? There's a\ndanger in that, you know; but it's the way you have escaped that\nstrikes us. Excuse me if my little compliment seems in execrable taste;\nfortunately my wife doesn't hear me. What I mean is that you might have\nbeen--a--what I was mentioning just now. The whole American world was\nin a conspiracy to make you so. But you resisted, you've something about\nyou that saved you. And yet you're so modern, so modern; the most modern\nman we know! We shall always be delighted to see you again.\"\n\nI have said that Osmond was in good humour, and these remarks will give\nample evidence of the fact. They were infinitely more personal than he\nusually cared to be, and if Caspar Goodwood had attended to them more\nclosely he might have thought that the defence of delicacy was in rather\nodd hands. We may believe, however, that Osmond knew very well what\nhe was about, and that if he chose to use the tone of patronage with a\ngrossness not in his habits he had an excellent reason for the escapade.\nGoodwood had only a vague sense that he was laying it on somehow; he\nscarcely knew where the mixture was applied. Indeed he scarcely knew\nwhat Osmond was talking about; he wanted to be alone with Isabel, and\nthat idea spoke louder to him than her husband's perfectly-pitched\nvoice. He watched her talking with other people and wondered when she\nwould be at liberty and whether he might ask her to go into one of the\nother rooms. His humour was not, like Osmond's, of the best; there was\nan element of dull rage in his consciousness of things. Up to this time\nhe had not disliked Osmond personally; he had only thought him very\nwell-informed and obliging and more than he had supposed like the person\nwhom Isabel Archer would naturally marry. His host had won in the open\nfield a great advantage over him, and Goodwood had too strong a sense\nof fair play to have been moved to underrate him on that account. He\nhad not tried positively to think well of him; this was a flight of\nsentimental benevolence of which, even in the days when he came\nnearest to reconciling himself to what had happened, Goodwood was\nquite incapable. He accepted him as rather a brilliant personage of the\namateurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which it amused\nhim to work off in little refinements of conversation. But he only half\ntrusted him; he could never make out why the deuce Osmond should lavish\nrefinements of any sort upon HIM. It made him suspect that he found some\nprivate entertainment in it, and it ministered to a general impression\nthat his triumphant rival had in his composition a streak of perversity.\nHe knew indeed that Osmond could have no reason to wish him evil; he\nhad nothing to fear from him. He had carried off a supreme advantage and\ncould afford to be kind to a man who had lost everything. It was true\nthat Goodwood had at times grimly wished he were dead and would have\nliked to kill him; but Osmond had no means of knowing this, for practice\nhad made the younger man perfect in the art of appearing inaccessible\nto-day to any violent emotion. He cultivated this art in order to\ndeceive himself, but it was others that he deceived first. He cultivated\nit, moreover, with very limited success; of which there could be no\nbetter proof than the deep, dumb irritation that reigned in his\nsoul when he heard Osmond speak of his wife's feelings as if he were\ncommissioned to answer for them.\n\nThat was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him this\nevening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point even\nthan usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at Palazzo\nRoccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if he and his\nwife had all things in sweet community and it were as natural to each\nof them to say \"we\" as to say \"I\". In all this there was an air of\nintention that had puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who could\nonly reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond's relations with her\nhusband were none of his business. He had no proof whatever that her\nhusband misrepresented her, and if he judged her by the surface of\nthings was bound to believe that she liked her life. She had never given\nhim the faintest sign of discontent. Miss Stackpole had told him that\nshe had lost her illusions, but writing for the papers had made Miss\nStackpole sensational. She was too fond of early news. Moreover, since\nher arrival in Rome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty well\nceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be said for\nher, would have been quite against her conscience. She had now seen\nthe reality of Isabel's situation, and it had inspired her with a just\nreserve. Whatever could be done to improve it the most useful form of\nassistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of her\nwrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the state\nof Mr. Goodwood's feelings, but she showed it at present only by sending\nhim choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals, of\nwhich she received several by every post and which she always perused\nwith a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placed\nin an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her own\nhand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about Isabel: hadn't\nhe come five thousand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in the\nleast authorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absence of\nauthorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to the harsh-ness\nwith which, in spite of his theory that he had ceased to care, he now\nrecognised that, so far as she was concerned, the future had nothing\nmore for him. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth;\napparently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she WERE\nunhappy. He was hopeless, helpless, useless. To this last character\nshe had called his attention by her ingenious plan for making him\nleave Rome. He had no objection whatever to doing what he could for\nher cousin, but it made him grind his teeth to think that of all the\nservices she might have asked of him this was the one she had been eager\nto select. There had been no danger of her choosing one that would have\nkept him in Rome.\n\nTo-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to leave her\nto-morrow and that he had gained nothing by coming but the knowledge\nthat he was as little wanted as ever. About herself he had gained no\nknowledge; she was imperturbable, inscrutable, impenetrable. He felt the\nold bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow, rise again in his\nthroat, and he knew there are disappointments that last as long as life.\nOsmond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely aware that he was touching\nagain upon his perfect intimacy with his wife. It seemed to him for a\nmoment that the man had a kind of demonic imagination; it was impossible\nthat without malice he should have selected so unusual a topic. But what\ndid it matter, after all, whether he were demonic or not, and whether\nshe loved him or hated him? She might hate him to the death without\none's gaining a straw one's self. \"You travel, by the by, with Ralph\nTouchett,\" Osmond said. \"I suppose that means you'll move slowly?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I shall do just as he likes.\"\n\n\"You're very accommodating. We're immensely obliged to you; you must\nreally let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what we\nfeel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more than\nonce as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it's\nworse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel; it's a kind\nof indelicacy. I wouldn't for the world be under such an obligation to\nTouchett as he has been to--to my wife and me. Other people inevitably\nhave to look after him, and every one isn't so generous as you.\"\n\n\"I've nothing else to do,\" Caspar said dryly.\n\nOsmond looked at him a moment askance. \"You ought to marry, and then\nyou'd have plenty to do! It's true that in that case you wouldn't be\nquite so available for deeds of mercy.\"\n\n\"Do you find that as a married man you're so much occupied?\" the young\nman mechanically asked.\n\n\"Ah, you see, being married's in itself an occupation. It isn't always\nactive; it's often passive; but that takes even more attention. Then my\nwife and I do so many things together. We read, we study, we make music,\nwe walk, we drive--we talk even, as when we first knew each other. I\ndelight, to this hour, in my wife's conversation. If you're ever bored\ntake my advice and get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in that\ncase; but you'll never bore yourself. You'll always have something to\nsay to yourself--always have a subject of reflection.\"\n\n\"I'm not bored,\" said Goodwood. \"I've plenty to think about and to say\nto myself.\"\n\n\"More than to say to others!\" Osmond exclaimed with a light laugh.\n\"Where shall you go next? I mean after you've consigned Touchett to his\nnatural caretakers--I believe his mother's at last coming back to look\nafter him. That little lady's superb; she neglects her duties with a\nfinish--! Perhaps you'll spend the summer in England?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I've no plans.\"\n\n\"Happy man! That's a little bleak, but it's very free.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I'm very free.\"\n\n\"Free to come back to Rome I hope,\" said Osmond as he saw a group of\nnew visitors enter the room. \"Remember that when you do come we count on\nyou!\"\n\nGoodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed without\nhis having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of several\nassociated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracy\nwith which she avoided him; his unquenchable rancour discovered an\nintention where there was certainly no appearance of one. There was\nabsolutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes with her clear\nhospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he would come and help\nher to entertain some of her visitors. To such suggestions, however, he\nopposed but a stiff impatience. He wandered about and waited; he talked\nto the few people he knew, who found him for the first time rather\nself-contradictory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though he\noften contradicted others. There was often music at Palazzo Roccanera,\nand it was usually very good. Under cover of the music he managed to\ncontain himself; but toward the end, when he saw the people beginning to\ngo, he drew near to Isabel and asked her in a low tone if he might\nnot speak to her in one of the other rooms, which he had just assured\nhimself was empty. She smiled as if she wished to oblige him but found\nher self absolutely prevented. \"I'm afraid it's impossible. People are\nsaying good-night, and I must be where they can see me.\"\n\n\"I shall wait till they are all gone then.\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment. \"Ah, that will be delightful!\" she exclaimed.\n\nAnd he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were several\npeople, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The Countess\nGemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed no\nconsciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a little\ncircle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and then broke\ninto a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared--he never bade good-bye to\npeople; and as the Countess was extending her range, according to her\ncustom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy to bed.\nIsabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish her sister-in-law\nwould sound a lower note and let the last loiterers depart in peace.\n\n\"May I not say a word to you now?\" Goodwood presently asked her. She\ngot up immediately, smiling. \"Certainly, we'll go somewhere else if you\nlike.\" They went together, leaving the Countess with her little circle,\nand for a moment after they had crossed the threshold neither of them\nspoke. Isabel would not sit down; she stood in the middle of the room\nslowly fanning herself; she had for him the same familiar grace. She\nseemed to wait for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her all the\npassion he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his\neyes and made things swim round him. The bright, empty room grew dim and\nblurred, and through the heaving veil he felt her hover before him with\ngleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would\nhave perceived her smile was fixed and a trifle forced--that she was\nfrightened at what she saw in his own face. \"I suppose you wish to bid\nme goodbye?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes--but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome,\" he answered with\nalmost plaintive honesty.\n\n\"I can well imagine. It's wonderfully good of you. I can't tell you how\nkind I think you.\"\n\nFor a moment more he said nothing. \"With a few words like that you make\nme go.\"\n\n\"You must come back some day,\" she brightly returned.\n\n\"Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible.\"\n\n\"Oh no; I don't mean all that.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? I don't understand! But I said I'd go, and I'll go,\"\nGoodwood added.\n\n\"Come back whenever you like,\" said Isabel with attempted lightness.\n\n\"I don't care a straw for your cousin!\" Caspar broke out.\n\n\"Is that what you wished to tell me?\"\n\n\"No, no; I didn't want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask you--\" he\npaused a moment, and then--\"what have you really made of your life?\" he\nsaid, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; but\nshe said nothing, and he went on: \"I can't understand, I can't penetrate\nyou! What am I to believe--what do you want me to think?\" Still she said\nnothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending to\nease. \"I'm told you're unhappy, and if you are I should like to know it.\nThat would be something for me. But you yourself say you're happy, and\nyou're somehow so still, so smooth, so hard. You're completely changed.\nYou conceal everything; I haven't really come near you.\"\n\n\"You come very near,\" Isabel said gently, but in a tone of warning.\n\n\"And yet I don't touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you done\nwell?\"\n\n\"You ask a great deal.\"\n\n\"Yes--I've always asked a great deal. Of course you won't tell me. I\nshall never know if you can help it. And then it's none of my business.\"\nHe had spoken with a visible effort to control himself, to give a\nconsiderate form to an inconsiderate state of mind. But the sense that\nit was his last chance, that he loved her and had lost her, that she\nwould think him a fool whatever he should say, suddenly gave him a\nlash and added a deep vibration to his low voice. \"You're perfectly\ninscrutable, and that's what makes me think you've something to hide. I\ntell you I don't care a straw for your cousin, but I don't mean that I\ndon't like him. I mean that it isn't because I like him that I go away\nwith him. I'd go if he were an idiot and you should have asked me. If\nyou should ask me I'd go to Siberia tomorrow. Why do you want me to\nleave the place? You must have some reason for that; if you were as\ncontented as you pretend you are you wouldn't care. I'd rather know the\ntruth about you, even if it's damnable, than have come here for nothing.\nThat isn't what I came for. I thought I shouldn't care. I came because I\nwanted to assure myself that I needn't think of you any more. I haven't\nthought of anything else, and you're quite right to wish me to go away.\nBut if I must go, there's no harm in my letting myself out for a single\nmoment, is there? If you're really hurt--if HE hurts you--nothing I say\nwill hurt you. When I tell you I love you it's simply what I came for. I\nthought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn't\nsay it if I didn't believe I should never see you again. It's the last\ntime--let me pluck a single flower! I've no right to say that, I know;\nand you've no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never listen,\nyou're always thinking of something else. After this I must go, of\ncourse; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason,\nnot a real one. I can't judge by your husband,\" he went on irrelevantly,\nalmost incoherently; \"I don't understand him; he tells me you adore each\nother. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I say\nthat to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you've\nsomething to hide. It's none of my business--very true. But I love you,\"\nsaid Caspar Goodwood.\n\nAs he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by which\nthey had entered and raised her fan as if in warning.\n\n\"You've behaved so well; don't spoil it,\" she uttered softly.\n\n\"No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I\nlove you as I've never loved you.\"\n\n\"I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go.\"\n\n\"You can't help it--of course not. You would if you could, but\nyou can't, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I ask\nnothing--nothing, that is, I shouldn't. But I do ask one sole\nsatisfaction:--that you tell me--that you tell me--!\"\n\n\"That I tell you what?\"\n\n\"Whether I may pity you.\"\n\n\"Should you like that?\" Isabel asked, trying to smile again.\n\n\"To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something.\nI'd give my life to it.\"\n\nShe raised her fan to her face, which it covered all except her eyes.\nThey rested a moment on his. \"Don't give your life to it; but give a\nthought to it every now and then.\" And with that she went back to the\nCountess Gemini.\n\n\n\n\n\nMadame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the\nevening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents,\nand Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it.\nThings had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability,\nand to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been\nmentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord\nWarburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel\n(whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first\nutterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman,\nfor whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable.\n\n\"Please don't talk of him,\" said Isabel for answer; \"we've heard so much\nof him of late.\"\n\nMadame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and\nsmiled at the left corner of her mouth. \"You've heard, yes. But you must\nremember that I've not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be\nable to congratulate Pansy.\"\n\n\"You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton.\"\n\n\"How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?\" Madame\nMerle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation\nof good-humour.\n\nIsabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too.\n\"You shouldn't have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to\nwatch the affair.\"\n\n\"I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it's too late?\"\n\n\"You had better ask Pansy,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I shall ask her what you've said to her.\"\n\nThese words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused\non Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a\ncritical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto;\nshe had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling.\nBut apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since\nshe now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation\nwhich even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had\nsuffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise--our heroine\nhaving no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy's marriage; and\nshe betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond's alarm. More\nclearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from\nshe knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare\nthat this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of\nthe practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her\ndestiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her\nnearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The\nsense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened\nto be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own\nhusband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet\ntaken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a\ndifferent eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention\nin her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes,\nthere had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to\nherself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was\nit that brought home to her that Madame Merle's intention had not been\ngood? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which\nmarried itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor's\nchallenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge\nwhich had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless\nvitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend's\nprofessions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to\ninterfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere\nwith. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in\ncasting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several\nyears of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a\nstrange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle's interest was\nidentical with Osmond's: that was enough. \"I think Pansy will tell\nyou nothing that will make you more angry,\" she said in answer to her\ncompanion's last remark.\n\n\"I'm not in the least angry. I've only a great desire to retrieve the\nsituation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over; please let it\nrest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I've nothing\nmore to say or to hear. I've no doubt,\" Isabel added, \"that he'll be\nvery happy to discuss the subject with you.\"\n\n\"I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening.\"\n\n\"As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn't\napply to me for information.\"\n\n\"It isn't information I want. At bottom it's sympathy. I had set my\nheart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do--it satisfied\nthe imagination.\"\n\n\"Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned.\"\n\n\"You mean by that of course that I'm not concerned. Of course not\ndirectly. But when one's such an old friend one can't help having\nsomething at stake. You forget how long I've known Pansy. You mean,\nof course,\" Madame Merle added, \"that YOU are one of the persons\nconcerned.\"\n\n\"No; that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all.\"\n\nMadame Merle hesitated a little. \"Ah yes, your work's done.\"\n\n\"Take care what you say,\" said Isabel very gravely.\n\n\"Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your\nhusband judges you severely.\"\n\nIsabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with\nbitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's informing her\nthat Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his wife\nthat struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that this was\nmeant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent, and only\nwhen it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at least it was not\nright yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an\nopen wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his words as\nwell as in his thoughts. \"Should you like to know how I judge HIM?\" she\nasked at last.\n\n\"No, because you'd never tell me. And it would be painful for me to\nknow.\"\n\nThere was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her Isabel\nthought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave her.\n\"Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don't despair,\" she said\nabruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.\n\nBut Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only\ngathered her mantle about her and, with the movement, scattered upon the\nair a faint, agreeable fragrance. \"I don't despair; I feel encouraged.\nAnd I didn't come to scold you; I came if possible to learn the truth. I\nknow you'll tell it if I ask you. It's an immense blessing with you that\none can count upon that. No, you won't believe what a comfort I take in\nit.\"\n\n\"What truth do you speak of?\" Isabel asked, wondering.\n\n\"Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own\nmovement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or to\nplease you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in spite\nof having lost a little of it,\" Madame Merle continued with a smile, \"to\nask such a question as that!\" She sat looking at her friend, to judge\nthe effect of her words, and then went on: \"Now don't be heroic, don't\nbe unreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to me I do you an honour\nin speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom I would do it. I\nhaven't the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And\ndon't you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It's\ntrue that he doesn't appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to\nextract it; he has indulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn't\nalter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his\ndaughter's prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord\nWarburton simply got tired of the poor child, that's one thing, and it's\na pity. If he gave her up to please you it's another. That's a pity too,\nbut in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you'd perhaps resign\nyourself to not being pleased--to simply seeing your step-daughter\nmarried. Let him off--let us have him!\"\n\nMadame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion and\napparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on Isabel grew\npale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her\nvisitor had at last thought it the right time to be insolent; for this\nwas not what was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. \"Who\nare you--what are you?\" Isabel murmured. \"What have you to do with my\nhusband?\" It was strange that for the moment she drew as near to him as\nif she had loved him.\n\n\"Ah then, you take it heroically! I'm very sorry. Don't think, however,\nthat I shall do so.\"\n\n\"What have you to do with me?\" Isabel went on.\n\nMadame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes\nfrom Isabel's face. \"Everything!\" she answered.\n\nIsabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was almost\na prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman's eyes seemed\nonly a darkness. \"Oh misery!\" she murmured at last; and she fell\nback, covering her face with her hands. It had come over her like a\nhigh-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married\nher. Before she uncovered her face again that lady had left the room.\n\nIsabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away,\nunder the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread\nupon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her\nconfidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a\nless unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that\nhad crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her\nsecret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern\nquality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a\nsun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldy church to which\nno one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness.\nSmall it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the\ncontinuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the\ngreater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it\ninterfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it\nchiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to\nher in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from\npagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the\nmusty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was\nno gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of\nworshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could\nnot have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor\nhave been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy,\nas we know, was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess\nGemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage;\nbut she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her\nmood and where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several\nresorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low\nparapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold front\nof Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at the\nfar-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain,\nbetween, which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After\nthe departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than\nusual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine to the\nother. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch\nof a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind,\nrolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to\ntangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where\nthe fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the\nflower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and\ngazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness\nof the scene--at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft\nconfusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the\nhills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush.\n\nOn the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a resolution\nnot to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved vain, and this\nlady's image hovered constantly before her. She asked herself, with an\nalmost childlike horror of the supposition, whether to this intimate\nfriend of several years the great historical epithet of wicked were\nto be applied. She knew the idea only by the Bible and other literary\nworks; to the best of her belief she had had no personal acquaintance\nwith wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life,\nand in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with\nsome success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it\nwas not wicked--in the historic sense--to be even deeply false; for that\nwas what Madame Merle had been--deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt\nLydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her\nniece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much\nricher view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own\ncareer and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor\nstiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted;\nshe had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which\ncould not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much\nhave desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making\npassion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great\nartist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of\nmarriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage\nbut had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain,\nand Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her\nnaturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was\nimperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed\nto like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly\naffectionate after Mr. Touchett's death and after learning that her\nyoung friend had been subject to the good old man's charity. She had\nfound her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in\nthe more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young\nwoman's fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her\nclosest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert\noccupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with\nthe conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the\nleast sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money.\nStrange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought\na good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular\ninjury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying\nto herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman\nfor her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least\nhe should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted her\nmoney, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money and let\nher go. Ah, if Mr. Touchett's great charity would but help her to-day it\nwould be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame\nMerle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the\nboon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in\nregard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they\nhave found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a singular, but\na characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive\nshe had broken its silence by the soft exclamation: \"Poor, poor Madame\nMerle!\"\n\nHer compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same\nafternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of\ntime-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the\nlady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which\nwe once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that\napartment, towards six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his\nhostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion\ncommemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to\nits apparent as to its real importance.\n\n\"I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it,\" said Madame\nMerle.\n\n\"Did I say I was unhappy?\" Osmond asked with a face grave enough to\nsuggest that he might have been.\n\n\"No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude.\"\n\n\"Don't talk about gratitude,\" he returned dryly. \"And don't aggravate\nme,\" he added in a moment.\n\nMadame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white\nhands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were,\nto the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad. \"On\nyour side, don't try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess some of my\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"I trouble about them no more than I can help. I've quite enough of my\nown.\"\n\n\"That's because they're so delightful.\"\n\nOsmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at\nhis companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an\nexpression of fatigue. \"You do aggravate me,\" he remarked in a moment.\n\"I'm very tired.\"\n\n\"Eh moi donc!\" cried Madame Merle.\n\n\"With you it's because you fatigue yourself. With me it's not my own\nfault.\"\n\n\"When I fatigue myself it's for you. I've given you an interest. That's\na great gift.\"\n\n\"Do you call it an interest?\" Osmond enquired with detachment.\n\n\"Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time.\"\n\n\"The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter.\"\n\n\"You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable, so\nbrilliant.\"\n\n\"Damn my brilliancy!\" he thoughtfully murmured. \"How little, after all,\nyou know me!\"\n\n\"If I don't know you I know nothing,\" smiled Madame Merle. \"You've the\nfeeling of complete success.\"\n\n\"No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me.\"\n\n\"I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express\nyourself more too.\"\n\nOsmond just hung fire. \"I wish you'd express yourself less!\"\n\n\"You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've never been a\nchatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like to\nsay to you first. Your wife doesn't know what to do with herself,\" she\nwent on with a change of tone.\n\n\"Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means\nto carry out her ideas.\"\n\n\"Her ideas to-day must be remarkable.\"\n\n\"Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever.\"\n\n\"She was unable to show me any this morning,\" said Madame Merle. \"She\nseemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She was\ncompletely bewildered.\"\n\n\"You had better say at once that she was pathetic.\"\n\n\"Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much.\"\n\nHe still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one\nfoot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. \"I should like to\nknow what's the matter with you,\" he said at last.\n\n\"The matter--the matter--!\" And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she went\non with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a\nclear sky: \"The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to\nweep, and that I can't!\"\n\n\"What good would it do you to weep?\"\n\n\"It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you.\"\n\n\"If I've dried your tears, that's something. But I've seen you shed\nthem.\"\n\n\"Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like a\nwolf. I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that. I was vile this\nmorning; I was horrid,\" she said.\n\n\"If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably\ndidn't perceive it,\" Osmond answered.\n\n\"It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn't help it; I\nwas full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I don't know.\nYou've not only dried up my tears; you've dried up my soul.\"\n\n\"It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition,\" Osmond\nsaid. \"It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your\ninfluence upon her. Don't you know the soul is an immortal principle?\nHow can it suffer alteration?\"\n\n\"I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle. I believe it\ncan perfectly be destroyed. That's what has happened to mine, which\nwas a very good one to start with; and it's you I have to thank for it.\nYou're VERY bad,\" she added with gravity in her emphasis.\n\n\"Is this the way we're to end?\" Osmond asked with the same studied\ncoldness.\n\n\"I don't know how we're to end. I wish I did--How do bad people\nend?--especially as to their COMMON crimes. You have made me as bad as\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good enough,\" said Osmond,\nhis conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words.\n\nMadame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and\nshe was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had the\npleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turners sombre; her smile\nbetrayed a painful effort. \"Good enough for anything that I've done with\nmyself? I suppose that's what you mean.\"\n\n\"Good enough to be always charming!\" Osmond exclaimed, smiling too.\n\n\"Oh God!\" his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe\nfreshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on\nIsabel's part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with her\nhands.\n\n\"Are you going to weep after all?\" Osmond asked; and on her remaining\nmotionless he went on: \"Have I ever complained to you?\"\n\nShe dropped her hands quickly. \"No, you've taken your revenge\notherwise--you have taken it on HER.\"\n\nOsmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling\nand might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to the\nheavenly powers. \"Oh, the imagination of women! It's always vulgar, at\nbottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist.\"\n\n\"Of course you haven't complained. You've enjoyed your triumph too\nmuch.\"\n\n\"I'm rather curious to know what you call my triumph.\"\n\n\"You've made your wife afraid of you.\"\n\nOsmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows on\nhis knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at\nhis feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one's valuation\nof anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a\npeculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse\nwith. \"Isabel's not afraid of me, and it's not what I wish,\" he said\nat last. \"To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as\nthat?\"\n\n\"I've thought over all the harm you can do me,\" Madame Merle answered.\n\"Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was really you\nshe feared.\"\n\n\"You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I'm not\nresponsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going to see her at\nall: you're capable of acting without her. I've not made you afraid of\nme that I can see,\" he went on; \"how then should I have made her? You're\nat least as brave. I can't think where you've picked up such rubbish;\none might suppose you knew me by this time.\" He got up as he spoke and\nwalked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as if\nhe had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimens of rare\nporcelain with which it was covered. He took up a small cup and held it\nin his hand; then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel,\nhe pursued: \"You always see too much in everything; you overdo it; you\nlose sight of the real. I'm much simpler than you think.\"\n\n\"I think you're very simple.\" And Madame Merle kept her eye on her cup.\n\"I've come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but it's\nonly since your marriage that I've understood you. I've seen better what\nyou have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were for me. Please\nbe very careful of that precious object.\"\n\n\"It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack,\" said Osmond dryly as he put\nit down. \"If you didn't understand me before I married it was cruelly\nrash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy to my box\nmyself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked very little; I\nonly asked that she should like me.\"\n\n\"That she should like you so much!\"\n\n\"So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she\nshould adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that.\"\n\n\"I never adored you,\" said Madame Merle.\n\n\"Ah, but you pretended to!\"\n\n\"It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit,\" Madame\nMerle went on.\n\n\"My wife has declined--declined to do anything of the sort,\" said\nOsmond. \"If you're determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy's\nhardly for her.\"\n\n\"The tragedy's for me!\" Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long\nlow sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her\nmantel-shelf.\n\n\"It appears that I'm to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false\nposition.\"\n\n\"You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We must look for\nour comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn't like me, at least\nmy child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy. Fortunately I\nhaven't a fault to find with her.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" she said softly, \"if I had a child--!\"\n\nOsmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, \"The children of\nothers may be a great interest!\" he announced.\n\n\"You're more like a copy-book than I. There's something after all that\nholds us together.\"\n\n\"Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?\" Osmond asked.\n\n\"No; it's the idea of the good I may do for you. It's that,\" Madame\nMerle pursued, \"that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to be\nMY work,\" she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter,\nrelaxing to its habit of smoothness.\n\nHer friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the\nformer article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, \"On the whole, I\nthink,\" he said, \"you had better leave it to me.\"\n\nAfter he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the\nmantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the\nexistence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly. \"Have I\nbeen so vile all for nothing?\" she vaguely wailed.\n\n\n\n\n\nAs the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments\nIsabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics\nand to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who\nprofessed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made\nan objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if\nthey had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense,\nthough she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself\nthe apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only\ndesired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour\nevery day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a\ncondition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was\nnot a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they\noffered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs\nof the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary\nof offering information. It must be added that during these visits the\nCountess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference\nwas to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most\ninteresting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the\nColiseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respect\nthat she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from the\nvehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble\nthat her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be\ndivined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents' guest\nmight be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when\nthe Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mild\nafternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional\npuffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together,\nbut Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often\nascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to\nbellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed)\nbloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed\nto sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the\nCountess often asked more from one's attention than she gave in return;\nand Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the\ndust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so\nremained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt\nto the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks\nthe tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the\nwestern sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of\ntravertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in the\nimmense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking\nup at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of\nswallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware\nthat one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had\nturned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with\na certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before\nperceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose.\nSuch an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and\nthis gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of\nspeaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied\nhe drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters\nshe would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She\nreplied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only\ngive him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon\na broken block.\n\n\"It's very soon told,\" said Edward Rosier. \"I've sold all my bibelots!\"\nIsabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had\ntold her he had had all his teeth drawn. \"I've sold them by auction at\nthe Hotel Drouot,\" he went on. \"The sale took place three days ago, and\nthey've telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things.\"\n\n\"I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think\nme rich enough now?\"\n\n\"Is it for that you did it?\" Isabel asked gently.\n\n\"For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I think\nof. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop for the\nsale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would have killed\nme. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I\nshould tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my\npocket, and he can't say I'm poor!\" the young man exclaimed defiantly.\n\n\"He'll say now that you're not wise,\" said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond\nhad never said this before.\n\nRosier gave her a sharp look. \"Do you mean that without my bibelots I'm\nnothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That's what they\ntold me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn't seen\nHER!\"\n\n\"My dear friend, you deserve to succeed,\" said Isabel very kindly.\n\n\"You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't.\"\nAnd he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had\nthe air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and\nis full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful\nsuspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons\nstill have the perversity to think him diminutive. \"I know what happened\nhere while I was away,\" he went on; \"What does Mr. Osmond expect after\nshe has refused Lord Warburton?\"\n\nIsabel debated. \"That she'll marry another nobleman.\"\n\n\"What other nobleman?\"\n\n\"One that he'll pick out.\"\n\nRosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket.\n\"You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at me.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean to laugh,\" said Isabel. \"I laugh very seldom. Now you had\nbetter go away.\"\n\n\"I feel very safe!\" Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but\nit evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather\na loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and\nlooking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience.\nSuddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience\nthan he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions\nhad returned from their excursion. \"You must really go away,\" she said\nquickly. \"Ah, my dear lady, pity me!\" Edward Rosier murmured in a voice\nstrangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then\nhe added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by\na happy thought: \"Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desire\nto be presented to her.\"\n\nIsabel looked at him a moment. \"She has no influence with her brother.\"\n\n\"Ah, what a monster you make him out!\" And Rosier faced the Countess,\nwho advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps\nto the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in\nconversation with a very pretty young man.\n\n\"I'm glad you've kept your enamels!\" Isabel called as she left him. She\nwent straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short,\nwith lowered eyes. \"We'll go back to the carriage,\" she said gently.\n\n\"Yes, it's getting late,\" Pansy returned more gently still. And she\nwent on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel,\nhowever, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had\nimmediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had\nremoved his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced\nhimself, while the Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eye\na gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost\nto sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage.\nPansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her\nlap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's. There shone out\nof each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion which\ntouched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over\nher soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal\nof the child with her own dry despair. \"Poor little Pansy!\" she\naffectionately said.\n\n\"Oh never mind!\" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then\nthere was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. \"Did you show\nyour aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?\" Isabel asked at last.\n\n\"Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased.\"\n\n\"And you're not tired, I hope.\"\n\n\"Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired.\"\n\nThe Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman\nto go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently\nreturned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not\nto wait--she would come home in a cab!\n\nAbout a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted themselves\nwith Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found\nPansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her;\nshe got up from her low chair. \"Pardon my taking the liberty,\" she said\nin a small voice. \"It will be the last--for some time.\"\n\nHer voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited,\nfrightened look. \"You're not going away!\" Isabel exclaimed.\n\n\"I'm going to the convent.\"\n\n\"To the convent?\"\n\nPansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round\nIsabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment,\nperfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver\nof her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel\nnevertheless pressed her. \"Why are you going to the convent?\"\n\n\"Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every now\nand then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the\nworld, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little\nseclusion--a little reflexion.\" Pansy spoke in short detached sentences,\nas if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph\nof self-control: \"I think papa's right; I've been so much in the world\nthis winter.\"\n\nHer announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a\nlarger meaning than the girl herself knew. \"When was this decided?\" she\nasked. \"I've heard nothing of it.\"\n\n\"Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't be\ntoo much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at a\nquarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a few\nweeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who\nused to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being\neducated. I'm very fond of little girls,\" said Pansy with an effect\nof diminutive grandeur. \"And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. I\nshall be very quiet and think a great deal.\"\n\nIsabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck.\n\"Think of ME sometimes.\"\n\n\"Ah, come and see me soon!\" cried Pansy; and the cry was very different\nfrom the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.\n\nIsabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how\nlittle she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long,\ntender kiss.\n\nHalf an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had\narrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to\nthe drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and\nthis lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful\ntoss of the head, \"En voila, ma chere, une pose!\" But if it was an\naffectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She\ncould only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.\nIt had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him\nthat, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after\nhe had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: she\nspoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden\nherself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a\ndeclaration, and there was one that came very naturally. \"I shall miss\nPansy very much.\"\n\nHe looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of\nflowers in the middle of the table. \"Ah yes,\" he said at last, \"I had\nthought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I\ndare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I\ncan make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about\nit. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter\ninto it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part\nof the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh and\nfair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present\ntime she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a little\ndusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This\nbustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her\nout of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very\nsalutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under\nthe arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are\ngentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books\nand her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made the most liberal\narrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there's just to be a\ncertain little sense of sequestration. She'll have time to think, and\nthere's something I want her to think about.\" Osmond spoke deliberately,\nreasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at\nthe basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so\nmuch offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost into\npictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the\npicture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he\nwent on: \"The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great\ninstitution; we can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential need\nin families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a school\nof repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world,\" he\nadded; \"I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This\none's very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much\nas she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way.\"\n\nIsabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found\nit indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her\nhusband's desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point of\nplaying theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She\ncould not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood it\nbetter than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced\nthat the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to\nherself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do\nsomething sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to\nmark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that\nif he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural\nhe should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he\nwished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill\ninto Isabel's heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and\nhad found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were\nvery fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite\nhardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the\nimpression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough.\nThe old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination,\nand as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of\nher husband's genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket of\nflowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond\nwished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it\nhard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently,\nin hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess\ntoo, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a\ndifferent conclusion from Isabel.\n\n\"It's very absurd, my dear Osmond,\" she said, \"to invent so many pretty\nreasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at once that you\nwant to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered that I think very\nwell of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has\nmade me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you've\nmade up your mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company for\nPansy.\"\n\nOsmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured.\n\"My dear Amy,\" he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece\nof gallantry, \"I don't know anything about your convictions, but if\nI suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to\nbanish YOU.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity of her tenure\nof her brother's hospitality. A week after this incident Isabel received\na telegram from England, dated from Gardencourt and bearing the stamp of\nMrs. Touchett's authorship. \"Ralph cannot last many days,\" it ran, \"and\nif convenient would like to see you. Wishes me to say that you must come\nonly if you've not other duties. Say, for myself, that you used to talk\na good deal about your duty and to wonder what it was; shall be curious\nto see whether you've found it out. Ralph is really dying, and there's\nno other company.\" Isabel was prepared for this news, having received\nfrom Henrietta Stackpole a detailed account of her journey to England\nwith her appreciative patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive,\nbut she had managed to convey him to Gardencourt, where he had taken to\nhis bed, which, as Miss Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave\nagain. She added that she had really had two patients on her hands\ninstead of one, inasmuch as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly\nuse, was quite as ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Touchett.\nAfterwards she wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to\nMrs. Touchett, who had just returned from America and had promptly given\nher to understand that she didn't wish any interviewing at Gardencourt.\nIsabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralph came to Rome, letting\nher know of his critical condition and suggesting that she should\nlose no time in returning to Europe. Mrs. Touchett had telegraphed an\nacknowledgement of this admonition, and the only further news Isabel\nreceived from her was the second telegram I have just quoted.\n\nIsabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then, thrusting it\ninto her pocket, she went straight to the door of her husband's study.\nHere she again paused an instant, after which she opened the door and\nwent in. Osmond was seated at the table near the window with a folio\nvolume before him, propped against a pile of books. This volume was open\nat a page of small coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that he\nhad been copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A box of\nwater-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had already\ntransferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the delicate, finely-tinted\ndisk. His back was turned toward the door, but he recognised his wife\nwithout looking round.\n\n\"Excuse me for disturbing you,\" she said.\n\n\"When I come to your room I always knock,\" he answered, going on with\nhis work.\n\n\"I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin's dying.\"\n\n\"Ah, I don't believe that,\" said Osmond, looking at his drawing through\na magnifying glass. \"He was dying when we married; he'll outlive us\nall.\"\n\nIsabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate the careful\ncynicism of this declaration; she simply went on quickly, full of\nher own intention \"My aunt has telegraphed for me; I must go to\nGardencourt.\"\n\n\"Why must you go to Gardencourt?\" Osmond asked in the tone of impartial\ncuriosity.\n\n\"To see Ralph before he dies.\"\n\nTo this, for some time, he made no rejoinder; he continued to give his\nchief attention to his work, which was of a sort that would brook no\nnegligence. \"I don't see the need of it,\" he said at last. \"He came to\nsee you here. I didn't like that; I thought his being in Rome a great\nmistake. But I tolerated it because it was to be the last time you\nshould see him. Now you tell me it's not to have been the last. Ah,\nyou're not grateful!\"\n\n\"What am I to be grateful for?\"\n\nGilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck of dust\nfrom his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first time looked at his\nwife. \"For my not having interfered while he was here.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let me know you\ndidn't like it. I was very glad when he went away.\"\n\n\"Leave him alone then. Don't run after him.\"\n\nIsabel turned her eyes away from him; they rested upon his little\ndrawing. \"I must go to England,\" she said, with a full consciousness\nthat her tone might strike an irritable man of taste as stupidly\nobstinate.\n\n\"I shall not like it if you do,\" Osmond remarked.\n\n\"Why should I mind that? You won't like it if I don't. You like nothing\nI do or don't do. You pretend to think I lie.\"\n\nOsmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile. \"That's why you must\ngo then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a revenge on me.\"\n\n\"I know nothing about revenge.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Osmond. \"Don't give me an occasion.\"\n\n\"You're only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I would\ncommit some folly.\"\n\n\"I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me.\"\n\n\"If I disobeyed you?\" said Isabel in a low tone which had the effect of\nmildness.\n\n\"Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the\nmost deliberate, the most calculated, opposition.\"\n\n\"How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt's telegram but three\nminutes ago.\"\n\n\"You calculate rapidly; it's a great accomplishment. I don't see why we\nshould prolong our discussion; you know my wish.\" And he stood there as\nif he expected to see her withdraw.\n\nBut she never moved; she couldn't move, strange as it may seem; she\nstill wished to justify herself; he had the power, in an extraordinary\ndegree, of making her feel this need. There was something in her\nimagination he could always appeal to against her judgement. \"You've no\nreason for such a wish,\" said Isabel, \"and I've every reason for going.\nI can't tell you how unjust you seem to me. But I think you know. It's\nyour own opposition that's calculated. It's malignant.\"\n\nShe had never uttered her worst thought to her husband before, and the\nsensation of hearing it was evidently new to Osmond. But he showed no\nsurprise, and his coolness was apparently a proof that he had believed\nhis wife would in fact be unable to resist for ever his ingenious\nendeavour to draw her out. \"It's all the more intense then,\" he\nanswered. And he added almost as if he were giving her a friendly\ncounsel: \"This is a very important matter.\" She recognised that; she\nwas fully conscious of the weight of the occasion; she knew that between\nthem they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity made her careful; she\nsaid nothing, and he went on. \"You say I've no reason? I have the very\nbest. I dislike, from the bottom of my soul, what you intend to do. It's\ndishonourable; it's indelicate; it's indecent. Your cousin is nothing\nwhatever to me, and I'm under no obligation to make concessions to him.\nI've already made the very handsomest. Your relations with him, while he\nwas here, kept me on pins and needles; but I let that pass, because from\nweek to week I expected him to go. I've never liked him and he has never\nliked me. That's why you like him--because he hates me,\" said Osmond\nwith a quick, barely audible tremor in his voice. \"I've an ideal of what\nmy wife should do and should not do. She should not travel across Europe\nalone, in defiance of my deepest desire, to sit at the bedside of other\nmen. Your cousin's nothing to you; he's nothing to us. You smile most\nexpressively when I talk about US, but I assure you that WE, WE, Mrs.\nOsmond, is all I know. I take our marriage seriously; you appear to\nhave found a way of not doing so. I'm not aware that we're divorced or\nseparated; for me we're indissolubly united. You are nearer to me than\nany human creature, and I'm nearer to you. It may be a disagreeable\nproximity; it's one, at any rate, of our own deliberate making. You\ndon't like to be reminded of that, I know; but I'm perfectly willing,\nbecause--because--\" And he paused a moment, looking as if he had\nsomething to say which would be very much to the point. \"Because I think\nwe should accept the consequences of our actions, and what I value most\nin life is the honour of a thing!\"\n\nHe spoke gravely and almost gently; the accent of sarcasm had dropped\nout of his tone. It had a gravity which checked his wife's quick\nemotion; the resolution with which she had entered the room found itself\ncaught in a mesh of fine threads. His last words were not a command,\nthey constituted a kind of appeal; and, though she felt that any\nexpression of respect on his part could only be a refinement of egotism,\nthey represented something transcendent and absolute, like the sign\nof the cross or the flag of one's country. He spoke in the name of\nsomething sacred and precious--the observance of a magnificent form.\nThey were as perfectly apart in feeling as two disillusioned lovers\nhad ever been; but they had never yet separated in act. Isabel had not\nchanged; her old passion for justice still abode within her; and now, in\nthe very thick of her sense of her husband's blasphemous sophistry, it\nbegan to throb to a tune which for a moment promised him the victory. It\ncame over her that in his wish to preserve appearances he was after\nall sincere, and that this, as far as it went, was a merit. Ten minutes\nbefore she had felt all the joy of irreflective action--a joy to which\nshe had so long been a stranger; but action had been suddenly changed to\nslow renunciation, transformed by the blight of Osmond's touch. If she\nmust renounce, however, she would let him know she was a victim rather\nthan a dupe. \"I know you're a master of the art of mockery,\" she said.\n\"How can you speak of an indissoluble union--how can you speak of\nyour being contented? Where's our union when you accuse me of falsity?\nWhere's your contentment when you have nothing but hideous suspicion in\nyour heart?\"\n\n\"It is in our living decently together, in spite of such drawbacks.\"\n\n\"We don't live decently together!\" cried Isabel.\n\n\"Indeed we don't if you go to England.\"\n\n\"That's very little; that's nothing. I might do much more.\"\n\nHe raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little: he had lived\nlong enough in Italy to catch this trick. \"Ah, if you've come to\nthreaten me I prefer my drawing.\" And he walked back to his table, where\nhe took up the sheet of paper on which he had been working and stood\nstudying it.\n\n\"I suppose that if I go you'll not expect me to come back,\" said Isabel.\n\nHe turned quickly round, and she could see this movement at least was\nnot designed. He looked at her a little, and then, \"Are you out of your\nmind?\" he enquired.\n\n\"How can it be anything but a rupture?\" she went on; \"especially if all\nyou say is true?\" She was unable to see how it could be anything but a\nrupture; she sincerely wished to know what else it might be.\n\nHe sat down before his table. \"I really can't argue with you on the\nhypothesis of your defying me,\" he said. And he took up one of his\nlittle brushes again.\n\nShe lingered but a moment longer; long enough to embrace with her eye\nhis whole deliberately indifferent yet most expressive figure; after\nwhich she quickly left the room. Her faculties, her energy, her passion,\nwere all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark mist had suddenly\nencompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme degree the art of\neliciting any weakness. On her way back to her room she found the\nCountess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a little parlour in\nwhich a small collection of heterogeneous books had been arranged.\nThe Countess had an open volume in her hand; she appeared to have been\nglancing down a page which failed to strike her as interesting. At the\nsound of Isabel's step she raised her head.\n\n\"Ah my dear,\" she said, \"you, who are so literary, do tell me some\namusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreariness--! Do you think\nthis would do me any good?\"\n\nIsabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but without\nreading or understanding it. \"I'm afraid I can't advise you. I've had\nbad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying.\"\n\nThe Countess threw down her book. \"Ah, he was so simpatico. I'm awfully\nsorry for you.\"\n\n\"You would be sorrier still if you knew.\"\n\n\"What is there to know? You look very badly,\" the Countess added. \"You\nmust have been with Osmond.\"\n\nHalf an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an\nintimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of\nher sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present\nembarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady's\nfluttering attention. \"I've been with Osmond,\" she said, while the\nCountess's bright eyes glittered at her.\n\n\"I'm sure then he has been odious!\" the Countess cried. \"Did he say he\nwas glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?\"\n\n\"He said it's impossible I should go to England.\"\n\nThe Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile; she\nalready foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her visit to\nRome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into mourning, and then\nthere would be no more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for\na moment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid,\npicturesque play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment.\nAfter all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had\nalready overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough for\nIsabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel's trouble\nwas deep.\n\nIt seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had\nno hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with the expression\nof her sister-in-law's eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous\nexpectation, for if she had wished to see Osmond overtopped the\nconditions looked favourable now. Of course if Isabel should go to\nEngland she herself would immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing\nwould induce her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt\nan immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to England. \"Nothing's\nimpossible for you, my dear,\" she said caressingly. \"Why else are you\nrich and clever and good?\"\n\n\"Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak.\"\n\n\"Why does Osmond say it's impossible?\" the Countess asked in a tone\nwhich sufficiently declared that she couldn't imagine.\n\nFrom the moment she thus began to question her, however, Isabel drew\nback; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess had affectionately\ntaken. But she answered this enquiry with frank bitterness. \"Because\nwe're so happy together that we can't separate even for a fortnight.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, \"when I want to make\na journey my husband simply tells me I can have no money!\"\n\nIsabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for an hour. It\nmay appear to some readers that she gave herself much trouble, and it is\ncertain that for a woman of a high spirit she had allowed herself easily\nto be arrested. It seemed to her that only now she fully measured the\ngreat undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that in such a case as\nthis, when one had to choose, one chose as a matter of course for one's\nhusband. \"I'm afraid--yes, I'm afraid,\" she said to herself more than\nonce, stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraid of was not her\nhusband--his displeasure, his hatred, his revenge; it was not even her\nown later judgement of her conduct a consideration which had often held\nher in check; it was simply the violence there would be in going when\nOsmond wished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between\nthem, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was\na horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with\nwhich he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what\nhe was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married, for\nall that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man with\nwhom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sank\ndown on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of cushions.\n\nWhen she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before her.\nShe had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her thin\nlips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining intimation. She\nlived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of her spirit, but now\nshe was leaning far out. \"I knocked,\" she began, \"but you didn't\nanswer me. So I ventured in. I've been looking at you for the past five\nminutes. You're very unhappy.\"\n\n\"Yes; but I don't think you can comfort me.\"\n\n\"Will you give me leave to try?\" And the Countess sat down on the\nsofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something\ncommunicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have\na deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her\nsister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her\nglittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination. \"After\nall,\" she soon resumed, \"I must tell you, to begin with, that I don't\nunderstand your state of mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so\nmany reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that my\nhusband's dearest wish was to make me miserable--of late he has simply\nlet me alone--ah, it was a wonderful simplification! My poor Isabel,\nyou're not simple enough.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not simple enough,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"There's something I want you to know,\" the Countess declared--\"because\nI think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do; perhaps you've guessed it.\nBut if you have, all I can say is that I understand still less why you\nshouldn't do as you like.\"\n\n\"What do you wish me to know?\" Isabel felt a foreboding that made her\nheart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself, and this\nalone was portentous.\n\nBut she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject.\n\"In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never really\nsuspected?\"\n\n\"I've guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don't know what\nyou mean.\"\n\n\"That's because you've such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman\nwith such a pure mind!\" cried the Countess.\n\nIsabel slowly got up. \"You're going to tell me something horrible.\"\n\n\"You can call it by whatever name you will!\" And the Countess rose\nalso, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood\na moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even\nthen, of ugliness; after which she said: \"My first sister-in-law had no\nchildren.\"\n\nIsabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. \"Your\nfirst sister-in-law?\"\n\n\"I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has\nbeen married before! I've never spoken to you of his wife; I thought it\nmightn't be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must\nhave done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and died\nchildless. It wasn't till after her death that Pansy arrived.\"\n\nIsabel's brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in pale,\nvague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much more to\nfollow than she could see. \"Pansy's not my husband's child then?\"\n\n\"Your husband's--in perfection! But no one else's husband's. Some one\nelse's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel,\" cried the Countess, \"with you one\nmust dot one's i's!\"\n\n\"I don't understand. Whose wife's?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died--how long?--a dozen, more\nthan fifteen, years ago. He never recognised Miss Pansy, nor, knowing\nwhat he was about, would have anything to say to her; and there was no\nreason why he should. Osmond did, and that was better; though he had to\nfit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own wife's having died in\nchildbirth, and of his having, in grief and horror, banished the little\ngirl from his sight for as long as possible before taking her home from\nnurse. His wife had really died, you know, of quite another matter and\nin quite another place: in the Piedmontese mountains, where they had\ngone, one August, because her health appeared to require the air, but\nwhere she was suddenly taken worse--fatally ill. The story passed,\nsufficiently; it was covered by the appearances so long as nobody\nheeded, as nobody cared to look into it. But of course I knew--without\nresearches,\" the Countess lucidly proceeded; \"as also, you'll\nunderstand, without a word said between us--I mean between Osmond and\nme. Don't you see him looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle\nit?--that is to settle ME if I should say anything. I said nothing,\nright or left--never a word to a creature, if you can believe that of\nme: on my honour, my dear, I speak of the thing to you now, after all\nthis time, as I've never, never spoken. It was to be enough for me,\nfrom the first, that the child was my niece--from the moment she was\nmy brother's daughter. As for her veritable mother--!\" But with this\nPansy's wonderful aunt dropped--as, involuntarily, from the impression\nof her sister-in-law's face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to\nlook at her than she had ever had to meet.\n\nShe had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on her own lips, an\necho of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again, hanging her head.\n\"Why have you told me this?\" she asked in a voice the Countess hardly\nrecognised.\n\n\"Because I've been so bored with your not knowing. I've been bored,\nfrankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stupidly, all this\ntime I couldn't have managed! Ca me depasse, if you don't mind my saying\nso, the things, all round you, that you've appeared to succeed in not\nknowing. It's a sort of assistance--aid to innocent ignorance--that\nI've always been a bad hand at rendering; and in this connexion, that\nof keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has at any rate finally\nfound itself exhausted. It's not a black lie, moreover, you know,\" the\nCountess inimitably added. \"The facts are exactly what I tell you.\"\n\n\"I had no idea,\" said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a manner\nthat doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this confession.\n\n\"So I believed--though it was hard to believe. Had it never occurred to\nyou that he was for six or seven years her lover?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Things HAVE occurred to me, and perhaps that was what\nthey all meant.\"\n\n\"She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about\nPansy!\" the Countess, before all this view of it, cried.\n\n\"Oh, no idea, for me,\" Isabel went on, \"ever DEFINITELY took that form.\"\nShe appeared to be making out to herself what had been and what hadn't.\n\"And as it is--I don't understand.\"\n\nShe spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Countess seemed to\nhave seen her revelation fall below its possibilities of effect. She\nhad expected to kindle some responsive blaze, but had barely extracted a\nspark. Isabel showed as scarce more impressed than she might have\nbeen, as a young woman of approved imagination, with some fine sinister\npassage of public history. \"Don't you recognise how the child could\nnever pass for HER husband's?--that is with M. Merle himself,\" her\ncompanion resumed. \"They had been separated too long for that, and he\nhad gone to some far country--I think to South America. If she had ever\nhad children--which I'm not sure of--she had lost them. The conditions\nhappened to make it workable, under stress (I mean at so awkward a\npinch), that Osmond should acknowledge the little girl. His wife was\ndead--very true; but she had not been dead too long to put a certain\naccommodation of dates out of the question--from the moment, I mean,\nthat suspicion wasn't started; which was what they had to take care of.\nWhat was more natural than that poor Mrs. Osmond, at a distance and\nfor a world not troubling about trifles, should have left behind her,\npoverina, the pledge of her brief happiness that had cost her her life?\nWith the aid of a change of residence--Osmond had been living with her\nat Naples at the time of their stay in the Alps, and he in due course\nleft it for ever--the whole history was successfully set going. My poor\nsister-in-law, in her grave, couldn't help herself, and the real mother,\nto save HER skin, renounced all visible property in the child.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor, poor woman!\" cried Isabel, who herewith burst into tears. It\nwas a long time since she had shed any; she had suffered a high reaction\nfrom weeping. But now they flowed with an abundance in which the\nCountess Gemini found only another discomfiture.\n\n\"It's very kind of you to pity her!\" she discordantly laughed. \"Yes\nindeed, you have a way of your own--!\"\n\n\"He must have been false to his wife--and so very soon!\" said Isabel\nwith a sudden check.\n\n\"That's all that's wanting--that you should take up her cause!\" the\nCountess went on. \"I quite agree with you, however, that it was much too\nsoon.\"\n\n\"But to me, to me--?\" And Isabel hesitated as if she had not heard; as\nif her question--though it was sufficiently there in her eyes--were all\nfor herself.\n\n\"To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you\ncall faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of another\nwoman--SUCH a lover as he had been, cara mia, between their risks and\ntheir precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of affairs had\npassed away; the lady had repented, or at all events, for reasons of her\nown, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances\nso intense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You may\ntherefore imagine what it was--when he couldn't patch it on conveniently\nto ANY of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Isabel mechanically echoed, \"the whole past is between them.\"\n\n\"Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say,\nthey had kept it up.\"\n\nShe was silent a little. \"Why then did she want him to marry me?\"\n\n\"Ah my dear, that's her superiority! Because you had money; and because\nshe believed you would be good to Pansy.\"\n\n\"Poor woman--and Pansy who doesn't like her!\" cried Isabel.\n\n\"That's the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows\nit; she knows everything.\"\n\n\"Will she know that you've told me this?\"\n\n\"That will depend upon whether you tell her. She's prepared for it, and\ndo you know what she counts upon for her defence? On your believing that\nI lie. Perhaps you do; don't make yourself uncomfortable to hide it.\nOnly, as it happens this time, I don't. I've told plenty of little\nidiotic fibs, but they've never hurt any one but myself.\"\n\nIsabel sat staring at her companion's story as at a bale of fantastic\nwares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked on the carpet at her\nfeet. \"Why did Osmond never marry her?\" she finally asked.\n\n\"Because she had no money.\" The Countess had an answer for everything,\nand if she lied she lied well. \"No one knows, no one has ever known,\nwhat she lives on, or how she has got all those beautiful things. I\ndon't believe Osmond himself knows. Besides, she wouldn't have married\nhim.\"\n\n\"How can she have loved him then?\"\n\n\"She doesn't love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I\nsuppose, she would have married him; but at that time her husband was\nliving. By the time M. Merle had rejoined--I won't say his ancestors,\nbecause he never had any--her relations with Osmond had changed, and she\nhad grown more ambitious. Besides, she has never had, about him,\"\nthe Countess went on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so tragically\nafterwards--\"she HAD never had, what you might call any illusions of\nINTELLIGENCE. She hoped she might marry a great man; that has always\nbeen her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted and prayed; but\nshe has never succeeded. I don't call Madame Merle a success, you know.\nI don't know what she may accomplish yet, but at present she has very\nlittle to show. The only tangible result she has ever achieved--except,\nof course, getting to know every one and staying with them free of\nexpense--has been her bringing you and Osmond together. Oh, she did\nthat, my dear; you needn't look as if you doubted it. I've watched\nthem for years; I know everything--everything. I'm thought a great\nscatterbrain, but I've had enough application of mind to follow up those\ntwo. She hates me, and her way of showing it is to pretend to be for\never defending me. When people say I've had fifteen lovers she looks\nhorrified and declares that quite half of them were never proved. She\nhas been afraid of me for years, and she has taken great comfort in the\nvile, false things people have said about me. She has been afraid I'd\nexpose her, and she threatened me one day when Osmond began to pay his\ncourt to you. It was at his house in Florence; do you remember that\nafternoon when she brought you there and we had tea in the garden? She\nlet me know then that if I should tell tales two could play at that\ngame. She pretends there's a good deal more to tell about me than about\nher. It would be an interesting comparison! I don't care a fig what she\nmay say, simply because I know YOU don't care a fig. You can't trouble\nyour head about me less than you do already. So she may take her revenge\nas she chooses; I don't think she'll frighten you very much. Her great\nidea has been to be tremendously irreproachable--a kind of full-blown\nlily--the incarnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god.\nThere should be no scandal about Caesar's wife, you know; and, as I say,\nshe has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason she wouldn't\nmarry Osmond; the fear that on seeing her with Pansy people would put\nthings together--would even see a resemblance. She has had a terror\nlest the mother should betray herself. She has been awfully careful; the\nmother has never done so.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, the mother has done so,\" said Isabel, who had listened to\nall this with a face more and more wan. \"She betrayed herself to me the\nother day, though I didn't recognise her. There appeared to have been a\nchance of Pansy's making a great marriage, and in her disappointment at\nits not coming off she almost dropped the mask.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's where she'd dish herself!\" cried the Countess. \"She has\nfailed so dreadfully that she's determined her daughter shall make it\nup.\"\n\nIsabel started at the words \"her daughter,\" which her guest threw off\nso familiarly. \"It seems very wonderful,\" she murmured; and in this\nbewildering impression she had almost lost her sense of being personally\ntouched by the story.\n\n\"Now don't go and turn against the poor innocent child!\" the Countess\nwent on. \"She's very nice, in spite of her deplorable origin. I myself\nhave liked Pansy; not, naturally, because she was hers, but because she\nhad become yours.\"\n\n\"Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered at\nseeing me--!\" Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought.\n\n\"I don't believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has enjoyed.\nOsmond's marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before\nthat she lived in a hole. And do you know what the mother thought? That\nyou might take such a fancy to the child that you'd do something for\nher. Osmond of course could never give her a portion. Osmond was really\nextremely poor; but of course you know all about that. Ah, my dear,\"\ncried the Countess, \"why did you ever inherit money?\" She stopped a\nmoment as if she saw something singular in Isabel's face. \"Don't tell\nme now that you'll give her a dot. You're capable of that, but I would\nrefuse to believe it. Don't try to be too good. Be a little easy and\nnatural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the comfort of it, once in\nyour life!\"\n\n\"It's very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I'm sorry,\" Isabel\nsaid. \"I'm much obliged to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, you seem to be!\" cried the Countess with a mocking laugh.\n\"Perhaps you are--perhaps you're not. You don't take it as I should have\nthought.\"\n\n\"How should I take it?\" Isabel asked.\n\n\"Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of.\" Isabel made\nno answer to this; she only listened, and the Countess went on. \"They've\nalways been bound to each other; they remained so even after she broke\noff--or HE did. But he has always been more for her than she has been\nfor him. When their little carnival was over they made a bargain that\neach should give the other complete liberty, but that each should also\ndo everything possible to help the other on. You may ask me how I know\nsuch a thing as that. I know it by the way they've behaved. Now see how\nmuch better women are than men! She has found a wife for Osmond, but\nOsmond has never lifted a little finger for HER. She has worked for him,\nplotted for him, suffered for him; she has even more than once found\nmoney for him; and the end of it is that he's tired of her. She's an old\nhabit; there are moments when he needs her, but on the whole he wouldn't\nmiss her if she were removed. And, what's more, today she knows it. So\nyou needn't be jealous!\" the Countess added humorously.\n\nIsabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant of breath;\nher head was humming with new knowledge. \"I'm much obliged to you,\" she\nrepeated. And then she added abruptly, in quite a different tone: \"How\ndo you know all this?\"\n\nThis enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel's\nexpression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a bold\nstare, with which, \"Let us assume that I've invented it!\" she cried. She\ntoo, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on Isabel's\narm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile: \"Now will you\ngive up your journey?\"\n\nIsabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a\nmoment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood a\nminute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with closed\neyes and pale lips.\n\n\"I've done wrong to speak--I've made you ill!\" the Countess cried.\n\n\"Ah, I must see Ralph!\" Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in\nthe quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of\nfar-reaching, infinite sadness.\n\n\n\n\n\nThere was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the\nCountess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with\nher maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought\n(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;\nfrom her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had\ngiven her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five\no'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza\nNavona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and\nobsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had\ncome with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,\nand she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that\nthe well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she\ndisliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for\nthe world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more\nthan before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not\npossible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature\nhad been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary\neffect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.\n\nThe portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she\nwent to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.\nThe parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a\nlarge clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax\nflowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures\non the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome\nthan like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment\nonly seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned\nat the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got\nup, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her\nextreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect\nwas strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision\nthat her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,\nseeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her\nfalsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these\ndark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the\nroom. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of\nhandwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It\nmade Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot\nshe would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to\nher; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to\nMadame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were\nnever any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off\nnot only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was\ndifferent from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and\nIsabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her\nhabitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she\nhad undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a\npeculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw\nthat she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the\nwhole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her\nyoung friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a\ncold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their\nlast meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had\nbeen irritated then, she was reconciled now.\n\n\"You can leave us alone,\" she said to the portress; \"in five minutes\nthis lady will ring for you.\" And then she turned to Isabel, who, after\nnoting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let\nher eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished\nnever to look at Madame Merle again. \"You're surprised to find me here,\nand I'm afraid you're not pleased,\" this lady went on. \"You don't see\nwhy I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've\nbeen rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission.\" There\nwas none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply\nand mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could\nnot have told herself with what intention it was uttered. \"But I've not\nbeen sitting long,\" Madame Merle continued; \"that is I've not been long\nwith Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon\nthat she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.\nIt may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I\ncan't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the\nchance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well;\nstill, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good\nwoman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I\nstayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not\nin the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged\nit delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my\nbusiness, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a\nmaid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears\na little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see\nMother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't\nfind the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most\ncoquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly\nlike a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says\nit's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of\nheaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame\nCatherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the\nsignorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me\ngo and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you\nthat--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was\nof such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I\nrequested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she\nsupposed I would treat you!\"\n\nSo Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had\nlong been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases\nand gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's\near, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not\nproceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse\nin her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle\nmodulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely\nnew attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in\nthe space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in\nthe space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person\nwho stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a\nvery different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was\ntremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of\nwomen faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the\nconscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed\non as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had\nthe end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with\na point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her\nwill to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying\nherself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice\nrefused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say\nshe hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able\nonly just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.\n\nIsabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large\nclear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might\nhave been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and\nsaw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,\nthis in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a\nmoment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with\nher back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side\nof the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she\nsaw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.\nShe saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become\na part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in\nwhich it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry\nstaring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,\nas senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the\nbitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if\nshe felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during\nwhich, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that\nwould hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous\nvision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world\nstanding there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to\nthink as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to\nleave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there\nfor a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last\nseated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of\nhelplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame\nMerle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see\nwhat she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse\nher, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the\nopportunity to defend herself.\n\n\"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye,\" our young woman said at last. \"I go to\nEngland to-night.\"\n\n\"Go to England to-night!\" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and\nlooking up at her.\n\n\"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying.\"\n\n\"Ah, you'll feel that.\" Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance\nto express sympathy. \"Do you go alone?\"\n\n\"Yes; without my husband.\"\n\nMadame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the\ngeneral sadness of things. \"Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry\nhe's dying. Shall you see his mother?\"\n\n\"Yes; she has returned from America.\"\n\n\"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have\nchanged,\" said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a\nmoment, then added: \"And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!\"\n\n\"I shall not enjoy it much,\" Isabel answered.\n\n\"Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I\nknow, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I\ndon't venture to send a message to the people,\" Madame Merle added; \"but\nI should like to give my love to the place.\"\n\nIsabel turned away. \"I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time.\"\n\nWhile she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and\nadmitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet\nsmile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump\nwhite hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she\nhad already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss\nOsmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly\nand said: \"It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her\nmyself.\" Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.\n\n\"Will you let me remain a little?\" this lady asked. \"It's so good to be\nhere.\"\n\n\"You may remain always if you like!\" And the good sister gave a knowing\nlaugh.\n\nShe led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long\nstaircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;\nso, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine\ngently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor;\nthen stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and\nembraced.\n\n\"She's glad to see you,\" she repeated; \"it will do her good.\" And she\nplaced the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement\nto seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. \"How does this dear child\nlook?\" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.\n\n\"She looks pale,\" Isabel answered.\n\n\"That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la\nmaison,\" said the good sister.\n\nPansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was\nperhaps this that made her look pale. \"They're very good to me--they\nthink of everything!\" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to\naccommodate.\n\n\"We think of you always--you're a precious charge,\" Madame Catherine\nremarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and\nwhose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with\na leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender\nof a personality, the authority of the Church.\n\nWhen Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid\nher head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while\nIsabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and\nlooking about the room. \"Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've\neverything I have at home.\"\n\n\"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable.\" Isabel scarcely knew what\nshe could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had\ncome to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend\nto rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: \"I've come to\nbid you good-bye. I'm going to England.\"\n\nPansy's white little face turned red. \"To England! Not to come back?\"\n\n\"I don't know when I shall come back.\"\n\n\"Ah, I'm sorry,\" Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had\nno right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.\n\n\"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see\nhim,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa\ngo?\"\n\n\"No; I shall go alone.\"\n\nFor a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she\nthought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never\nby a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed\nthem deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel\nwas sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands\nand wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet\neven in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle\nstepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have\nstood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the\nsaints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted\nheads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would\n(for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,\nso she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her\nown. \"You'll be very far away,\" she presently went on.\n\n\"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter,\" Isabel\nexplained; \"since so long as you're here I can't be called near you.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often.\"\n\n\"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing\nwith me. I can't amuse you.\"\n\n\"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes.\"\n\n\"Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England.\"\n\n\"You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"Not very. But it doesn't matter.\"\n\n\"That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to\ncome out.\"\n\n\"I wish indeed you might.\"\n\n\"Don't leave me here,\" Pansy went on gently.\n\nIsabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. \"Will you come\naway with me now?\" she asked.\n\nPansy looked at her pleadingly. \"Did papa tell you to bring me?\"\n\n\"No; it's my own proposal.\"\n\n\"I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?\"\n\n\"I don't think he knew I was coming.\"\n\n\"He thinks I've not had enough,\" said Pansy. \"But I have. The ladies are\nvery kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some\nvery little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for\nyourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished\nme to think a little--and I've thought a great deal.\"\n\n\"What have you thought?\"\n\n\"Well, that I must never displease papa.\"\n\n\"You knew that before.\"\n\n\"Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything,\" said\nPansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into\nher face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been\nvanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!\nIsabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated\neasily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her\nlook conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's\nmomentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only\nher tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others,\nbut she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no\nvocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of\nsequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her\npretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.\nYes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!\n\nIsabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. \"Good-bye then. I leave\nRome to-night.\"\n\nPansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's\nface. \"You look strange, you frighten me.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm very harmless,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"Perhaps you won't come back?\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. I can't tell.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!\"\n\nIsabel now saw she had guessed everything. \"My dear child, what can I do\nfor you?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you.\"\n\n\"You can always think of me.\"\n\n\"Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid,\" said Pansy.\n\n\"What are you afraid of?\"\n\n\"Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me.\"\n\n\"You must not say that,\" Isabel observed.\n\n\"Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it\nmore easily.\"\n\nIsabel considered. \"I won't desert you,\" she said at last. \"Good-bye, my\nchild.\"\n\nThen they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two\nsisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor\nto the top of the staircase. \"Madame Merle has been here,\" she remarked\nas they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: \"I\ndon't like Madame Merle!\"\n\nIsabel hesitated, then stopped. \"You must never say that--that you don't\nlike Madame Merle.\"\n\nPansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a\nreason for non-compliance. \"I never will again,\" she said with exquisite\ngentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it\nappeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which\nPansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she\nreached the bottom the girl was standing above. \"You'll come back?\" she\ncalled out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.\n\n\"Yes--I'll come back.\"\n\nMadame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of\nthe parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. \"I won't\ngo in,\" said the good sister. \"Madame Merle's waiting for you.\"\n\nAt this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking\nif there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion\nassured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her\ndesire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm\nvery gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said\nin French and almost familiarly: \"Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en\npensez-vous?\"\n\n\"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you.\"\n\n\"We think it's enough,\" Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she\npushed open the door of the parlour.\n\nMadame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so\nabsorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame\nCatherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been\nthinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full\npossession of her resources. \"I found I wished to wait for you,\" she\nsaid urbanely. \"But it's not to talk about Pansy.\"\n\nIsabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame\nMerle's declaration she answered after a moment: \"Madame Catherine says\nit's enough.\"\n\n\"Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about\npoor Mr. Touchett,\" Madame Merle added. \"Have you reason to believe that\nhe's really at his last?\"\n\n\"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a\nprobability.\"\n\n\"I'm going to ask you a strange question,\" said Madame Merle. \"Are\nyou very fond of your cousin?\" And she gave a smile as strange as her\nutterance.\n\n\"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you.\"\n\nShe just hung fire. \"It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred\nto me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit\nof my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never\nguessed it?\"\n\n\"He has done me many services.\"\n\n\"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman.\"\n\n\"HE made me--?\"\n\nMadame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more\ntriumphantly: \"He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required\nto make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank.\" She\nstopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.\n\n\"I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money.\"\n\n\"Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He\nbrought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!\"\n\nIsabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by\nlurid flashes. \"I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what\nyou know.\"\n\n\"I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that.\"\n\nIsabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment\nwith her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: \"I\nbelieved it was you I had to thank!\"\n\nMadame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud\npenance. \"You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so.\"\n\n\"Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again.\"\n\nMadame Merle raised her eyes. \"I shall go to America,\" she quietly\nremarked while Isabel passed out.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other\ncircumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel\ndescended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the\narms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of Henrietta Stackpole.\nShe had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not\ndefinitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt\nher telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from\nRome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question\nthe future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took\nlittle pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they\nwere in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their\ncourse through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless\nlands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed,\na perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but\nit was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind.\nDisconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of\nmemory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their\nwill, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a\nlogic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now\nthat she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much\nconcerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt\nto play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things,\ntheir mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their\nhorror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She\nremembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity\nof a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that\nthey had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after\nall, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of\nuse to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all\ndesire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge.\nGardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers\nit was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in\nher strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had\nbeen a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph\nhis dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect\nof all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything\nmore--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble\ntank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land.\n\nShe had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as\ngood as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive,\nsimply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and\nregret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures\ncouched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret\nnow--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of\nher repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle\nhad been so--well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped,\nfrom literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been.\nWhatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and\ndoubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was\ngoing. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she\nshould never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into\nthe future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She\nsaw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who\nhad her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of\nthe present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away,\nfurther away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was\nevidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite\nfor renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a\nlong time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost\nenlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a\nproof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live\nonly to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things\nmight happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury\nof life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable,\ntoo capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid\nto think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be\nvaluable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of precious things?\nWasn't it much more probable that if one were fine one would suffer? It\ninvolved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but\nIsabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow\nof a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end.\nThen the middle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of\nher indifference closed her in.\n\nHenrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid\nshe should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd,\nlooking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she\nwished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped.\nShe rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an\narrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station,\nthe strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her\nwith a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. She\nremembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty\nspectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered\nhow she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded\nstreets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the\nincident came before her as the deed of another person.\n\n\"It's too beautiful that you should have come,\" said Henrietta, looking\nat her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the\nproposition. \"If you hadn't--if you hadn't; well, I don't know,\"\nremarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval.\n\nIsabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another\nfigure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment\nshe recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little\napart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about\nhim to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of\nabstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their\nembraces.\n\n\"There's Mr. Bantling,\" said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely\ncaring much now whether she should find her maid or not.\n\n\"Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!\" Henrietta\nexclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile\ntempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. \"Isn't it lovely she\nhas come?\" Henrietta asked. \"He knows all about it,\" she added; \"we had\nquite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would.\"\n\n\"I thought you always agreed,\" Isabel smiled in return. She felt she\ncould smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave\neyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to\nremember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that\nit was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him,\nextravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight.\n\n\"Oh, I always agree,\" said Mr. Bantling. \"But she doesn't, you know.\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?\" Henrietta enquired.\n\"Your young lady has probably remained at Calais.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never\nfound so interesting.\n\n\"Stay with her while I go and see,\" Henrietta commanded, leaving the two\nfor a moment together.\n\nThey stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel\nhow it had been on the Channel.\n\n\"Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough,\" she said, to her\ncompanion's obvious surprise. After which she added: \"You've been to\nGardencourt, I know.\"\n\n\"Now how do you know that?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to\nGardencourt.\"\n\n\"Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you know.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind,\"\nsaid Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she\nshould never again feel a superficial embarrassment.\n\nPoor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed\na good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue,\nand that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. \"You can ask Miss\nStackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago.\"\n\n\"Did you see my cousin?\"\n\n\"Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had been\nthere the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he\nwas in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can't speak,\"\nMr. Bantling pursued. \"He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. He\nwas just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched.\"\n\nEven in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. \"Was\nthat late in the day?\"\n\n\"Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know.\"\n\n\"I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?\"\n\n\"Ah, I don't think SHE'LL let you go,\" said Mr. Bantling. \"She wants you\nto stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise to telegraph me to-day,\nand I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. 'Quiet and easy,'\nthat's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can wait\ntill to-morrow. You must be awfully tired.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mr. Bantling, \"We were certain you would like the last news.\"\nOn which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all to\nagree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught\nin the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of\nlosing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's\nluggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station.\n\"You know you're not to think of going to the country to-night,\"\nHenrietta remarked to her. \"It doesn't matter whether there's a train\nor not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a\ncorner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't\na Roman palace, but it will do for a night.\"\n\n\"I'll do whatever you wish,\" Isabel said.\n\n\"You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish.\"\n\n\"She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?\" Mr.\nBantling enquired jocosely.\n\nHenrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. \"I see you're\nin a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Station\nto-morrow morning at ten.\"\n\n\"Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"He'll come for mine,\" Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend into\na cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her\njustice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which\nshe had alluded at the station. \"Did your husband make you a scene about\nyour coming?\" That was Miss Stackpole's first enquiry.\n\n\"No; I can't say he made a scene.\"\n\n\"He didn't object then?\"\n\n\"Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a scene.\"\n\n\"What was it then?\"\n\n\"It was a very quiet conversation.\"\n\nHenrietta for a moment regarded her guest. \"It must have been hellish,\"\nshe then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been hellish. But\nshe confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy,\nas they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no\nnew information. \"Well,\" said Miss Stackpole at last, \"I've only one\ncriticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go\nback.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure I myself see now,\" Isabel replied. \"But I did then.\"\n\n\"If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return.\"\n\nIsabel waited a moment. \"Perhaps I shall find another.\"\n\n\"You'll certainly never find a good one.\"\n\n\"In default of a better my having promised will do,\" Isabel suggested.\n\n\"Yes; that's why I hate it.\"\n\n\"Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a\ncomplication, but what will going back be?\"\n\n\"You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!\" said\nHenrietta with much intention.\n\n\"He will, though,\" Isabel answered gravely. \"It won't be the scene of a\nmoment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life.\"\n\nFor some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and\nthen Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested,\nannounced abruptly: \"I've been to stay with Lady Pensil!\"\n\n\"Ah, the invitation came at last!\"\n\n\"Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me.\"\n\n\"Naturally enough.\"\n\n\"It was more natural than I think you know,\" said Henrietta, who fixed\nher eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly:\n\"Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because I\ncriticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at\nleast, was born on the other side!\"\n\nIt was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so\nmodestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not\npossessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with\na quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately\nrecovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity,\n\"Henrietta Stackpole,\" she asked, \"are you going to give up your\ncountry?\"\n\n\"Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact\nin the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in\nLondon.\"\n\n\"It seems very strange,\" said Isabel, smiling now.\n\n\"Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think\nI know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain.\"\n\n\"One can't explain one's marriage,\" Isabel answered. \"And yours doesn't\nneed to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle.\"\n\n\"No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He\nhas a beautiful nature,\" Henrietta went on. \"I've studied him for many\nyears and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good\nprospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the\nother hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in\nthe United States.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, \"you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever\nheard you say anything against your native land.\"\n\n\"I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after\nall, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a\ngood deal to marry.\"\n\n\"I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something\nof the inner life.\"\n\nHenrietta gave a little significant sigh. \"That's the key to the\nmystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good\na right as any one!\" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly\ndiverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta,\nafter all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she\nhad hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was\na disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was\nsubject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had\nnot been completely original. There was a want of originality in her\nmarrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to\nIsabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A\nlittle later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was\noriginal. But she didn't see how Henrietta could give up her country.\nShe herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been her\ncountry as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had\nenjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Henrietta, \"she didn't know what to make of me.\"\n\n\"And was that very enjoyable?\"\n\n\"Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind. She thinks\nshe knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my modern\ntype. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better\nor a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my duty\nto go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I should\nmarry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll\nnever understand my mixture--never!\"\n\n\"She's not so intelligent as her brother then,\" said Isabel. \"He appears\nto have understood.\"\n\n\"Oh no, he hasn't!\" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. \"I really\nbelieve that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the\nmystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind of\nfascination.\"\n\n\"It's very good in you to humour it.\"\n\n\"Oh well,\" said Henrietta, \"I've something to find out too!\" And Isabel\nsaw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She\nwas at last about to grapple in earnest with England.\n\nIsabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington\nStation, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company both\nof Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his\nperplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found\nout at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting\nin initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had\nbeen on his guard against this deficiency.\n\n\"Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad,\" Isabel said as she gave him\nher hand.\n\n\"I dare say you think it awfully odd,\" Mr. Bantling replied, resting on\nhis neat umbrella.\n\n\"Yes, I think it awfully odd.\"\n\n\"You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather liked\nstriking out a line,\" said Mr. Bantling serenely.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIsabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even\nquieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small\nhousehold, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that\ninstead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown\ninto the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to\nher aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to\ncome to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--as\nscared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious\nthings, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark\nand cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The\nhouse was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it\nhad filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She\nleft the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library and\nalong the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep\nmade an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had\nseen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood\nthere. She envied the security of valuable \"pieces\" which change by no\nhair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by\ninch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking\nabout as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany.\nShe was changed enough since then--that had been the beginning. It\nsuddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just\nthat way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She\nmight have had another life and she might have been a woman more blest.\nShe stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture--a charming and\nprecious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was\nnot looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had\nnot come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood.\n\nMrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the\nbig uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her\neye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a\nrepository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most\nundecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first\ntime, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the\nmatron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel's hot cheek.\n\n\"I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph,\" Mrs.\nTouchett said. \"The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken her\nplace. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's good\nfor nothing; he's always looking out of the window--as if there were\nanything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be\nsleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the\nnurse came back. I remembered you knew the house.\"\n\n\"I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking\neverywhere,\" Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much.\n\n\"He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm not sure that\nit's always sleep.\"\n\n\"Will he see me? Can he speak to me?\"\n\nMrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. \"You can try him,\" was the\nlimit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her\nroom. \"I thought they had taken you there; but it's not my house, it's\nRalph's; and I don't know what they do. They must at least have taken\nyour luggage; I don't suppose you've brought much. Not that I care,\nhowever. I believe they've given you the same room you had before; when\nRalph heard you were coming he said you must have that one.\"\n\n\"Did he say anything else?\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used!\" cried Mrs. Touchett as she\npreceded her niece up the staircase.\n\nIt was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept\nin since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not voluminous;\nMrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. \"Is there really\nno hope?\" our young woman asked as she stood before her.\n\n\"None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful\nlife.\"\n\n\"No--it has only been a beautiful one.\" Isabel found herself already\ncontradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beauty without health.\nThat is a very odd dress to travel in.\"\n\nIsabel glanced at her garment. \"I left Rome at an hour's notice; I took\nthe first that came.\"\n\n\"Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to\nbe their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them--but they seemed\nto have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black\nbrocade.\"\n\n\"They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them the\ntruth,\" said Isabel. \"Lily wrote me you had dined with her.\"\n\n\"She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she\nshould have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been\nexpensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to\nAmerica? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn't go for my pleasure.\"\n\nThese were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece,\nwhom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For this\nrepast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the\nmelancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not\nto be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman's\ninexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to\nher. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able\nto feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she\nwere not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately\ntrying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet;\nthe testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other\nhand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all\nit might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had\ncome over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw\nherself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little\nsharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not\nmoved, but that he probably would be able to see her before dinner.\nAnd then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day\nbefore; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed\nan intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an\naccident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy;\nshe had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She\nnone the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to\nRalph; she had seen something of that in Rome.\n\n\"He has something else to think of now,\" Mrs. Touchett returned. And she\npaused with a gaze like a gimlet.\n\nIsabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant.\nBut her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and she wished\nto gain a moment. \"Ah yes--the House of Lords and all that.\"\n\n\"He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. At least\nhe's thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he's engaged to be married.\"\n\n\"Ah, to be married!\" Isabel mildly exclaimed.\n\n\"Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know.\nPoor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I believe it's to take place\nvery soon.\n\n\"And who's the young lady?\"\n\n\"A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something of\nthat sort.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad,\" Isabel said. \"It must be a sudden decision.\"\n\n\"Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just\nbeen made public.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad,\" Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her\naunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness,\nand the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this\nkind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone\nalmost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that\nladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as\nan offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show\nthat however that might be in general she was not offended now. But\nmeanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some\nmoments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's observation--it\nwas not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed\nhalf Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the\ncity of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord\nWarburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course\nnot aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this\nintellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her\naunt: \"He was sure to do it some time or other.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the\nhead. \"Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!\" she cried suddenly. They went on\nwith their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord\nWarburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was\nall over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A\nservant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him\nto leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her\nhands folded on the edge of the table. \"I should like to ask you three\nquestions,\" she observed when the servant had gone.\n\n\"Three are a great many.\"\n\n\"I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good ones.\"\n\n\"That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst,\" Isabel\nanswered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left\nthe table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows,\nshe felt herself followed by her eyes.\n\n\"Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton?\" Mrs.\nTouchett enquired.\n\nIsabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. \"No, dear aunt.\"\n\n\"Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say.\"\n\n\"Your believing me's an immense temptation,\" she declared, smiling\nstill.\n\n\"A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm\nmisinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow\nover you.\"\n\n\"It's my husband who doesn't get on with me,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing over YOU,\"\nMrs. Touchett added. \"Do you still like Serena Merle?\" she went on.\n\n\"Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going to America.\"\n\n\"To America? She must have done something very bad.\"\n\n\"Yes--very bad.\"\n\n\"May I ask what it is?\"\n\n\"She made a convenience of me.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" cried Mrs. Touchett, \"so she did of me! She does of every one.\"\n\n\"She'll make a convenience of America,\" said Isabel, smiling again and\nglad that her aunt's questions were over.\n\nIt was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been\ndozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor was\nthere, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attended\nhis father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he\nwas deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope,\nbut he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had asked his\nmother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without further\nneed of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew\nthat her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no\nsign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raised\nhimself and said he knew that she had come.\n\nHow he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no\none had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in\nthe dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a corner of the room.\nShe told the nurse she might go--she herself would sit with him for the\nrest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had\nmoved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take\nit. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained\nperfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a\nlong time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He\nmight have passed away while she looked at him; he was already the\nfigure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome,\nand this was worse; there was but one change possible now. There was a\nstrange tranquillity in his face; it was as still as the lid of a box.\nWith this he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his eyes to\ngreet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was\nnot till midnight that the nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel,\nhad not seemed long; it was exactly what she had come for. If she had\ncome simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in\na kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to\nwish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as\nif he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly would\ncome. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming\nhad already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were\nstill together. But they were not always together; there were other\nhours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening\nfor a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she\nthought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained\nsilent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the Countess\nGemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day.\n\n\"I feel better to-night,\" he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless\ndimness of her vigil; \"I think I can say something.\" She sank upon her\nknees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him\nnot to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity\nserious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner\napparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. \"What does it\nmatter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in\nmaking an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't people always\nfeel better just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what I\nwas waiting for. Ever since you've been here I thought it would come.\nI tried two or three times; I was afraid you'd get tired of sitting\nthere.\" He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voice\nseemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face\nturned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. \"It\nwas very good of you to come,\" he went on. \"I thought you would; but I\nwasn't sure.\"\n\n\"I was not sure either till I came,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about the\nangel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You've been like that;\nas if you were waiting for me.\"\n\n\"I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This is\nnot death, dear Ralph.\"\n\n\"Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see\nothers die. That's the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I've\nhad it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others. With me\nit's all over.\" And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till\nit rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't\nsee him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. \"Isabel,\" he\nwent on suddenly, \"I wish it were over for you.\" She answered nothing;\nshe had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay\nsilent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. \"Ah, what\nis it you have done for me?\"\n\n\"What is it you did for me?\" she cried, her now extreme agitation half\nsmothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide\nthings. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them\nsupremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. \"You did\nsomething once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have\nI done for you--what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live.\nBut I don't wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you.\" Her\nvoice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish.\n\n\"You won't lose me--you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be\nnearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in\nlife there's love. Death is good--but there's no love.\"\n\n\"I never thanked you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!\"\nIsabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse\nherself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the\nmoment, became single and melted together into this present pain. \"What\nmust you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I\nonly know to-day because there are people less stupid than I.\"\n\n\"Don't mind people,\" said Ralph. \"I think I'm glad to leave people.\"\n\nShe raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to\npray to him. \"Is it true--is it true?\" she asked.\n\n\"True that you've been stupid? Oh no,\" said Ralph with a sensible\nintention of wit.\n\n\"That you made me rich--that all I have is yours?\"\n\nHe turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last:\n\"Ah, don't speak of that--that was not happy.\" Slowly he moved his face\ntoward her again, and they once more saw each other. \"But for that--but\nfor that--!\" And he paused. \"I believe I ruined you,\" he wailed.\n\nShe was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he\nseemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had\nit she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only\nknowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were\nlooking at the truth together.\n\n\"He married me for the money,\" she said. She wished to say everything;\nshe was afraid he might die before she had done so. He gazed at her a\nlittle, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he\nraised them in a moment, and then, \"He was greatly in love with you,\" he\nanswered.\n\n\"Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I had\nbeen poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you\nto understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that's\nall over.\"\n\n\"I always understood,\" said Ralph.\n\n\"I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it.\"\n\n\"You don't hurt me--you make me very happy.\" And as Ralph said this\nthere was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her\nhead again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. \"I always\nunderstood,\" he continued, \"though it was so strange--so pitiful. You\nwanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you\nwere punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the\nconventional!\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I've been punished,\" Isabel sobbed.\n\nHe listened to her a little, and then continued: \"Was he very bad about\nyour coming?\"\n\n\"He made it very hard for me. But I don't care.\"\n\n\"It is all over then between you?\"\n\n\"Oh no; I don't think anything's over.\"\n\n\"Are you going back to him?\" Ralph gasped.\n\n\"I don't know--I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don't\nwant to think--I needn't think. I don't care for anything but you, and\nthat's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my\nknees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for a\nlong time. And I want you to be happy--not to think of anything sad;\nonly to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why should there be\npain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not\nthe deepest thing; there's something deeper.\"\n\nRalph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in\nspeaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared\nto make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then\nhe murmured simply: \"You must stay here.\"\n\n\"I should like to stay--as long as seems right.\"\n\n\"As seems right--as seems right?\" He repeated her words. \"Yes, you think\na great deal about that.\"\n\n\"Of course one must. You're very tired,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest thing.\nNo--no. But it's very deep. If I could stay--\"\n\n\"For me you'll always be here,\" she softly interrupted. It was easy to\ninterrupt him.\n\nBut he went on, after a moment: \"It passes, after all; it's passing now.\nBut love remains. I don't know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I\nshall find out. There are many things in life. You're very young.\"\n\n\"I feel very old,\" said Isabel.\n\n\"You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe--I don't\nbelieve--\" But he stopped again; his strength failed him.\n\nShe begged him to be quiet now. \"We needn't speak to understand each\nother,\" she said.\n\n\"I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for\nmore than a little.\"\n\n\"Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now,\" she cried through her tears.\n\n\"And remember this,\" he continued, \"that if you've been hated\nyou've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--ADORED!\" he just audibly and\nlingeringly breathed.\n\n\"Oh my brother!\" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.\n\n\n\n\n\nHe had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that\nif she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost\nwith which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled\nthe necessary condition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint\ndawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down\nwithout undressing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlast\nthe night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and such\nwaiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as the\nnight wore on she should hear a knock at her door. She heard no knock,\nbut at the time the darkness began vaguely to grow grey she started up\nfrom her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed\nto her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hovering\nfigure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his\nwhite face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was not\nafraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty\npassed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that\nshone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph's door she\nstopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that\nfilled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were\nlifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting\nmotionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his\nhands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's\nfurther wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were\nat the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but\nthe doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand\nin a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very\nhard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had\ncome to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there\nwas a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years\nbefore, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt\nand put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing\nneither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this\none, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed;\nher acute white face was terrible.\n\n\"Dear Aunt Lydia,\" Isabel murmured.\n\n\"Go and thank God you've no child,\" said Mrs. Touchett, disengaging\nherself.\n\nThree days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the\nheight of the London \"season,\" to take a morning train down to a quiet\nstation in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which\nstood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this\nedifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself\nat the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton\nhimself had not a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs.\nTouchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one;\nthere was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. The weather\nhad changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherous\nMay-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the\nhawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it\nwas not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had been\ndying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected and\nprepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears\nthat blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the\nsplendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the\nbowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group\nof gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards\nlearned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom she\nknew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling\nbeside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the\nrest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was\nconscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than\nhe usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon\nthe churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she\nthought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She found\nshe had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt\nhe had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that\npleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and\nsomething in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complex\nintention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtless\nsympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the\nlittle group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to\nher--though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett--was Henrietta Stackpole.\nHenrietta had been crying.\n\nRalph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at Gardencourt,\nand she made no immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herself\nthat it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was\nfortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been\ngreatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had\nleft her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting\nthe hours of her absence; in such a case one needed an excellent motive.\nHe was not one of the best husbands, but that didn't alter the case.\nCertain obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were\nquite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel\nthought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a\ndistance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder\nof Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew\nback into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day,\npostponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must\ndecide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a\ndecision. On that occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no sound\nand now evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. From\nPansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told\nher not to write.\n\nMrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance;\nshe appeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but\nwith perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs.\nTouchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences she\nmanaged to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexion\nthat, after all, such things happened to other people and not to\nherself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's\ndeath, not her own; she had never flattered herself that her own would\nbe disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off than\npoor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind him,\nand indeed all the security; since the worst of dying was, to Mrs.\nTouchett's mind, that it exposed one to be taken advantage of. For\nherself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that. She\nmade known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son was\nburied--several of Ralph's testamentary arrangements. He had told her\neverything, had consulted her about everything. He left her no money;\nof course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture of\nGardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of the\nplace for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced by\nthe sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor persons\nsuffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the\nwill Lord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property,\nwhich was to be withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various\nbequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his\nfather had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small\nlegacies.\n\n\"Some of them are extremely peculiar,\" said Mrs. Touchett; \"he has left\nconsiderable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I\nasked then who some of them were, and he told me they were people who at\nvarious times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn't\nlike him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you\nhad been handsomely treated by his father, which I'm bound to say I\nthink you were--though I don't mean that I ever heard him complain of\nit. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one\nby one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes to\nLord Warburton. And what do you think he has done with his library?\nIt sounds like a practical joke. He has left it to your friend Miss\nStackpole--'in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he mean\nher following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It\ncontains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry\nit about the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction.\nShe will sell it of course at Christie's, and with the proceeds she'll\nset up a newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?\"\n\nThis question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little\ninterrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her\narrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature than\nto-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf one\nof the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She\nwas quite unable to read; her attention had never been so little at her\ncommand. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ceremony\nin the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyes\noften wandered from the book in her hand to the open window, which\nlooked down the long avenue. It was in this way that she saw a modest\nvehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, in\nrather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had\na high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under\nthe circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come down\nfrom London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett\nhe had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the\nvalidity of this thesis Isabel presently stepped out of the house and\nwandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she\nhad been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for\nvisiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first it\nstruck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory I have just\nmentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and\nif you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad\nconscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an\nhour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge\nfrom the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently\nproposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. She\nwas in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would have\ndrawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seen\nand that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt\nwas a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that,\nas he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather\nstiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently\nwere silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed it\ntoward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemed to say\nwith cutting sharpness: \"Here's the eminently amenable nobleman you\nmight have married!\" When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however,\nthat was not what they said. They only said \"This is rather awkward, you\nknow, and I depend upon you to help me.\" He was very grave, very proper\nand, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her without\na smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile.\nHe looked extremely selfconscious.\n\n\"Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me,\" said Mrs.\nTouchett. \"He tells me he didn't know you were still here. I know he's\nan old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house I\nbrought him out to see for himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back\nin time for dinner,\" Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly\nexplained. \"I'm so glad to find you've not gone.\"\n\n\"I'm not here for long, you know,\" Isabel said with a certain eagerness.\n\n\"I suppose not; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came to England\nsooner than--a--than you thought?\"\n\n\"Yes, I came very suddenly.\"\n\nMrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of the\ngrounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburton\nhesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of asking\nabout her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. He\ncontinued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a\nplace over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If\nhe was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortunate that he had\nthe cover of the former motive; he could make the most of that. Isabel\nthought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that was\nanother matter; but it was strangely inexpressive.\n\n\"My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were\nstill here--if they had thought you would see them,\" Lord Warburton went\non. \"Do kindly let them see you before you leave England.\"\n\n\"It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of\nthem.\"\n\n\"I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or two?\nYou know there's always that old promise.\" And his lordship coloured a\nlittle as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat more\nfamiliar air. \"Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of course\nyou're not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a\nvisit. My sisters are to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide for five days;\nand if you could come then--as you say you're not to be very long in\nEngland--I would see that there should be literally no one else.\"\n\nIsabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be\nthere with her mamma; but she did not express this idea.\n\n\"Thank you extremely,\" she contented herself with saying; \"I'm afraid I\nhardly know about Whitsuntide.\"\n\n\"But I have your promise--haven't I?--for some other time.\"\n\nThere was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She looked\nat her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation was\nthat--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. \"Take care you\ndon't miss your train,\" she said. And then she added: \"I wish you every\nhappiness.\"\n\nHe blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch. \"Ah yes,\n6.40; I haven't much time, but I've a fly at the door. Thank you very\nmuch.\" It was not apparent whether the thanks applied to her having\nreminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. \"Good-bye,\nMrs. Osmond; good-bye.\" He shook hands with her, without meeting her\neyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back to\nthem. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a moment the two\nladies saw him move with long steps across the lawn.\n\n\"Are you very sure he's to be married?\" Isabel asked of her aunt.\n\n\"I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, and\nhe accepted it.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Isabel, \"I give it up!\"--while her aunt returned to the house\nand to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted.\n\nShe gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while she\nstrolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon the\nacres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself near a\nrustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as\nan object recognised. It was not simply that she had seen it before,\nnor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this spot something\nimportant had happened to her--that the place had an air of association.\nThen she remembered that she had been sitting there, six years before,\nwhen a servant brought her from the house the letter in which Caspar\nGoodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and that when\nshe had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcing\nthat he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, an\ninteresting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might have\nsomething to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now--she felt\nrather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the\npast came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which\npersons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this\nagitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence\nof which she overcame her scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I have\nsaid that she was restless and unable to occupy herself; and whether or\nno, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of the\nformer epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this moment\nshe was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular\nabsence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in\nthe folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her.\nThere was nothing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their\nseclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she\nhad sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilight\nhad grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She\nquickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what had\nbecome of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood,\nwho stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the\nunresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to her\nin the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprised\nher of old.\n\nShe instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he started\nforward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that looked\nlike violence, but felt like--she knew not what, he grasped her by the\nwrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had\nnot hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was\nsomething in his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he\nhad looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at present\nit was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to\nher--beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. It almost\nseemed to her that no one had ever been so close to her as that.\nAll this, however, took but an instant, at the end of which she had\ndisengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. \"You've\nfrightened me,\" she said.\n\n\"I didn't mean to,\" he answered, \"but if I did a little, no matter.\nI came from London a while ago by the train, but I couldn't come here\ndirectly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me. He took\na fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I\ndon't know who he was, but I didn't want to come with him; I wanted to\nsee you alone. So I've been waiting and walking about. I've walked all\nover, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There was\na keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I\nhad made his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Is that\ngentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you.\" Goodwood\nspoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome.\nIsabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into\nherself as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out\nsail. She had a new sensation; he had never produced it before; it was\na feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in his\nresolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee,\nleaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The twilight seemed\nto darken round them. \"I want to speak to you,\" he repeated; \"I've\nsomething particular to say. I don't want to trouble you--as I did\nthe other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. I\ncouldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please\ndon't think I am,\" he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment\ninto entreaty. \"I came here to-day for a purpose. It's very different.\nIt was vain for me to speak to you then; but now I can help you.\"\n\nShe couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or\nbecause such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she\nlistened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep\ninto her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and\nit was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. \"How can you\nhelp me?\" she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what he had\nsaid seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence.\n\n\"By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you remember\nwhat I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I\nknow on good authority; everything's clear to me to-day. It was a good\nthing when you made me come away with your cousin. He was a good man,\na fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. He\nexplained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a member of\nyour family and he left you--so long as you should be in England--to my\ncare,\" said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. \"Do you know\nwhat he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where he\ndied? He said: 'Do everything you can for her; do everything she'll let\nyou.'\"\n\nIsabel suddenly got up. \"You had no business to talk about me!\"\n\n\"Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?\" he demanded, following\nher fast. \"And he was dying--when a man's dying it's different.\" She\nchecked the movement she had made to leave him; she was listening more\nthan ever; it was true that he was not the same as that last time. That\nhad been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea,\nwhich she scented in all her being. \"But it doesn't matter!\" he\nexclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem\nof her garment. \"If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should have\nknown all the same. I had only to look at you at your cousin's funeral\nto see what's the matter with you. You can't deceive me any more; for\nGod's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you. You're the\nmost unhappy of women, and your husband's the deadliest of fiends.\"\n\nShe turned on him as if he had struck her. \"Are you mad?\" she cried.\n\n\"I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't think it's\nnecessary to defend him. But I won't say another word against him; I'll\nspeak only of you,\" Goodwood added quickly. \"How can you pretend you're\nnot heart-broken? You don't know what to do--you don't know where to\nturn. It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all that behind you\nin Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it too--what it\nwould cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say it\nwill\"--and he flared almost into anger: \"give me one word of truth! When\nI know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save\nyou? What would you think of me if I should stand still and see you\ngo back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay for\nit!'--that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? He\nwas such a near relation!\" cried Goodwood, making his queer grim point\nagain. \"I'd sooner have been shot than let another man say those things\nto me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was\nafter he got home--when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too.\nI understand all about it: you're afraid to go back. You're perfectly\nalone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you know\nthat perfectly. Now it is therefore that I want you to think of ME.\"\n\n\"To think of 'you'?\" Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk. The\nidea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomed\nlarge. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if it had\nbeen a comet in the sky.\n\n\"You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade\nyou to trust me,\" Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining\neyes. \"Why should you go back--why should you go through that ghastly\nform?\"\n\n\"To get away from you!\" she answered. But this expressed only a little\nof what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She\nhad believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the\ndesert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere\nsweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her\nfeet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and\nstrange, forced open her set teeth.\n\nAt first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that\nhe would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he was\nperfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned it\nall out. \"I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you'll only for\nonce listen to me. It's too monstrous of you to think of sinking back\ninto that misery, of going to open your mouth to that poisoned air. It's\nyou that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why\nshouldn't we be happy--when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'm\nyours for ever--for ever and ever. Here I stand; I'm as firm as a rock.\nWhat have you to care about? You've no children; that perhaps would be\nan obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. You must save what you\ncan of your life; you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a\npart. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care for the look\nof the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the\nworld. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look\nat things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next\nis nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a woman\ndeliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in going\ndown into the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and\nthat's why I'm here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom under\nthe sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what is it that\nhas the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a\nquestion is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were we\nborn to rot in our misery--were we born to be afraid? I never knew YOU\nafraid! If you'll only trust me, how little you will be disappointed!\nThe world's all before us--and the world's very big. I know something\nabout that.\"\n\nIsabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were\npressing something that hurt her.\n\n\"The world's very small,\" she said at random; she had an immense\ndesire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say\nsomething; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth, had never\nseemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form\nof a mighty sea, where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted\nhelp, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not\nwhether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then\nthat to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her\ndying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which she\nfelt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat with her\nfeet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to rest on.\n\n\"Ah, be mine as I'm yours!\" she heard her companion cry. He had suddenly\ngiven up argument, and his voice seemed to come, harsh and terrible,\nthrough a confusion of vaguer sounds.\n\nThis however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the\nmetaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest\nof it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware of\nthis. \"Do me the greatest kindness of all,\" she panted. \"I beseech you\nto go away!\"\n\n\"Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!\" he cried.\n\nShe clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. \"As you love\nme, as you pity me, leave me alone!\"\n\nHe glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she\nfelt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like\nwhite lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and\nit was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in\nhis hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his\nface, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and\nmade one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked\nand under water following a train of images before they sink. But when\ndarkness returned she was free. She never looked about her; she only\ndarted from the spot. There were lights in the windows of the house;\nthey shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--for\nthe distance was considerable--she had moved through the darkness (for\nshe saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only she paused. She looked\nall about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the\nlatch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a\nvery straight path.\n\nTwo days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in\nWimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings.\nHe had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened\nand Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and\njacket; she was on the point of going out. \"Oh, good-morning,\" he said,\n\"I was in hopes I should find Mrs. Osmond.\"\n\nHenrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a good\ndeal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. \"Pray\nwhat led you to suppose she was here?\"\n\n\"I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she\nhad come to London. He believed she was to come to you.\"\n\nAgain Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--in\nsuspense. \"She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this\nmorning she started for Rome.\"\n\nCaspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the\ndoorstep. \"Oh, she started--?\" he stammered. And without finishing\nhis phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn't\notherwise move.\n\nHenrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out\nher hand and grasped his arm. \"Look here, Mr. Goodwood,\" she said; \"just\nyou wait!\"\n\nOn which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with a\nrevulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood shining at him\nwith that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to his\nlife. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now\nthe key to patience.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": [{"source": "gradesaver", "text": "The novel opens with an American son and father, Ralph and Mr. Touchett, and one English man, Lord Warburton, sitting in a garden belonging to a manor called Gardencourt in England. They discuss the great hope of the future, and they believe it lies in the women of their time. They declare that a change is coming. Isabel Archer, the main subject of the novel, then appears on the horizon. Her aunt, Mrs. Touchett, has brought her from America so that she can see the world. Isabel Archer is a young, opinionated woman with many ideas of her own, but little concrete experience or practical knowledge. She is unattached, ambitious and wants to assert her own unique self in life. It is unclear though what she can do in life that could help her realize her ambition. The novel is a representation of the ambitions of a young woman, and her dismal prospects for realizing her own ideas in a restricted, conventional society. Marriage was often the only possibility for a woman to assert her \"success\" in society. It is also an exploration of the possibilities of freedom: can one really be a unique, original and free self, without having to rely upon the generosity of others? Can one assert one's own freedom in any other way, other than negatively, by rejecting other people? What does it mean to be an original? What does it mean to be free? How much does one have to take into account the moral claims of other people on one's own person? Lord Warburton takes an extraordinary step by proposing marriage to Isabel Archer after knowing her for only a short time. He has a great reputation, name, title and plenty of money. This would make him a good husband in the eyes of society. However, Isabel takes the surprising step of turning him down, even though she likes him very much as a person. This makes her very interesting to her cousin Ralph Touchett, who wants to see what a woman who turns down Lord Warburton will do with her life. Ralph and Isabel go with Isabel's American friend, Henrietta Stackpole, to London for a short trip. There, Caspar Goodwood, Isabel's suitor from America, has arrived in order to follow Isabel. He also would like to marry Isabel. He also has a lot of money and has become well established because of his involvement in the cotton industry. Isabel tries to refuse him, but he insists. She tells him to at least give her two years of freedom from him. The group returns to Gardencourt, where Ralph Touchett's father has taken ill and is about to die. There, Isabel meets Madame Merle, a friend of Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle is a very graceful and talented socialite. Isabel is impressed with her. Meanwhile, Ralph Touchett, who has consumption and expects to die young, tells his father that he does not need all the money his father would leave him in his will. Instead, Ralph insists that his father give half of his money to Isabel Archer upon his death. Ralph tells his father he would like to see what Isabel will do when she is granted the material wealth that will allow her to enact her ideas. Upon Mr. Touchett's death, Mrs. Touchett, Isabel, Ralph, and Madame Merle go to Florence, Italy, where Mrs. Touchett has her own house. Madame Merle introduces Isabel to her friend Gilbert Osmond, an American collector who resides in Florence. He is distinguished by his impeccable taste in art and other commodities. Gilbert Osmond also has a daughter named Pansy. Madame Merle has a plan to get Isabel to marry Gilbert Osmond. Isabel is surprisingly timid in Osmond's presence and is afraid of saying the wrong thing in his presence. Isabel travels around Europe for half a year, and then goes to Greece and the Asia Minor for another half with Madame Merle. She ends her journey in Rome, where Gilbert Osmond comes to visit her. They become engaged in Rome. Isabel then informs her social acquaintances, beginning with Caspar Goodwood, of her intention to marry Gilbert Osmond. None of them approve. Isabel feels that her act of marrying Gilbert Osmond isolates her from her friends. Several years later, Isabel finds herself in a loveless marriage. She gives all the appearance to others of being happy, hosting Thursday evening social gatherings and \"representing\" Gilbert Osmond to the world. But she feels that her husband detests her. He has been unable to change her, to mold her into his image. However they do not ever articulate their dislike for each other; they live civilly, but coolly. Isabel realizes that Osmond is really very shallow, and cares too much about what other people think. He likes to show his superiority to the world by pretending to reject its values in favor of his own ideas, but this is just a show, because he deeply cares about his own image. When Gilbert Osmond's daughter, Pansy, comes of age to be wed, an impetuous young man named Edward Rosier pursues her. He asks for assistance from Madame Merle and Isabel. However, Gilbert Osmond believes that Mr. Rosier is neither rich enough for his daughter, nor well respected enough. Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle would like Isabel to help them marry Pansy to Lord Warburton. They want Isabel to use Lord Warburton's devotion to Isabel to accomplish this. Isabel ultimately does not want to bring this about, making Osmond believe that she has secretly defied him. Meanwhile, Ralph has taken a turn for the worse. He visits in Rome for a while, and Osmond is displeased that Isabel spends a lot of time with him. Ralph then returns to his home in Gardencourt, where he plans to take his final resting place. Isabel's friends come to Rome to observe whether or not she is really happy in this marriage of which they all disapproved. Isabel begins to suspect, from Madame Merle's overzealous interest in Pansy's marriage, that Madame Merle has meddled in her affairs. She then learns from Osmond's sister that Madame Merle is in fact Pansy's mother, and that Osmond and Madame Merle once had an extramarital affair with each other. Isabel is shocked and horrified to realize that Merle has actually manipulated her into marrying Osmond, and that Osmond has married her for her husband. Isabel's discovery of this fact makes her question whether or not she really was capable of making a free choice all on her own. She realizes that her own life is too mixed up in the affairs of others - in order to be free, she must acknowledge the way her life is entangled in social relations with other people. Isabel openly defies her husband when she returns to Gardencourt to say goodbye to Ralph on his deathbed. Osmond has meanwhile sent his daughter Pansy to a convent, so as to make her forget her love for Edward Rosier. Isabel promises Pansy that she will return. Isabel learns from Madame Merle that Ralph was the one who made her a rich woman. Upon his deathbed, Ralph confesses to having ruined Isabel by giving her so much money and making her a target for fortune hunters. Isabel and Ralph though share an intimate moment and stress the importance of one another for each other's lives. The novel concludes with Caspar Goodwood's arrival at Gardencourt, and his suggestion to Isabel that they begin a love affair, since Isabel is so unhappy in her marriage. She refuses and runs away, to return to her husband and Pansy in Rome. This novel explores the nature of human freedom, moral choice, and conventional social relations. What does it mean to be free? How should the needs of others factor into our lives? What does it mean to be deceptive to others? It also explores the significance of the aesthetic approach to objects. Aesthetics is the philosophical exploration of beauty: what makes something beautiful? And what makes something a work of art? Henry James is considering how we might use the aesthetic approach in our relationships to other people. Is it wrong to see another person as a work of art? What can we learn from reading the story of a person as if it were a \"portrait\" of a lady?", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "shmoop", "text": "Isabel Archer, a young, beautiful, and decidedly interesting American girl, arrives in England after being \"discovered\" in Albany by her eccentric aunt, Mrs. Touchett. Upon arrival at the Touchett home, Gardencourt, a spacious estate in southern England, she takes a keen liking to her uncle, Mr. Touchett, her cousin Ralph, and assorted dogs. A family friend, Lord Warburton, is also present - he's immediately interested in her. Shortly thereafter, the smitten nobleman proposes to Isabel, but, despite his personal and financial charms, she turns him down.It seems that Isabel is in high demand - another suitor named Caspar Goodwood arrives from Boston to continue to woo her. Another of Isabel's American friends, an adventurous young lady journalist named Henrietta Stackpole, also arrives on the scene, eager to report on European life to her newspaper stateside. Isabel, Henrietta, and Ralph take a field trip to London for some time, where Isabel encounters Caspar Goodwood, who also proposes. Despite her attraction to him, Isabel turns her American suitor down as well.Henrietta flounces off elsewhere, and Isabel and Ralph return to Gardencourt, where Mr. Touchett's health is failing. There, Isabel meets Madame Merle, an old friend of Mrs. Touchett's, and the two become fast friends. Sadly, old Mr. Touchett dies, but not before Ralph convinces him to leave Isabel a fortune, so that she may live as she chooses. After Mr. Touchett's death and the subsequent divvying up of money, Madame Merle takes an interest in Isabel and introduces her to a rather mysterious acquaintance, Gilbert Osmond.Osmond is a little on the creepy side, but still fascinating . He's a smart, seductive man of the world. Osmond is a passionate collector of beautiful things: including art, furniture, and his lovely and innocent adolescent daughter, Pansy. Isabel's family and friends begin to wonder if this strange man intends to make Isabel a part of his collection...And, he does. After two years, Isabel and Osmond are married and live in a gorgeous old palace in Rome. We learn that Isabel had a baby, but the child died after six months. Isabel is wholly miserable in her marriage, but she is too proud to show her mistake to anyone. She isolates herself from her dearest friends, including Ralph, whose health is steadily declining. Osmond controls her life, and takes from Isabel the most important thing she possessed: her independence.When Lord Warburton and Ralph come visit the unhappy family in Rome, we see just how controlling Osmond is; he is unhappy when Isabel even visits her ailing cousin in his hotel, and makes his anger known. He gives her the chance to do something to make him happy - get Lord Warburton to marry Pansy. However, with Isabel's encouragement, Lord Warburton decides against the match, since Pansy is in love with someone else. Osmond is furious at Isabel for failing him in this task. The news that Ralph is dying back in England and wants Isabel to come see him one last time makes matters worse - Osmond refuses to let his wife go.Sensing the weaknesses in their relationship, Osmond's sister, Countess Gemini, lets slip a horrifying fact. Isabel suddenly learns that she was always simply a pawn in Osmond and Madame Merle's warped game. The two of them never acted in Isabel's interest, nor did they act out of any love for her. Rather, by ensnaring Isabel in marriage, they wanted to ensure that Pansy, who is actually their illegitimate daughter, would be set for life. Stunned, Isabel visits Ralph before he dies. While she's away from home, Caspar Goodwood professes his love for her one last time, but Isabel chooses to return to Rome , rather than escape with him.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "cliffnotes", "text": "Isabel Archer's aunt comes to America after the death of Isabel's father in order to take her niece to Europe. On her arrival in England, Isabel meets her cousin Ralph, her uncle, Mr. Touchett, and the great nobleman of the area, Lord Warburton, who immediately falls in love with her. After a short time, Warburton proposes to Isabel, but she turns him down, maintaining that she cherishes her freedom and independence too much to marry. A short time later, her journalist friend Henrietta Stackpole arrives in England and tells Isabel that her American suitor Caspar Goodwood has followed Isabel to England. During a visit to London, Isabel encounters Caspar Goodwood, who tries to convince her that she should marry him. Again, Isabel says that she must have time to see the world and make a few independent judgments. She promises Goodwood that she will discuss the subject again in two years. He leaves, promising to remain in America for this time. While in London, Isabel hears of the sickness of her uncle. She returns to his home, Gardencourt, where she finds him dying. She also finds another guest, Madame Merle, an old friend of Mrs. Touchett's. During the long days when the house is involved with sickness, Isabel and Madame Merle become good friends. Ralph Touchett knows that his father plans to leave him a huge fortune, but he also knows that he is slowly dying himself and does not need much money. He therefore convinces his father to leave some of his fortune to Isabel. After Mr. Touchett's death, Isabel becomes a great heiress. She continues to travel with her aunt and they go to Mrs. Touchett's home in Florence, Italy. Here, Madame Merle introduces Isabel to her old friend Gilbert Osmond. Madame Merle has already instructed Osmond to be nice to Isabel because she thinks that Gilbert should marry her. After some time, Isabel believes that she is in love with Osmond. She maintains her independence by refusing to listen to any advice. Everyone is opposed to her marrying Osmond because all feel that he is a worthless fortune hunter. Some years later, Isabel knows that she has made a mistake. Gilbert Osmond, now her husband, has tried to break Isabel's independent nature and has tried to make her obey his every wish. He wants Isabel to be as quiet and obedient as is his daughter. Pansy, the daughter, has been brought up in a convent and has been taught to obey her father in everything. Thus when the father disapproves of the young man that Pansy is in love with, she must submit to his wishes. When Isabel receives a letter telling her that her cousin Ralph is dying, she wants to go to England to visit him. Osmond opposes the trip because it would not look proper. At this time, Isabel discovers that Pansy is actually the illegitimate child of Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond. She then realizes that her friend Madame Merle tricked her into an imprudent marriage with Osmond, and with this knowledge Isabel leaves for England in spite of her husband's disapproval. In England, she confesses the mistake she made in marrying Osmond, and Caspar Goodwood pleads with her to leave her husband. Isabel, however, feels that she cannot forsake the sacred bonds of marriage and feels that Pansy needs her help. She therefore decides to return to Osmond in spite of her dislike for him.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "sparknotes", "text": "Isabel Archer is a woman in her early twenties who comes from a genteel family in Albany, New York, in the late 1860s. Her mother died when she was a young girl, and her father raised her in a haphazard manner, allowing her to educate herself and encouraging her independence. As a result, the adult Isabel is widely read, imaginative, confident in her own mind, and slightly narcissistic; she has the reputation in Albany for being a formidable intellect, and as a result she often seems intimidating to men. She has had few suitors, but one of them is Caspar Goodwood, the powerful, charismatic son of a wealthy Boston mill owner. Isabel is drawn to Caspar, but her commitment to her independence makes her fear him as well, for she feels that to marry him would be to sacrifice her freedom. Shortly after Isabel's father dies, she receives a visit from her indomitable aunt, Mrs. Touchett, an American who lives in Europe. Mrs. Touchett offers to take Isabel on a trip to Europe, and Isabel eagerly agrees, telling Caspar that she cannot tell him whether she wishes to marry him until she has had at least a year to travel in Europe with her aunt. Isabel and Mrs. Touchett leave for England, where Mrs. Touchett's estranged husband is a powerful banker. Isabel makes a strong impression on everyone at Mr. Touchett's county manor of Gardencourt: her cousin Ralph, slowly dying of a lung disorder, becomes deeply devoted to her, and the Touchetts' aristocratic neighbor Lord Warburton falls in love with her. Warburton proposes, but Isabel declines; though she fears that she is passing up a great social opportunity by not marrying Warburton, she still believes that marriage would damage her treasured independence. As a result, she pledges to accomplish something wonderful with her life, something that will justify her decision to reject Warburton. Isabel's friend Henrietta Stackpole, an American journalist, believes that Europe is changing Isabel, slowly eroding her American values and replacing them with romantic idealism. Henrietta comes to Gardencourt and secretly arranges for Caspar Goodwood to meet Isabel in London. Goodwood again presses Isabel to marry him; this time, she tells him she needs at least two years before she can answer him, and she promises him nothing. She is thrilled to have exercised her independence so forcefully. Mr. Touchett's health declines, and Ralph convinces him that when he dies, he should leave half his wealth to Isabel: this will protect her independence and ensure that she will never have to marry for money. Mr. Touchett agrees shortly before he dies. Isabel is left with a large fortune for the first time in her life. Her inheritance piques the interest of Madame Merle, Mrs. Touchett's polished, elegant friend; Madame Merle begins to lavish attention on Isabel, and the two women become close friends. Isabel travels to Florence with Mrs. Touchett and Madame Merle; Merle introduces Isabel to a man named Gilbert Osmond, a man of no social standing or wealth, but whom Merle describes as one of the finest gentlemen in Europe, wholly devoted to art and aesthetics. Osmond's daughter Pansy is being brought up in a convent; his wife is dead. In secret, Osmond and Merle have a mysterious relationship; Merle is attempting to manipulate Isabel into marrying Osmond so that he will have access to her fortune. Osmond is pleased to marry Isabel, not only for her money, but also because she makes a fine addition to his collection of art objects. Everyone in Isabel's world disapproves of Osmond, especially Ralph, but Isabel chooses to marry him anyway. She has a child the year after they are married, but the boy dies six months after he is born. Three years into their marriage, Isabel and Osmond have come to despise one another; they live with Pansy in a palazzo in Rome, where Osmond treats Isabel as barely a member of the family: to him, she is a social hostess and a source of wealth, and he is annoyed by her independence and her insistence on having her own opinions. Isabel chafes against Osmond's arrogance, his selfishness, and his sinister desire to crush her individuality, but she does not consider leaving him. For all her commitment to her independence, Isabel is also committed to her social duty, and when she married Osmond, she did so with the intention of transforming herself into a good wife. A young American art collector who lives in Paris, Edward Rosier, comes to Rome and falls in love with Pansy; Pansy returns his feelings. But Osmond is insistent that Pansy should marry a nobleman, and he says that Rosier is neither rich nor highborn enough. Matters grow complicated when Lord Warburton arrives on the scene and begins to court Pansy. Warburton is still in love with Isabel and wants to marry Pansy solely to get closer to her. But Osmond desperately wants to see Pansy married to Warburton. Isabel is torn about whether to fulfill her duty to her husband and help him arrange the match between Warburton and Pansy, or to fulfill the impulse of her conscience and discourage Warburton, while helping Pansy find a way to marry Rosier. At a ball one night, Isabel shows Warburton the dejected-looking Rosier and explains that this is the man who is in love with Pansy. Guiltily, Warburton admits that he is not in love with Pansy; he quietly arranges to leave Rome. Osmond is furious with Isabel, convinced that she is plotting intentionally to humiliate him. Madame Merle is also furious with her, confronting her with shocking impropriety and demanding brazenly to know what she did to Warburton. Isabel has realized that there is something mysterious about Madame Merle's relationship with her husband; now, she suddenly realizes that Merle is his lover. At this time, Ralph is rapidly deteriorating, and Isabel receives word that he is dying. She longs to travel to England to be with him, but Osmond forbids it. Now Isabel must struggle to decide whether to obey his command and remain true to her marriage vows or to disregard him and hurry to her cousin's bedside. Encouraging her to go, Osmond's sister, the Countess Gemini, tells her that there is still more to Merle and Osmond's relationship. Merle is Pansy's mother; Pansy was born out of wedlock. Osmond's wife died at about the same time, so Merle and Osmond spread the story that she died in childbirth. Pansy was placed in a convent to be raised, and she does not know that Merle is her real mother. Isabel is shocked and disgusted by her husband's atrocious behavior--she even feels sorry for Merle for falling under his spell--so she decides to follow her heart and travel to England. After Ralph's death, Isabel struggles to decide whether to return to her husband or not. She promised Pansy that she would return to Rome, and her commitment to social propriety impels her to go back and honor her marriage. But her independent spirit urges her to flee from Osmond and find happiness elsewhere. Caspar Goodwood appears at the funeral, and afterwards, he asks Isabel to run away with him and forget about her husband. The next day, unable to find her, Goodwood asks Henrietta where she has gone. Henrietta quietly tells him that Isabel has returned to Rome, unable to break away from her marriage to Gilbert Osmond.", "analysis": ""}]}
{"bid": "1232", "title": "The Prince", "text": "\nAll states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been\nand are either republics or principalities.\n\nPrincipalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long\nestablished; or they are new.\n\nThe new are either entirely new, as was Milan to Francesco Sforza, or\nthey are, as it were, members annexed to the hereditary state of the\nprince who has acquired them, as was the kingdom of Naples to that of\nthe King of Spain.\n\nSuch dominions thus acquired are either accustomed to live under a\nprince, or to live in freedom; and are acquired either by the arms of\nthe prince himself, or of others, or else by fortune or by ability.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nI will leave out all discussion on republics, inasmuch as in another\nplace I have written of them at length, and will address myself only to\nprincipalities. In doing so I will keep to the order indicated above,\nand discuss how such principalities are to be ruled and preserved.\n\nI say at once there are fewer difficulties in holding hereditary states,\nand those long accustomed to the family of their prince, than new\nones; for it is sufficient only not to transgress the customs of his\nancestors, and to deal prudently with circumstances as they arise, for a\nprince of average powers to maintain himself in his state, unless he\nbe deprived of it by some extraordinary and excessive force; and if he\nshould be so deprived of it, whenever anything sinister happens to the\nusurper, he will regain it.\n\nWe have in Italy, for example, the Duke of Ferrara, who could not have\nwithstood the attacks of the Venetians in '84, nor those of Pope Julius\nin '10, unless he had been long established in his dominions. For the\nhereditary prince has less cause and less necessity to offend; hence it\nhappens that he will be more loved; and unless extraordinary vices cause\nhim to be hated, it is reasonable to expect that his subjects will be\nnaturally well disposed towards him; and in the antiquity and duration\nof his rule the memories and motives that make for change are lost, for\none change always leaves the toothing for another.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBut the difficulties occur in a new principality. And firstly, if it be\nnot entirely new, but is, as it were, a member of a state which, taken\ncollectively, may be called composite, the changes arise chiefly from\nan inherent difficulty which there is in all new principalities; for\nmen change their rulers willingly, hoping to better themselves, and this\nhope induces them to take up arms against him who rules: wherein they\nare deceived, because they afterwards find by experience they have\ngone from bad to worse. This follows also on another natural and common\nnecessity, which always causes a new prince to burden those who have\nsubmitted to him with his soldiery and with infinite other hardships\nwhich he must put upon his new acquisition.\n\nIn this way you have enemies in all those whom you have injured in\nseizing that principality, and you are not able to keep those friends\nwho put you there because of your not being able to satisfy them in the\nway they expected, and you cannot take strong measures against them,\nfeeling bound to them. For, although one may be very strong in armed\nforces, yet in entering a province one has always need of the goodwill\nof the natives.\n\nFor these reasons Louis the Twelfth, King of France, quickly occupied\nMilan, and as quickly lost it; and to turn him out the first time it\nonly needed Lodovico's own forces; because those who had opened the\ngates to him, finding themselves deceived in their hopes of future\nbenefit, would not endure the ill-treatment of the new prince. It is\nvery true that, after acquiring rebellious provinces a second time,\nthey are not so lightly lost afterwards, because the prince, with\nlittle reluctance, takes the opportunity of the rebellion to punish the\ndelinquents, to clear out the suspects, and to strengthen himself in the\nweakest places. Thus to cause France to lose Milan the first time it was\nenough for the Duke Lodovico(*) to raise insurrections on the borders;\nbut to cause him to lose it a second time it was necessary to bring\nthe whole world against him, and that his armies should be defeated and\ndriven out of Italy; which followed from the causes above mentioned.\n\n     (*) Duke Lodovico was Lodovico Moro, a son of Francesco\n     Sforza, who married Beatrice d'Este. He ruled over Milan\n     from 1494 to 1500, and died in 1510.\n\nNevertheless Milan was taken from France both the first and the second\ntime. The general reasons for the first have been discussed; it remains\nto name those for the second, and to see what resources he had, and what\nany one in his situation would have had for maintaining himself more\nsecurely in his acquisition than did the King of France.\n\nNow I say that those dominions which, when acquired, are added to an\nancient state by him who acquires them, are either of the same country\nand language, or they are not. When they are, it is easier to hold them,\nespecially when they have not been accustomed to self-government; and\nto hold them securely it is enough to have destroyed the family of the\nprince who was ruling them; because the two peoples, preserving in other\nthings the old conditions, and not being unlike in customs, will live\nquietly together, as one has seen in Brittany, Burgundy, Gascony, and\nNormandy, which have been bound to France for so long a time: and,\nalthough there may be some difference in language, nevertheless the\ncustoms are alike, and the people will easily be able to get on amongst\nthemselves. He who has annexed them, if he wishes to hold them, has only\nto bear in mind two considerations: the one, that the family of their\nformer lord is extinguished; the other, that neither their laws nor\ntheir taxes are altered, so that in a very short time they will become\nentirely one body with the old principality.\n\nBut when states are acquired in a country differing in language,\ncustoms, or laws, there are difficulties, and good fortune and great\nenergy are needed to hold them, and one of the greatest and most real\nhelps would be that he who has acquired them should go and reside there.\nThis would make his position more secure and durable, as it has made\nthat of the Turk in Greece, who, notwithstanding all the other measures\ntaken by him for holding that state, if he had not settled there, would\nnot have been able to keep it. Because, if one is on the spot, disorders\nare seen as they spring up, and one can quickly remedy them; but if one\nis not at hand, they are heard of only when they are great, and then one\ncan no longer remedy them. Besides this, the country is not pillaged\nby your officials; the subjects are satisfied by prompt recourse to the\nprince; thus, wishing to be good, they have more cause to love him, and\nwishing to be otherwise, to fear him. He who would attack that state\nfrom the outside must have the utmost caution; as long as the prince\nresides there it can only be wrested from him with the greatest\ndifficulty.\n\nThe other and better course is to send colonies to one or two places,\nwhich may be as keys to that state, for it is necessary either to do\nthis or else to keep there a great number of cavalry and infantry. A\nprince does not spend much on colonies, for with little or no expense he\ncan send them out and keep them there, and he offends a minority only of\nthe citizens from whom he takes lands and houses to give them to the new\ninhabitants; and those whom he offends, remaining poor and scattered,\nare never able to injure him; whilst the rest being uninjured are easily\nkept quiet, and at the same time are anxious not to err for fear it\nshould happen to them as it has to those who have been despoiled. In\nconclusion, I say that these colonies are not costly, they are more\nfaithful, they injure less, and the injured, as has been said, being\npoor and scattered, cannot hurt. Upon this, one has to remark that men\nought either to be well treated or crushed, because they can avenge\nthemselves of lighter injuries, of more serious ones they cannot;\ntherefore the injury that is to be done to a man ought to be of such a\nkind that one does not stand in fear of revenge.\n\nBut in maintaining armed men there in place of colonies one spends much\nmore, having to consume on the garrison all the income from the\nstate, so that the acquisition turns into a loss, and many more are\nexasperated, because the whole state is injured; through the shifting\nof the garrison up and down all become acquainted with hardship, and\nall become hostile, and they are enemies who, whilst beaten on their\nown ground, are yet able to do hurt. For every reason, therefore, such\nguards are as useless as a colony is useful.\n\nAgain, the prince who holds a country differing in the above respects\nought to make himself the head and defender of his less powerful\nneighbours, and to weaken the more powerful amongst them, taking care\nthat no foreigner as powerful as himself shall, by any accident, get\na footing there; for it will always happen that such a one will be\nintroduced by those who are discontented, either through excess of\nambition or through fear, as one has seen already. The Romans were\nbrought into Greece by the Aetolians; and in every other country where\nthey obtained a footing they were brought in by the inhabitants. And the\nusual course of affairs is that, as soon as a powerful foreigner enters\na country, all the subject states are drawn to him, moved by the hatred\nwhich they feel against the ruling power. So that in respect to those\nsubject states he has not to take any trouble to gain them over to\nhimself, for the whole of them quickly rally to the state which he has\nacquired there. He has only to take care that they do not get hold of\ntoo much power and too much authority, and then with his own forces, and\nwith their goodwill, he can easily keep down the more powerful of them,\nso as to remain entirely master in the country. And he who does not\nproperly manage this business will soon lose what he has acquired, and\nwhilst he does hold it he will have endless difficulties and troubles.\n\nThe Romans, in the countries which they annexed, observed closely these\nmeasures; they sent colonies and maintained friendly relations with(*)\nthe minor powers, without increasing their strength; they kept down the\ngreater, and did not allow any strong foreign powers to gain authority.\nGreece appears to me sufficient for an example. The Achaeans and\nAetolians were kept friendly by them, the kingdom of Macedonia was\nhumbled, Antiochus was driven out; yet the merits of the Achaeans and\nAetolians never secured for them permission to increase their power, nor\ndid the persuasions of Philip ever induce the Romans to be his friends\nwithout first humbling him, nor did the influence of Antiochus make them\nagree that he should retain any lordship over the country. Because the\nRomans did in these instances what all prudent princes ought to do,\nwho have to regard not only present troubles, but also future ones, for\nwhich they must prepare with every energy, because, when foreseen, it is\neasy to remedy them; but if you wait until they approach, the medicine\nis no longer in time because the malady has become incurable; for it\nhappens in this, as the physicians say it happens in hectic fever,\nthat in the beginning of the malady it is easy to cure but difficult to\ndetect, but in the course of time, not having been either detected or\ntreated in the beginning, it becomes easy to detect but difficult to\ncure. Thus it happens in affairs of state, for when the evils that arise\nhave been foreseen (which it is only given to a wise man to see), they\ncan be quickly redressed, but when, through not having been foreseen,\nthey have been permitted to grow in a way that every one can see them,\nthere is no longer a remedy. Therefore, the Romans, foreseeing troubles,\ndealt with them at once, and, even to avoid a war, would not let them\ncome to a head, for they knew that war is not to be avoided, but is only\nto be put off to the advantage of others; moreover they wished to fight\nwith Philip and Antiochus in Greece so as not to have to do it in Italy;\nthey could have avoided both, but this they did not wish; nor did that\never please them which is forever in the mouths of the wise ones of our\ntime:--Let us enjoy the benefits of the time--but rather the benefits of\ntheir own valour and prudence, for time drives everything before it, and\nis able to bring with it good as well as evil, and evil as well as good.\n\n     (*) See remark in the introduction on the word\n     \"intrattenere.\"\n\nBut let us turn to France and inquire whether she has done any of the\nthings mentioned. I will speak of Louis(*) (and not of Charles)(+) as\nthe one whose conduct is the better to be observed, he having held\npossession of Italy for the longest period; and you will see that he\nhas done the opposite to those things which ought to be done to retain a\nstate composed of divers elements.\n\n     (*) Louis XII, King of France, \"The Father of the People,\"\n     born 1462, died 1515.\n\n     (+) Charles VIII, King of France, born 1470, died 1498.\n\nKing Louis was brought into Italy by the ambition of the Venetians, who\ndesired to obtain half the state of Lombardy by his intervention. I\nwill not blame the course taken by the king, because, wishing to get a\nfoothold in Italy, and having no friends there--seeing rather that every\ndoor was shut to him owing to the conduct of Charles--he was forced to\naccept those friendships which he could get, and he would have succeeded\nvery quickly in his design if in other matters he had not made some\nmistakes. The king, however, having acquired Lombardy, regained at once\nthe authority which Charles had lost: Genoa yielded; the Florentines\nbecame his friends; the Marquess of Mantua, the Duke of Ferrara, the\nBentivogli, my lady of Forli, the Lords of Faenza, of Pesaro, of\nRimini, of Camerino, of Piombino, the Lucchese, the Pisans, the\nSienese--everybody made advances to him to become his friend. Then could\nthe Venetians realize the rashness of the course taken by them, which,\nin order that they might secure two towns in Lombardy, had made the king\nmaster of two-thirds of Italy.\n\nLet any one now consider with what little difficulty the king could have\nmaintained his position in Italy had he observed the rules above laid\ndown, and kept all his friends secure and protected; for although they\nwere numerous they were both weak and timid, some afraid of the Church,\nsome of the Venetians, and thus they would always have been forced to\nstand in with him, and by their means he could easily have made himself\nsecure against those who remained powerful. But he was no sooner in\nMilan than he did the contrary by assisting Pope Alexander to occupy the\nRomagna. It never occurred to him that by this action he was weakening\nhimself, depriving himself of friends and of those who had thrown\nthemselves into his lap, whilst he aggrandized the Church by adding much\ntemporal power to the spiritual, thus giving it greater authority. And\nhaving committed this prime error, he was obliged to follow it up, so\nmuch so that, to put an end to the ambition of Alexander, and to prevent\nhis becoming the master of Tuscany, he was himself forced to come into\nItaly.\n\nAnd as if it were not enough to have aggrandized the Church, and\ndeprived himself of friends, he, wishing to have the kingdom of Naples,\ndivided it with the King of Spain, and where he was the prime arbiter in\nItaly he takes an associate, so that the ambitious of that country and\nthe malcontents of his own should have somewhere to shelter; and whereas\nhe could have left in the kingdom his own pensioner as king, he drove\nhim out, to put one there who was able to drive him, Louis, out in turn.\n\nThe wish to acquire is in truth very natural and common, and men always\ndo so when they can, and for this they will be praised not blamed; but\nwhen they cannot do so, yet wish to do so by any means, then there is\nfolly and blame. Therefore, if France could have attacked Naples with\nher own forces she ought to have done so; if she could not, then she\nought not to have divided it. And if the partition which she made with\nthe Venetians in Lombardy was justified by the excuse that by it she got\na foothold in Italy, this other partition merited blame, for it had not\nthe excuse of that necessity.\n\nTherefore Louis made these five errors: he destroyed the minor powers,\nhe increased the strength of one of the greater powers in Italy, he\nbrought in a foreign power, he did not settle in the country, he did not\nsend colonies. Which errors, had he lived, were not enough to injure\nhim had he not made a sixth by taking away their dominions from the\nVenetians; because, had he not aggrandized the Church, nor brought Spain\ninto Italy, it would have been very reasonable and necessary to humble\nthem; but having first taken these steps, he ought never to have\nconsented to their ruin, for they, being powerful, would always have\nkept off others from designs on Lombardy, to which the Venetians would\nnever have consented except to become masters themselves there; also\nbecause the others would not wish to take Lombardy from France in order\nto give it to the Venetians, and to run counter to both they would not\nhave had the courage.\n\nAnd if any one should say: \"King Louis yielded the Romagna to Alexander\nand the kingdom to Spain to avoid war,\" I answer for the reasons given\nabove that a blunder ought never to be perpetrated to avoid war, because\nit is not to be avoided, but is only deferred to your disadvantage. And\nif another should allege the pledge which the king had given to the\nPope that he would assist him in the enterprise, in exchange for the\ndissolution of his marriage(*) and for the cap to Rouen,(+) to that I\nreply what I shall write later on concerning the faith of princes, and\nhow it ought to be kept.\n\n     (*) Louis XII divorced his wife, Jeanne, daughter of Louis\n     XI, and married in 1499 Anne of Brittany, widow of Charles\n     VIII, in order to retain the Duchy of Brittany for the\n     crown.\n\n     (+) The Archbishop of Rouen. He was Georges d'Amboise,\n     created a cardinal by Alexander VI. Born 1460, died 1510.\n\nThus King Louis lost Lombardy by not having followed any of the\nconditions observed by those who have taken possession of countries and\nwished to retain them. Nor is there any miracle in this, but much that\nis reasonable and quite natural. And on these matters I spoke at Nantes\nwith Rouen, when Valentino, as Cesare Borgia, the son of Pope Alexander,\nwas usually called, occupied the Romagna, and on Cardinal Rouen\nobserving to me that the Italians did not understand war, I replied\nto him that the French did not understand statecraft, meaning that\notherwise they would not have allowed the Church to reach such\ngreatness. And in fact it has been seen that the greatness of the Church\nand of Spain in Italy has been caused by France, and her ruin may be\nattributed to them. From this a general rule is drawn which never or\nrarely fails: that he who is the cause of another becoming powerful\nis ruined; because that predominancy has been brought about either by\nastuteness or else by force, and both are distrusted by him who has been\nraised to power.\n\n\n\n\n\nConsidering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly\nacquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the\nGreat became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it\nwas scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole\nempire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained\nthemselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose\namong themselves from their own ambitions.\n\nI answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to\nbe governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body\nof servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his\nfavour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity\nby antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons\nhave states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold\nthem in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince\nand his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all\nthe country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and\nif they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and\nofficial, and they do not bear him any particular affection.\n\nThe examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the\nKing of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one lord,\nthe others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into sanjaks, he\nsends there different administrators, and shifts and changes them as\nhe chooses. But the King of France is placed in the midst of an ancient\nbody of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects, and beloved by them;\nthey have their own prerogatives, nor can the king take these away\nexcept at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both of these states\nwill recognize great difficulties in seizing the state of the Turk,\nbut, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The causes of the\ndifficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that the usurper\ncannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can he hope to be\nassisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the lord has around\nhim. This arises from the reasons given above; for his ministers, being\nall slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with great difficulty, and\none can expect little advantage from them when they have been corrupted,\nas they cannot carry the people with them, for the reasons assigned.\nHence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in mind that he will find him\nunited, and he will have to rely more on his own strength than on the\nrevolt of others; but, if once the Turk has been conquered, and routed\nin the field in such a way that he cannot replace his armies, there\nis nothing to fear but the family of this prince, and, this being\nexterminated, there remains no one to fear, the others having no credit\nwith the people; and as the conqueror did not rely on them before his\nvictory, so he ought not to fear them after it.\n\nThe contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because\none can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom,\nfor one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men,\nfor the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the\nvictory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with\ninfinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from\nthose you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated\nthe family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves\nthe heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either\nto satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings\nthe opportunity.\n\nNow if you will consider what was the nature of the government of\nDarius, you will find it similar to the kingdom of the Turk, and\ntherefore it was only necessary for Alexander, first to overthrow him in\nthe field, and then to take the country from him. After which victory,\nDarius being killed, the state remained secure to Alexander, for the\nabove reasons. And if his successors had been united they would have\nenjoyed it securely and at their ease, for there were no tumults raised\nin the kingdom except those they provoked themselves.\n\nBut it is impossible to hold with such tranquillity states constituted\nlike that of France. Hence arose those frequent rebellions against the\nRomans in Spain, France, and Greece, owing to the many principalities\nthere were in these states, of which, as long as the memory of them\nendured, the Romans always held an insecure possession; but with the\npower and long continuance of the empire the memory of them passed\naway, and the Romans then became secure possessors. And when fighting\nafterwards amongst themselves, each one was able to attach to himself\nhis own parts of the country, according to the authority he had assumed\nthere; and the family of the former lord being exterminated, none other\nthan the Romans were acknowledged.\n\nWhen these things are remembered no one will marvel at the ease with\nwhich Alexander held the Empire of Asia, or at the difficulties which\nothers have had to keep an acquisition, such as Pyrrhus and many more;\nthis is not occasioned by the little or abundance of ability in the\nconqueror, but by the want of uniformity in the subject state.\n\n\n\n\n\nWhenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been\naccustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three\ncourses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the\nnext is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live\nunder their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an\noligarchy which will keep it friendly to you. Because such a government,\nbeing created by the prince, knows that it cannot stand without\nhis friendship and interest, and does it utmost to support him; and\ntherefore he who would keep a city accustomed to freedom will hold it\nmore easily by the means of its own citizens than in any other way.\n\nThere are, for example, the Spartans and the Romans. The Spartans held\nAthens and Thebes, establishing there an oligarchy; nevertheless they\nlost them. The Romans, in order to hold Capua, Carthage, and Numantia,\ndismantled them, and did not lose them. They wished to hold Greece as\nthe Spartans held it, making it free and permitting its laws, and did\nnot succeed. So to hold it they were compelled to dismantle many\ncities in the country, for in truth there is no safe way to retain them\notherwise than by ruining them. And he who becomes master of a city\naccustomed to freedom and does not destroy it, may expect to be\ndestroyed by it, for in rebellion it has always the watchword of liberty\nand its ancient privileges as a rallying point, which neither time\nnor benefits will ever cause it to forget. And whatever you may do or\nprovide against, they never forget that name or their privileges unless\nthey are disunited or dispersed, but at every chance they immediately\nrally to them, as Pisa after the hundred years she had been held in\nbondage by the Florentines.\n\nBut when cities or countries are accustomed to live under a prince, and\nhis family is exterminated, they, being on the one hand accustomed to\nobey and on the other hand not having the old prince, cannot agree in\nmaking one from amongst themselves, and they do not know how to govern\nthemselves. For this reason they are very slow to take up arms, and a\nprince can gain them to himself and secure them much more easily. But\nin republics there is more vitality, greater hatred, and more desire\nfor vengeance, which will never permit them to allow the memory of their\nformer liberty to rest; so that the safest way is to destroy them or to\nreside there.\n\n\n\n\n\nLet no one be surprised if, in speaking of entirely new principalities\nas I shall do, I adduce the highest examples both of prince and of\nstate; because men, walking almost always in paths beaten by others, and\nfollowing by imitation their deeds, are yet unable to keep entirely to\nthe ways of others or attain to the power of those they imitate. A wise\nman ought always to follow the paths beaten by great men, and to imitate\nthose who have been supreme, so that if his ability does not equal\ntheirs, at least it will savour of it. Let him act like the clever\narchers who, designing to hit the mark which yet appears too far\ndistant, and knowing the limits to which the strength of their bow\nattains, take aim much higher than the mark, not to reach by their\nstrength or arrow to so great a height, but to be able with the aid of\nso high an aim to hit the mark they wish to reach.\n\nI say, therefore, that in entirely new principalities, where there is\na new prince, more or less difficulty is found in keeping them,\naccordingly as there is more or less ability in him who has acquired\nthe state. Now, as the fact of becoming a prince from a private station\npresupposes either ability or fortune, it is clear that one or other\nof these things will mitigate in some degree many difficulties.\nNevertheless, he who has relied least on fortune is established the\nstrongest. Further, it facilitates matters when the prince, having no\nother state, is compelled to reside there in person.\n\nBut to come to those who, by their own ability and not through fortune,\nhave risen to be princes, I say that Moses, Cyrus, Romulus, Theseus,\nand such like are the most excellent examples. And although one may not\ndiscuss Moses, he having been a mere executor of the will of God, yet\nhe ought to be admired, if only for that favour which made him worthy to\nspeak with God. But in considering Cyrus and others who have acquired or\nfounded kingdoms, all will be found admirable; and if their particular\ndeeds and conduct shall be considered, they will not be found inferior\nto those of Moses, although he had so great a preceptor. And in\nexamining their actions and lives one cannot see that they owed anything\nto fortune beyond opportunity, which brought them the material to mould\ninto the form which seemed best to them. Without that opportunity their\npowers of mind would have been extinguished, and without those powers\nthe opportunity would have come in vain.\n\nIt was necessary, therefore, to Moses that he should find the people of\nIsrael in Egypt enslaved and oppressed by the Egyptians, in order that\nthey should be disposed to follow him so as to be delivered out of\nbondage. It was necessary that Romulus should not remain in Alba, and\nthat he should be abandoned at his birth, in order that he should become\nKing of Rome and founder of the fatherland. It was necessary that Cyrus\nshould find the Persians discontented with the government of the Medes,\nand the Medes soft and effeminate through their long peace. Theseus\ncould not have shown his ability had he not found the Athenians\ndispersed. These opportunities, therefore, made those men fortunate,\nand their high ability enabled them to recognize the opportunity whereby\ntheir country was ennobled and made famous.\n\nThose who by valorous ways become princes, like these men, acquire\na principality with difficulty, but they keep it with ease. The\ndifficulties they have in acquiring it rise in part from the new rules\nand methods which they are forced to introduce to establish their\ngovernment and its security. And it ought to be remembered that there\nis nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or\nmore uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction\nof a new order of things, because the innovator has for enemies\nall those who have done well under the old conditions, and lukewarm\ndefenders in those who may do well under the new. This coolness arises\npartly from fear of the opponents, who have the laws on their side, and\npartly from the incredulity of men, who do not readily believe in new\nthings until they have had a long experience of them. Thus it happens\nthat whenever those who are hostile have the opportunity to attack they\ndo it like partisans, whilst the others defend lukewarmly, in such wise\nthat the prince is endangered along with them.\n\nIt is necessary, therefore, if we desire to discuss this matter\nthoroughly, to inquire whether these innovators can rely on themselves\nor have to depend on others: that is to say, whether, to consummate\ntheir enterprise, have they to use prayers or can they use force? In the\nfirst instance they always succeed badly, and never compass anything;\nbut when they can rely on themselves and use force, then they are rarely\nendangered. Hence it is that all armed prophets have conquered, and the\nunarmed ones have been destroyed. Besides the reasons mentioned, the\nnature of the people is variable, and whilst it is easy to persuade\nthem, it is difficult to fix them in that persuasion. And thus it is\nnecessary to take such measures that, when they believe no longer, it\nmay be possible to make them believe by force.\n\nIf Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus had been unarmed they could not\nhave enforced their constitutions for long--as happened in our time to\nFra Girolamo Savonarola, who was ruined with his new order of things\nimmediately the multitude believed in him no longer, and he had no means\nof keeping steadfast those who believed or of making the unbelievers to\nbelieve. Therefore such as these have great difficulties in consummating\ntheir enterprise, for all their dangers are in the ascent, yet with\nability they will overcome them; but when these are overcome, and those\nwho envied them their success are exterminated, they will begin to be\nrespected, and they will continue afterwards powerful, secure, honoured,\nand happy.\n\nTo these great examples I wish to add a lesser one; still it bears some\nresemblance to them, and I wish it to suffice me for all of a like kind:\nit is Hiero the Syracusan.(*) This man rose from a private station to\nbe Prince of Syracuse, nor did he, either, owe anything to fortune but\nopportunity; for the Syracusans, being oppressed, chose him for their\ncaptain, afterwards he was rewarded by being made their prince. He was\nof so great ability, even as a private citizen, that one who writes\nof him says he wanted nothing but a kingdom to be a king. This man\nabolished the old soldiery, organized the new, gave up old alliances,\nmade new ones; and as he had his own soldiers and allies, on such\nfoundations he was able to build any edifice: thus, whilst he had\nendured much trouble in acquiring, he had but little in keeping.\n\n     (*) Hiero II, born about 307 B.C., died 216 B.C.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThose who solely by good fortune become princes from being private\ncitizens have little trouble in rising, but much in keeping atop; they\nhave not any difficulties on the way up, because they fly, but they have\nmany when they reach the summit. Such are those to whom some state\nis given either for money or by the favour of him who bestows it;\nas happened to many in Greece, in the cities of Ionia and of the\nHellespont, where princes were made by Darius, in order that they might\nhold the cities both for his security and his glory; as also were those\nemperors who, by the corruption of the soldiers, from being citizens\ncame to empire. Such stand simply elevated upon the goodwill and the\nfortune of him who has elevated them--two most inconstant and unstable\nthings. Neither have they the knowledge requisite for the position;\nbecause, unless they are men of great worth and ability, it is not\nreasonable to expect that they should know how to command, having always\nlived in a private condition; besides, they cannot hold it because they\nhave not forces which they can keep friendly and faithful.\n\nStates that rise unexpectedly, then, like all other things in nature\nwhich are born and grow rapidly, cannot leave their foundations and\ncorrespondencies(*) fixed in such a way that the first storm will\nnot overthrow them; unless, as is said, those who unexpectedly become\nprinces are men of so much ability that they know they have to be\nprepared at once to hold that which fortune has thrown into their laps,\nand that those foundations, which others have laid BEFORE they became\nprinces, they must lay AFTERWARDS.\n\n     (*) \"Le radici e corrispondenze,\" their roots (i.e.\n     foundations) and correspondencies or relations with other\n     states--a common meaning of \"correspondence\" and\n     \"correspondency\" in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.\n\nConcerning these two methods of rising to be a prince by ability or\nfortune, I wish to adduce two examples within our own recollection, and\nthese are Francesco Sforza(*) and Cesare Borgia. Francesco, by proper\nmeans and with great ability, from being a private person rose to be\nDuke of Milan, and that which he had acquired with a thousand anxieties\nhe kept with little trouble. On the other hand, Cesare Borgia, called by\nthe people Duke Valentino, acquired his state during the ascendancy of\nhis father, and on its decline he lost it, notwithstanding that he had\ntaken every measure and done all that ought to be done by a wise and\nable man to fix firmly his roots in the states which the arms and\nfortunes of others had bestowed on him.\n\n     (*) Francesco Sforza, born 1401, died 1466. He married\n     Bianca Maria Visconti, a natural daughter of Filippo\n     Visconti, the Duke of Milan, on whose death he procured his\n     own elevation to the duchy. Machiavelli was the accredited\n     agent of the Florentine Republic to Cesare Borgia (1478-\n     1507) during the transactions which led up to the\n     assassinations of the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia, and\n     along with his letters to his chiefs in Florence he has left\n     an account, written ten years before \"The Prince,\" of the\n     proceedings of the duke in his \"Descritione del modo tenuto\n     dal duca Valentino nello ammazzare Vitellozzo Vitelli,\"\n     etc., a translation of which is appended to the present\n     work.\n\nBecause, as is stated above, he who has not first laid his foundations\nmay be able with great ability to lay them afterwards, but they will\nbe laid with trouble to the architect and danger to the building. If,\ntherefore, all the steps taken by the duke be considered, it will be\nseen that he laid solid foundations for his future power, and I do not\nconsider it superfluous to discuss them, because I do not know what\nbetter precepts to give a new prince than the example of his actions;\nand if his dispositions were of no avail, that was not his fault, but\nthe extraordinary and extreme malignity of fortune.\n\nAlexander the Sixth, in wishing to aggrandize the duke, his son, had\nmany immediate and prospective difficulties. Firstly, he did not see his\nway to make him master of any state that was not a state of the Church;\nand if he was willing to rob the Church he knew that the Duke of Milan\nand the Venetians would not consent, because Faenza and Rimini were\nalready under the protection of the Venetians. Besides this, he saw the\narms of Italy, especially those by which he might have been assisted, in\nhands that would fear the aggrandizement of the Pope, namely, the Orsini\nand the Colonnesi and their following. It behoved him, therefore,\nto upset this state of affairs and embroil the powers, so as to make\nhimself securely master of part of their states. This was easy for him\nto do, because he found the Venetians, moved by other reasons, inclined\nto bring back the French into Italy; he would not only not oppose this,\nbut he would render it more easy by dissolving the former marriage of\nKing Louis. Therefore the king came into Italy with the assistance of\nthe Venetians and the consent of Alexander. He was no sooner in Milan\nthan the Pope had soldiers from him for the attempt on the Romagna,\nwhich yielded to him on the reputation of the king. The duke, therefore,\nhaving acquired the Romagna and beaten the Colonnesi, while wishing to\nhold that and to advance further, was hindered by two things: the one,\nhis forces did not appear loyal to him, the other, the goodwill of\nFrance: that is to say, he feared that the forces of the Orsini, which\nhe was using, would not stand to him, that not only might they hinder\nhim from winning more, but might themselves seize what he had won, and\nthat the king might also do the same. Of the Orsini he had a warning\nwhen, after taking Faenza and attacking Bologna, he saw them go very\nunwillingly to that attack. And as to the king, he learned his mind when\nhe himself, after taking the Duchy of Urbino, attacked Tuscany, and the\nking made him desist from that undertaking; hence the duke decided to\ndepend no more upon the arms and the luck of others.\n\nFor the first thing he weakened the Orsini and Colonnesi parties in\nRome, by gaining to himself all their adherents who were gentlemen,\nmaking them his gentlemen, giving them good pay, and, according to their\nrank, honouring them with office and command in such a way that in a few\nmonths all attachment to the factions was destroyed and turned entirely\nto the duke. After this he awaited an opportunity to crush the Orsini,\nhaving scattered the adherents of the Colonna house. This came to him\nsoon and he used it well; for the Orsini, perceiving at length that the\naggrandizement of the duke and the Church was ruin to them, called a\nmeeting of the Magione in Perugia. From this sprung the rebellion at\nUrbino and the tumults in the Romagna, with endless dangers to the duke,\nall of which he overcame with the help of the French. Having restored\nhis authority, not to leave it at risk by trusting either to the French\nor other outside forces, he had recourse to his wiles, and he knew\nso well how to conceal his mind that, by the mediation of Signor\nPagolo--whom the duke did not fail to secure with all kinds of\nattention, giving him money, apparel, and horses--the Orsini were\nreconciled, so that their simplicity brought them into his power\nat Sinigalia.(*) Having exterminated the leaders, and turned their\npartisans into his friends, the duke laid sufficiently good foundations\nto his power, having all the Romagna and the Duchy of Urbino; and the\npeople now beginning to appreciate their prosperity, he gained them\nall over to himself. And as this point is worthy of notice, and to be\nimitated by others, I am not willing to leave it out.\n\n     (*) Sinigalia, 31st December 1502.\n\nWhen the duke occupied the Romagna he found it under the rule of weak\nmasters, who rather plundered their subjects than ruled them, and gave\nthem more cause for disunion than for union, so that the country was\nfull of robbery, quarrels, and every kind of violence; and so, wishing\nto bring back peace and obedience to authority, he considered it\nnecessary to give it a good governor. Thereupon he promoted Messer\nRamiro d'Orco,(*) a swift and cruel man, to whom he gave the fullest\npower. This man in a short time restored peace and unity with the\ngreatest success. Afterwards the duke considered that it was not\nadvisable to confer such excessive authority, for he had no doubt but\nthat he would become odious, so he set up a court of judgment in the\ncountry, under a most excellent president, wherein all cities had their\nadvocates. And because he knew that the past severity had caused some\nhatred against himself, so, to clear himself in the minds of the people,\nand gain them entirely to himself, he desired to show that, if any\ncruelty had been practised, it had not originated with him, but in the\nnatural sternness of the minister. Under this pretence he took Ramiro,\nand one morning caused him to be executed and left on the piazza at\nCesena with the block and a bloody knife at his side. The barbarity of\nthis spectacle caused the people to be at once satisfied and dismayed.\n\n     (*) Ramiro d'Orco. Ramiro de Lorqua.\n\nBut let us return whence we started. I say that the duke, finding\nhimself now sufficiently powerful and partly secured from immediate\ndangers by having armed himself in his own way, and having in a great\nmeasure crushed those forces in his vicinity that could injure him if he\nwished to proceed with his conquest, had next to consider France, for\nhe knew that the king, who too late was aware of his mistake, would not\nsupport him. And from this time he began to seek new alliances and to\ntemporize with France in the expedition which she was making towards the\nkingdom of Naples against the Spaniards who were besieging Gaeta. It\nwas his intention to secure himself against them, and this he would have\nquickly accomplished had Alexander lived.\n\nSuch was his line of action as to present affairs. But as to the future\nhe had to fear, in the first place, that a new successor to the Church\nmight not be friendly to him and might seek to take from him that which\nAlexander had given him, so he decided to act in four ways. Firstly, by\nexterminating the families of those lords whom he had despoiled, so as\nto take away that pretext from the Pope. Secondly, by winning to himself\nall the gentlemen of Rome, so as to be able to curb the Pope with their\naid, as has been observed. Thirdly, by converting the college more to\nhimself. Fourthly, by acquiring so much power before the Pope should die\nthat he could by his own measures resist the first shock. Of these four\nthings, at the death of Alexander, he had accomplished three. For he had\nkilled as many of the dispossessed lords as he could lay hands on, and\nfew had escaped; he had won over the Roman gentlemen, and he had the\nmost numerous party in the college. And as to any fresh acquisition, he\nintended to become master of Tuscany, for he already possessed Perugia\nand Piombino, and Pisa was under his protection. And as he had no longer\nto study France (for the French were already driven out of the kingdom\nof Naples by the Spaniards, and in this way both were compelled to buy\nhis goodwill), he pounced down upon Pisa. After this, Lucca and Siena\nyielded at once, partly through hatred and partly through fear of\nthe Florentines; and the Florentines would have had no remedy had he\ncontinued to prosper, as he was prospering the year that Alexander died,\nfor he had acquired so much power and reputation that he would have\nstood by himself, and no longer have depended on the luck and the forces\nof others, but solely on his own power and ability.\n\nBut Alexander died five years after he had first drawn the sword. He\nleft the duke with the state of Romagna alone consolidated, with the\nrest in the air, between two most powerful hostile armies, and sick unto\ndeath. Yet there were in the duke such boldness and ability, and he knew\nso well how men are to be won or lost, and so firm were the foundations\nwhich in so short a time he had laid, that if he had not had those\narmies on his back, or if he had been in good health, he would have\novercome all difficulties. And it is seen that his foundations were\ngood, for the Romagna awaited him for more than a month. In Rome,\nalthough but half alive, he remained secure; and whilst the Baglioni,\nthe Vitelli, and the Orsini might come to Rome, they could not effect\nanything against him. If he could not have made Pope him whom he wished,\nat least the one whom he did not wish would not have been elected. But\nif he had been in sound health at the death of Alexander,(*) everything\nwould have been different to him. On the day that Julius the Second(+)\nwas elected, he told me that he had thought of everything that might\noccur at the death of his father, and had provided a remedy for all,\nexcept that he had never anticipated that, when the death did happen, he\nhimself would be on the point to die.\n\n     (*) Alexander VI died of fever, 18th August 1503.\n\n     (+) Julius II was Giuliano della Rovere, Cardinal of San\n     Pietro ad Vincula, born 1443, died 1513.\n\nWhen all the actions of the duke are recalled, I do not know how to\nblame him, but rather it appears to be, as I have said, that I ought to\noffer him for imitation to all those who, by the fortune or the arms of\nothers, are raised to government. Because he, having a lofty spirit and\nfar-reaching aims, could not have regulated his conduct otherwise,\nand only the shortness of the life of Alexander and his own sickness\nfrustrated his designs. Therefore, he who considers it necessary to\nsecure himself in his new principality, to win friends, to overcome\neither by force or fraud, to make himself beloved and feared by the\npeople, to be followed and revered by the soldiers, to exterminate those\nwho have power or reason to hurt him, to change the old order of things\nfor new, to be severe and gracious, magnanimous and liberal, to destroy\na disloyal soldiery and to create new, to maintain friendship with kings\nand princes in such a way that they must help him with zeal and offend\nwith caution, cannot find a more lively example than the actions of this\nman.\n\nOnly can he be blamed for the election of Julius the Second, in whom he\nmade a bad choice, because, as is said, not being able to elect a Pope\nto his own mind, he could have hindered any other from being elected\nPope; and he ought never to have consented to the election of any\ncardinal whom he had injured or who had cause to fear him if they became\npontiffs. For men injure either from fear or hatred. Those whom he\nhad injured, amongst others, were San Pietro ad Vincula, Colonna, San\nGiorgio, and Ascanio.(*) The rest, in becoming Pope, had to fear him,\nRouen and the Spaniards excepted; the latter from their relationship and\nobligations, the former from his influence, the kingdom of France having\nrelations with him. Therefore, above everything, the duke ought to have\ncreated a Spaniard Pope, and, failing him, he ought to have consented to\nRouen and not San Pietro ad Vincula. He who believes that new benefits\nwill cause great personages to forget old injuries is deceived.\nTherefore, the duke erred in his choice, and it was the cause of his\nultimate ruin.\n\n     (*) San Giorgio is Raffaello Riario. Ascanio is Ascanio\n     Sforza.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAlthough a prince may rise from a private station in two ways, neither\nof which can be entirely attributed to fortune or genius, yet it is\nmanifest to me that I must not be silent on them, although one could be\nmore copiously treated when I discuss republics. These methods are\nwhen, either by some wicked or nefarious ways, one ascends to the\nprincipality, or when by the favour of his fellow-citizens a private\nperson becomes the prince of his country. And speaking of the first\nmethod, it will be illustrated by two examples--one ancient, the other\nmodern--and without entering further into the subject, I consider these\ntwo examples will suffice those who may be compelled to follow them.\n\nAgathocles, the Sicilian,(*) became King of Syracuse not only from\na private but from a low and abject position. This man, the son of a\npotter, through all the changes in his fortunes always led an infamous\nlife. Nevertheless, he accompanied his infamies with so much ability of\nmind and body that, having devoted himself to the military profession,\nhe rose through its ranks to be Praetor of Syracuse. Being established\nin that position, and having deliberately resolved to make himself\nprince and to seize by violence, without obligation to others, that\nwhich had been conceded to him by assent, he came to an understanding\nfor this purpose with Amilcar, the Carthaginian, who, with his army, was\nfighting in Sicily. One morning he assembled the people and the senate\nof Syracuse, as if he had to discuss with them things relating to the\nRepublic, and at a given signal the soldiers killed all the senators and\nthe richest of the people; these dead, he seized and held the princedom\nof that city without any civil commotion. And although he was twice\nrouted by the Carthaginians, and ultimately besieged, yet not only was\nhe able to defend his city, but leaving part of his men for its defence,\nwith the others he attacked Africa, and in a short time raised the\nsiege of Syracuse. The Carthaginians, reduced to extreme necessity, were\ncompelled to come to terms with Agathocles, and, leaving Sicily to him,\nhad to be content with the possession of Africa.\n\n     (*) Agathocles the Sicilian, born 361 B.C., died 289 B.C.\n\nTherefore, he who considers the actions and the genius of this man will\nsee nothing, or little, which can be attributed to fortune, inasmuch as\nhe attained pre-eminence, as is shown above, not by the favour of any\none, but step by step in the military profession, which steps were\ngained with a thousand troubles and perils, and were afterwards boldly\nheld by him with many hazardous dangers. Yet it cannot be called talent\nto slay fellow-citizens, to deceive friends, to be without faith,\nwithout mercy, without religion; such methods may gain empire, but\nnot glory. Still, if the courage of Agathocles in entering into and\nextricating himself from dangers be considered, together with his\ngreatness of mind in enduring and overcoming hardships, it cannot be\nseen why he should be esteemed less than the most notable captain.\nNevertheless, his barbarous cruelty and inhumanity with infinite\nwickedness do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent\nmen. What he achieved cannot be attributed either to fortune or genius.\n\nIn our times, during the rule of Alexander the Sixth, Oliverotto da\nFermo, having been left an orphan many years before, was brought up\nby his maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, and in the early days of his\nyouth sent to fight under Pagolo Vitelli, that, being trained under\nhis discipline, he might attain some high position in the military\nprofession. After Pagolo died, he fought under his brother Vitellozzo,\nand in a very short time, being endowed with wit and a vigorous body\nand mind, he became the first man in his profession. But it appearing\na paltry thing to serve under others, he resolved, with the aid of some\ncitizens of Fermo, to whom the slavery of their country was dearer than\nits liberty, and with the help of the Vitelleschi, to seize Fermo. So\nhe wrote to Giovanni Fogliani that, having been away from home for many\nyears, he wished to visit him and his city, and in some measure to look\nupon his patrimony; and although he had not laboured to acquire anything\nexcept honour, yet, in order that the citizens should see he had not\nspent his time in vain, he desired to come honourably, so would be\naccompanied by one hundred horsemen, his friends and retainers; and he\nentreated Giovanni to arrange that he should be received honourably by\nthe Fermians, all of which would be not only to his honour, but also to\nthat of Giovanni himself, who had brought him up.\n\nGiovanni, therefore, did not fail in any attentions due to his nephew,\nand he caused him to be honourably received by the Fermians, and he\nlodged him in his own house, where, having passed some days, and having\narranged what was necessary for his wicked designs, Oliverotto gave a\nsolemn banquet to which he invited Giovanni Fogliani and the chiefs of\nFermo. When the viands and all the other entertainments that are usual\nin such banquets were finished, Oliverotto artfully began certain grave\ndiscourses, speaking of the greatness of Pope Alexander and his son\nCesare, and of their enterprises, to which discourse Giovanni and others\nanswered; but he rose at once, saying that such matters ought to be\ndiscussed in a more private place, and he betook himself to a chamber,\nwhither Giovanni and the rest of the citizens went in after him. No\nsooner were they seated than soldiers issued from secret places and\nslaughtered Giovanni and the rest. After these murders Oliverotto,\nmounted on horseback, rode up and down the town and besieged the chief\nmagistrate in the palace, so that in fear the people were forced to obey\nhim, and to form a government, of which he made himself the prince. He\nkilled all the malcontents who were able to injure him, and strengthened\nhimself with new civil and military ordinances, in such a way that, in\nthe year during which he held the principality, not only was he\nsecure in the city of Fermo, but he had become formidable to all his\nneighbours. And his destruction would have been as difficult as that\nof Agathocles if he had not allowed himself to be overreached by Cesare\nBorgia, who took him with the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia, as was\nstated above. Thus one year after he had committed this parricide, he\nwas strangled, together with Vitellozzo, whom he had made his leader in\nvalour and wickedness.\n\nSome may wonder how it can happen that Agathocles, and his like, after\ninfinite treacheries and cruelties, should live for long secure in\nhis country, and defend himself from external enemies, and never be\nconspired against by his own citizens; seeing that many others, by means\nof cruelty, have never been able even in peaceful times to hold the\nstate, still less in the doubtful times of war. I believe that this\nfollows from severities(*) being badly or properly used. Those may be\ncalled properly used, if of evil it is possible to speak well, that are\napplied at one blow and are necessary to one's security, and that are\nnot persisted in afterwards unless they can be turned to the advantage\nof the subjects. The badly employed are those which, notwithstanding\nthey may be few in the commencement, multiply with time rather than\ndecrease. Those who practise the first system are able, by aid of God\nor man, to mitigate in some degree their rule, as Agathocles did. It is\nimpossible for those who follow the other to maintain themselves.\n\n     (*) Mr Burd suggests that this word probably comes near the\n     modern equivalent of Machiavelli's thought when he speaks of\n     \"crudelta\" than the more obvious \"cruelties.\"\n\nHence it is to be remarked that, in seizing a state, the usurper ought\nto examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for him\nto inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to repeat\nthem daily; and thus by not unsettling men he will be able to reassure\nthem, and win them to himself by benefits. He who does otherwise, either\nfrom timidity or evil advice, is always compelled to keep the knife\nin his hand; neither can he rely on his subjects, nor can they attach\nthemselves to him, owing to their continued and repeated wrongs. For\ninjuries ought to be done all at one time, so that, being tasted less,\nthey offend less; benefits ought to be given little by little, so that\nthe flavour of them may last longer.\n\nAnd above all things, a prince ought to live amongst his people in such\na way that no unexpected circumstances, whether of good or evil, shall\nmake him change; because if the necessity for this comes in troubled\ntimes, you are too late for harsh measures; and mild ones will not help\nyou, for they will be considered as forced from you, and no one will be\nunder any obligation to you for them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBut coming to the other point--where a leading citizen becomes the\nprince of his country, not by wickedness or any intolerable violence,\nbut by the favour of his fellow citizens--this may be called a civil\nprincipality: nor is genius or fortune altogether necessary to attain to\nit, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say then that such a principality\nis obtained either by the favour of the people or by the favour of the\nnobles. Because in all cities these two distinct parties are found,\nand from this it arises that the people do not wish to be ruled nor\noppressed by the nobles, and the nobles wish to rule and oppress the\npeople; and from these two opposite desires there arises in cities one\nof three results, either a principality, self-government, or anarchy.\n\nA principality is created either by the people or by the nobles,\naccordingly as one or other of them has the opportunity; for the nobles,\nseeing they cannot withstand the people, begin to cry up the reputation\nof one of themselves, and they make him a prince, so that under his\nshadow they can give vent to their ambitions. The people, finding\nthey cannot resist the nobles, also cry up the reputation of one of\nthemselves, and make him a prince so as to be defended by his authority.\nHe who obtains sovereignty by the assistance of the nobles maintains\nhimself with more difficulty than he who comes to it by the aid of\nthe people, because the former finds himself with many around him who\nconsider themselves his equals, and because of this he can neither rule\nnor manage them to his liking. But he who reaches sovereignty by popular\nfavour finds himself alone, and has none around him, or few, who are not\nprepared to obey him.\n\nBesides this, one cannot by fair dealing, and without injury to others,\nsatisfy the nobles, but you can satisfy the people, for their object is\nmore righteous than that of the nobles, the latter wishing to oppress,\nwhile the former only desire not to be oppressed. It is to be added also\nthat a prince can never secure himself against a hostile people, because\nof there being too many, whilst from the nobles he can secure himself,\nas they are few in number. The worst that a prince may expect from a\nhostile people is to be abandoned by them; but from hostile nobles he\nhas not only to fear abandonment, but also that they will rise against\nhim; for they, being in these affairs more far-seeing and astute, always\ncome forward in time to save themselves, and to obtain favours from him\nwhom they expect to prevail. Further, the prince is compelled to live\nalways with the same people, but he can do well without the same nobles,\nbeing able to make and unmake them daily, and to give or take away\nauthority when it pleases him.\n\nTherefore, to make this point clearer, I say that the nobles ought to\nbe looked at mainly in two ways: that is to say, they either shape their\ncourse in such a way as binds them entirely to your fortune, or they do\nnot. Those who so bind themselves, and are not rapacious, ought to be\nhonoured and loved; those who do not bind themselves may be dealt\nwith in two ways; they may fail to do this through pusillanimity and a\nnatural want of courage, in which case you ought to make use of them,\nespecially of those who are of good counsel; and thus, whilst in\nprosperity you honour them, in adversity you do not have to fear them.\nBut when for their own ambitious ends they shun binding themselves, it\nis a token that they are giving more thought to themselves than to you,\nand a prince ought to guard against such, and to fear them as if they\nwere open enemies, because in adversity they always help to ruin him.\n\nTherefore, one who becomes a prince through the favour of the people\nought to keep them friendly, and this he can easily do seeing they\nonly ask not to be oppressed by him. But one who, in opposition to\nthe people, becomes a prince by the favour of the nobles, ought, above\neverything, to seek to win the people over to himself, and this he may\neasily do if he takes them under his protection. Because men, when they\nreceive good from him of whom they were expecting evil, are bound more\nclosely to their benefactor; thus the people quickly become more devoted\nto him than if he had been raised to the principality by their favours;\nand the prince can win their affections in many ways, but as these vary\naccording to the circumstances one cannot give fixed rules, so I omit\nthem; but, I repeat, it is necessary for a prince to have the people\nfriendly, otherwise he has no security in adversity.\n\nNabis,(*) Prince of the Spartans, sustained the attack of all Greece,\nand of a victorious Roman army, and against them he defended his country\nand his government; and for the overcoming of this peril it was only\nnecessary for him to make himself secure against a few, but this would\nnot have been sufficient had the people been hostile. And do not let any\none impugn this statement with the trite proverb that \"He who builds on\nthe people, builds on the mud,\" for this is true when a private citizen\nmakes a foundation there, and persuades himself that the people will\nfree him when he is oppressed by his enemies or by the magistrates;\nwherein he would find himself very often deceived, as happened to the\nGracchi in Rome and to Messer Giorgio Scali(+) in Florence. But granted\na prince who has established himself as above, who can command, and is\na man of courage, undismayed in adversity, who does not fail in other\nqualifications, and who, by his resolution and energy, keeps the whole\npeople encouraged--such a one will never find himself deceived in them,\nand it will be shown that he has laid his foundations well.\n\n     (*) Nabis, tyrant of Sparta, conquered by the Romans under\n     Flamininus in 195 B.C.; killed 192 B.C.\n\n     (+) Messer Giorgio Scali. This event is to be found in\n     Machiavelli's \"Florentine History,\" Book III.\n\nThese principalities are liable to danger when they are passing from the\ncivil to the absolute order of government, for such princes either rule\npersonally or through magistrates. In the latter case their government\nis weaker and more insecure, because it rests entirely on the goodwill\nof those citizens who are raised to the magistracy, and who, especially\nin troubled times, can destroy the government with great ease, either\nby intrigue or open defiance; and the prince has not the chance amid\ntumults to exercise absolute authority, because the citizens and\nsubjects, accustomed to receive orders from magistrates, are not of\na mind to obey him amid these confusions, and there will always be in\ndoubtful times a scarcity of men whom he can trust. For such a prince\ncannot rely upon what he observes in quiet times, when citizens have\nneed of the state, because then every one agrees with him; they all\npromise, and when death is far distant they all wish to die for him;\nbut in troubled times, when the state has need of its citizens, then\nhe finds but few. And so much the more is this experiment dangerous,\ninasmuch as it can only be tried once. Therefore a wise prince ought to\nadopt such a course that his citizens will always in every sort and\nkind of circumstance have need of the state and of him, and then he will\nalways find them faithful.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIt is necessary to consider another point in examining the character of\nthese principalities: that is, whether a prince has such power that, in\ncase of need, he can support himself with his own resources, or whether\nhe has always need of the assistance of others. And to make this quite\nclear I say that I consider those who are able to support themselves by\ntheir own resources who can, either by abundance of men or money, raise\na sufficient army to join battle against any one who comes to attack\nthem; and I consider those always to have need of others who cannot\nshow themselves against the enemy in the field, but are forced to\ndefend themselves by sheltering behind walls. The first case has been\ndiscussed, but we will speak of it again should it recur. In the second\ncase one can say nothing except to encourage such princes to provision\nand fortify their towns, and not on any account to defend the country.\nAnd whoever shall fortify his town well, and shall have managed the\nother concerns of his subjects in the way stated above, and to be often\nrepeated, will never be attacked without great caution, for men are\nalways adverse to enterprises where difficulties can be seen, and it\nwill be seen not to be an easy thing to attack one who has his town well\nfortified, and is not hated by his people.\n\nThe cities of Germany are absolutely free, they own but little country\naround them, and they yield obedience to the emperor when it suits\nthem, nor do they fear this or any other power they may have near them,\nbecause they are fortified in such a way that every one thinks the\ntaking of them by assault would be tedious and difficult, seeing they\nhave proper ditches and walls, they have sufficient artillery, and they\nalways keep in public depots enough for one year's eating, drinking, and\nfiring. And beyond this, to keep the people quiet and without loss to\nthe state, they always have the means of giving work to the community\nin those labours that are the life and strength of the city, and on\nthe pursuit of which the people are supported; they also hold military\nexercises in repute, and moreover have many ordinances to uphold them.\n\nTherefore, a prince who has a strong city, and had not made himself\nodious, will not be attacked, or if any one should attack he will only\nbe driven off with disgrace; again, because that the affairs of this\nworld are so changeable, it is almost impossible to keep an army a whole\nyear in the field without being interfered with. And whoever should\nreply: If the people have property outside the city, and see it burnt,\nthey will not remain patient, and the long siege and self-interest will\nmake them forget their prince; to this I answer that a powerful and\ncourageous prince will overcome all such difficulties by giving at one\ntime hope to his subjects that the evil will not be for long, at another\ntime fear of the cruelty of the enemy, then preserving himself adroitly\nfrom those subjects who seem to him to be too bold.\n\nFurther, the enemy would naturally on his arrival at once burn and ruin\nthe country at the time when the spirits of the people are still hot and\nready for the defence; and, therefore, so much the less ought the prince\nto hesitate; because after a time, when spirits have cooled, the damage\nis already done, the ills are incurred, and there is no longer any\nremedy; and therefore they are so much the more ready to unite with\ntheir prince, he appearing to be under obligations to them now that\ntheir houses have been burnt and their possessions ruined in his\ndefence. For it is the nature of men to be bound by the benefits they\nconfer as much as by those they receive. Therefore, if everything is\nwell considered, it will not be difficult for a wise prince to keep the\nminds of his citizens steadfast from first to last, when he does not\nfail to support and defend them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIt only remains now to speak of ecclesiastical principalities, touching\nwhich all difficulties are prior to getting possession, because they\nare acquired either by capacity or good fortune, and they can be held\nwithout either; for they are sustained by the ancient ordinances of\nreligion, which are so all-powerful, and of such a character that the\nprincipalities may be held no matter how their princes behave and live.\nThese princes alone have states and do not defend them; and they have\nsubjects and do not rule them; and the states, although unguarded, are\nnot taken from them, and the subjects, although not ruled, do not care,\nand they have neither the desire nor the ability to alienate themselves.\nSuch principalities only are secure and happy. But being upheld by\npowers, to which the human mind cannot reach, I shall speak no more of\nthem, because, being exalted and maintained by God, it would be the act\nof a presumptuous and rash man to discuss them.\n\nNevertheless, if any one should ask of me how comes it that the\nChurch has attained such greatness in temporal power, seeing that from\nAlexander backwards the Italian potentates (not only those who have been\ncalled potentates, but every baron and lord, though the smallest)\nhave valued the temporal power very slightly--yet now a king of France\ntrembles before it, and it has been able to drive him from Italy, and\nto ruin the Venetians--although this may be very manifest, it does not\nappear to me superfluous to recall it in some measure to memory.\n\nBefore Charles, King of France, passed into Italy,(*) this country was\nunder the dominion of the Pope, the Venetians, the King of Naples, the\nDuke of Milan, and the Florentines. These potentates had two principal\nanxieties: the one, that no foreigner should enter Italy under arms; the\nother, that none of themselves should seize more territory. Those about\nwhom there was the most anxiety were the Pope and the Venetians. To\nrestrain the Venetians the union of all the others was necessary, as it\nwas for the defence of Ferrara; and to keep down the Pope they made use\nof the barons of Rome, who, being divided into two factions, Orsini and\nColonnesi, had always a pretext for disorder, and, standing with arms in\ntheir hands under the eyes of the Pontiff, kept the pontificate weak and\npowerless. And although there might arise sometimes a courageous pope,\nsuch as Sixtus, yet neither fortune nor wisdom could rid him of these\nannoyances. And the short life of a pope is also a cause of weakness;\nfor in the ten years, which is the average life of a pope, he can with\ndifficulty lower one of the factions; and if, so to speak, one people\nshould almost destroy the Colonnesi, another would arise hostile to the\nOrsini, who would support their opponents, and yet would not have time\nto ruin the Orsini. This was the reason why the temporal powers of the\npope were little esteemed in Italy.\n\n     (*) Charles VIII invaded Italy in 1494.\n\nAlexander the Sixth arose afterwards, who of all the pontiffs that\nhave ever been showed how a pope with both money and arms was able to\nprevail; and through the instrumentality of the Duke Valentino, and by\nreason of the entry of the French, he brought about all those things\nwhich I have discussed above in the actions of the duke. And although\nhis intention was not to aggrandize the Church, but the duke,\nnevertheless, what he did contributed to the greatness of the Church,\nwhich, after his death and the ruin of the duke, became the heir to all\nhis labours.\n\nPope Julius came afterwards and found the Church strong, possessing all\nthe Romagna, the barons of Rome reduced to impotence, and, through the\nchastisements of Alexander, the factions wiped out; he also found\nthe way open to accumulate money in a manner such as had never been\npractised before Alexander's time. Such things Julius not only followed,\nbut improved upon, and he intended to gain Bologna, to ruin the\nVenetians, and to drive the French out of Italy. All of these\nenterprises prospered with him, and so much the more to his credit,\ninasmuch as he did everything to strengthen the Church and not any\nprivate person. He kept also the Orsini and Colonnesi factions within\nthe bounds in which he found them; and although there was among them\nsome mind to make disturbance, nevertheless he held two things firm: the\none, the greatness of the Church, with which he terrified them; and the\nother, not allowing them to have their own cardinals, who caused the\ndisorders among them. For whenever these factions have their cardinals\nthey do not remain quiet for long, because cardinals foster the factions\nin Rome and out of it, and the barons are compelled to support them, and\nthus from the ambitions of prelates arise disorders and tumults among\nthe barons. For these reasons his Holiness Pope Leo(*) found the\npontificate most powerful, and it is to be hoped that, if others made it\ngreat in arms, he will make it still greater and more venerated by his\ngoodness and infinite other virtues.\n\n\n\n\n\nHaving discoursed particularly on the characteristics of such\nprincipalities as in the beginning I proposed to discuss, and having\nconsidered in some degree the causes of there being good or bad, and\nhaving shown the methods by which many have sought to acquire them and\nto hold them, it now remains for me to discuss generally the means of\noffence and defence which belong to each of them.\n\nWe have seen above how necessary it is for a prince to have his\nfoundations well laid, otherwise it follows of necessity he will go\nto ruin. The chief foundations of all states, new as well as old or\ncomposite, are good laws and good arms; and as there cannot be good laws\nwhere the state is not well armed, it follows that where they are well\narmed they have good laws. I shall leave the laws out of the discussion\nand shall speak of the arms.\n\nI say, therefore, that the arms with which a prince defends his state\nare either his own, or they are mercenaries, auxiliaries, or mixed.\nMercenaries and auxiliaries are useless and dangerous; and if one holds\nhis state based on these arms, he will stand neither firm nor safe;\nfor they are disunited, ambitious, and without discipline, unfaithful,\nvaliant before friends, cowardly before enemies; they have neither the\nfear of God nor fidelity to men, and destruction is deferred only so\nlong as the attack is; for in peace one is robbed by them, and in war\nby the enemy. The fact is, they have no other attraction or reason for\nkeeping the field than a trifle of stipend, which is not sufficient\nto make them willing to die for you. They are ready enough to be\nyour soldiers whilst you do not make war, but if war comes they take\nthemselves off or run from the foe; which I should have little trouble\nto prove, for the ruin of Italy has been caused by nothing else than by\nresting all her hopes for many years on mercenaries, and although they\nformerly made some display and appeared valiant amongst themselves, yet\nwhen the foreigners came they showed what they were. Thus it was that\nCharles, King of France, was allowed to seize Italy with chalk in\nhand;(*) and he who told us that our sins were the cause of it told the\ntruth, but they were not the sins he imagined, but those which I have\nrelated. And as they were the sins of princes, it is the princes who\nhave also suffered the penalty.\n\n     (*) \"With chalk in hand,\" \"col gesso.\" This is one of the\n     _bons mots_ of Alexander VI, and refers to the ease with\n     which Charles VIII seized Italy, implying that it was only\n     necessary for him to send his quartermasters to chalk up the\n     billets for his soldiers to conquer the country. Cf. \"The\n     History of Henry VII,\" by Lord Bacon: \"King Charles had\n     conquered the realm of Naples, and lost it again, in a kind\n     of a felicity of a dream. He passed the whole length of\n     Italy without resistance: so that it was true what Pope\n     Alexander was wont to say: That the Frenchmen came into\n     Italy with chalk in their hands, to mark up their lodgings,\n     rather than with swords to fight.\"\n\nI wish to demonstrate further the infelicity of these arms. The\nmercenary captains are either capable men or they are not; if they\nare, you cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own\ngreatness, either by oppressing you, who are their master, or others\ncontrary to your intentions; but if the captain is not skilful, you are\nruined in the usual way.\n\nAnd if it be urged that whoever is armed will act in the same way,\nwhether mercenary or not, I reply that when arms have to be resorted to,\neither by a prince or a republic, then the prince ought to go in\nperson and perform the duty of a captain; the republic has to send its\ncitizens, and when one is sent who does not turn out satisfactorily, it\nought to recall him, and when one is worthy, to hold him by the laws so\nthat he does not leave the command. And experience has shown princes and\nrepublics, single-handed, making the greatest progress, and mercenaries\ndoing nothing except damage; and it is more difficult to bring a\nrepublic, armed with its own arms, under the sway of one of its citizens\nthan it is to bring one armed with foreign arms. Rome and Sparta stood\nfor many ages armed and free. The Switzers are completely armed and\nquite free.\n\nOf ancient mercenaries, for example, there are the Carthaginians, who\nwere oppressed by their mercenary soldiers after the first war with the\nRomans, although the Carthaginians had their own citizens for captains.\nAfter the death of Epaminondas, Philip of Macedon was made captain of\ntheir soldiers by the Thebans, and after victory he took away their\nliberty.\n\nDuke Filippo being dead, the Milanese enlisted Francesco Sforza against\nthe Venetians, and he, having overcome the enemy at Caravaggio,(*)\nallied himself with them to crush the Milanese, his masters. His father,\nSforza, having been engaged by Queen Johanna(+) of Naples, left her\nunprotected, so that she was forced to throw herself into the arms of\nthe King of Aragon, in order to save her kingdom. And if the Venetians\nand Florentines formerly extended their dominions by these arms, and yet\ntheir captains did not make themselves princes, but have defended them,\nI reply that the Florentines in this case have been favoured by chance,\nfor of the able captains, of whom they might have stood in fear, some\nhave not conquered, some have been opposed, and others have turned their\nambitions elsewhere. One who did not conquer was Giovanni Acuto,(%) and\nsince he did not conquer his fidelity cannot be proved; but every one\nwill acknowledge that, had he conquered, the Florentines would have\nstood at his discretion. Sforza had the Bracceschi always against him,\nso they watched each other. Francesco turned his ambition to Lombardy;\nBraccio against the Church and the kingdom of Naples. But let us come\nto that which happened a short while ago. The Florentines appointed as\ntheir captain Pagolo Vitelli, a most prudent man, who from a private\nposition had risen to the greatest renown. If this man had taken Pisa,\nnobody can deny that it would have been proper for the Florentines to\nkeep in with him, for if he became the soldier of their enemies they had\nno means of resisting, and if they held to him they must obey him. The\nVenetians, if their achievements are considered, will be seen to have\nacted safely and gloriously so long as they sent to war their own men,\nwhen with armed gentlemen and plebians they did valiantly. This was\nbefore they turned to enterprises on land, but when they began to fight\non land they forsook this virtue and followed the custom of Italy. And\nin the beginning of their expansion on land, through not having much\nterritory, and because of their great reputation, they had not much\nto fear from their captains; but when they expanded, as under\nCarmignuola,(#) they had a taste of this mistake; for, having found him\na most valiant man (they beat the Duke of Milan under his leadership),\nand, on the other hand, knowing how lukewarm he was in the war, they\nfeared they would no longer conquer under him, and for this reason they\nwere not willing, nor were they able, to let him go; and so, not to lose\nagain that which they had acquired, they were compelled, in order to\nsecure themselves, to murder him. They had afterwards for their\ncaptains Bartolomeo da Bergamo, Roberto da San Severino, the count of\nPitigliano,(&) and the like, under whom they had to dread loss and not\ngain, as happened afterwards at Vaila,($) where in one battle they\nlost that which in eight hundred years they had acquired with so much\ntrouble. Because from such arms conquests come but slowly, long delayed\nand inconsiderable, but the losses sudden and portentous.\n\n     (*) Battle of Caravaggio, 15th September 1448.\n\n     (+) Johanna II of Naples, the widow of Ladislao, King of\n     Naples.\n\n     (%) Giovanni Acuto. An English knight whose name was Sir\n     John Hawkwood. He fought in the English wars in France, and\n     was knighted by Edward III; afterwards he collected a body\n     of troops and went into Italy. These became the famous\n     \"White Company.\" He took part in many wars, and died in\n     Florence in 1394. He was born about 1320 at Sible Hedingham,\n     a village in Essex. He married Domnia, a daughter of Bernabo\n     Visconti.\n\n     (#) Carmignuola. Francesco Bussone, born at Carmagnola about\n     1390, executed at Venice, 5th May 1432.\n\n     (&) Bartolomeo Colleoni of Bergamo; died 1457. Roberto of\n     San Severino; died fighting for Venice against Sigismund,\n     Duke of Austria, in 1487. \"Primo capitano in Italia.\"--\n     Machiavelli. Count of Pitigliano; Nicolo Orsini, born 1442,\n     died 1510.\n\n     ($) Battle of Vaila in 1509.\n\nAnd as with these examples I have reached Italy, which has been ruled\nfor many years by mercenaries, I wish to discuss them more seriously,\nin order that, having seen their rise and progress, one may be better\nprepared to counteract them. You must understand that the empire has\nrecently come to be repudiated in Italy, that the Pope has acquired more\ntemporal power, and that Italy has been divided up into more states,\nfor the reason that many of the great cities took up arms against their\nnobles, who, formerly favoured by the emperor, were oppressing them,\nwhilst the Church was favouring them so as to gain authority in temporal\npower: in many others their citizens became princes. From this it came\nto pass that Italy fell partly into the hands of the Church and of\nrepublics, and, the Church consisting of priests and the republic of\ncitizens unaccustomed to arms, both commenced to enlist foreigners.\n\nThe first who gave renown to this soldiery was Alberigo da Conio,(*) the\nRomagnian. From the school of this man sprang, among others, Braccio and\nSforza, who in their time were the arbiters of Italy. After these came\nall the other captains who till now have directed the arms of Italy;\nand the end of all their valour has been, that she has been overrun\nby Charles, robbed by Louis, ravaged by Ferdinand, and insulted by the\nSwitzers. The principle that has guided them has been, first, to lower\nthe credit of infantry so that they might increase their own. They did\nthis because, subsisting on their pay and without territory, they were\nunable to support many soldiers, and a few infantry did not give them\nany authority; so they were led to employ cavalry, with a moderate force\nof which they were maintained and honoured; and affairs were brought to\nsuch a pass that, in an army of twenty thousand soldiers, there were\nnot to be found two thousand foot soldiers. They had, besides this, used\nevery art to lessen fatigue and danger to themselves and their soldiers,\nnot killing in the fray, but taking prisoners and liberating without\nransom. They did not attack towns at night, nor did the garrisons of the\ntowns attack encampments at night; they did not surround the camp either\nwith stockade or ditch, nor did they campaign in the winter. All these\nthings were permitted by their military rules, and devised by them to\navoid, as I have said, both fatigue and dangers; thus they have brought\nItaly to slavery and contempt.\n\n     (*) Alberigo da Conio. Alberico da Barbiano, Count of Cunio\n     in Romagna. He was the leader of the famous \"Company of St\n     George,\" composed entirely of Italian soldiers. He died in\n     1409.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAuxiliaries, which are the other useless arm, are employed when a prince\nis called in with his forces to aid and defend, as was done by Pope\nJulius in the most recent times; for he, having, in the enterprise\nagainst Ferrara, had poor proof of his mercenaries, turned to\nauxiliaries, and stipulated with Ferdinand, King of Spain,(*) for his\nassistance with men and arms. These arms may be useful and good\nin themselves, but for him who calls them in they are always\ndisadvantageous; for losing, one is undone, and winning, one is their\ncaptive.\n\nAnd although ancient histories may be full of examples, I do not wish\nto leave this recent one of Pope Julius the Second, the peril of which\ncannot fail to be perceived; for he, wishing to get Ferrara, threw\nhimself entirely into the hands of the foreigner. But his good fortune\nbrought about a third event, so that he did not reap the fruit of his\nrash choice; because, having his auxiliaries routed at Ravenna, and\nthe Switzers having risen and driven out the conquerors (against all\nexpectation, both his and others), it so came to pass that he did\nnot become prisoner to his enemies, they having fled, nor to his\nauxiliaries, he having conquered by other arms than theirs.\n\nThe Florentines, being entirely without arms, sent ten thousand\nFrenchmen to take Pisa, whereby they ran more danger than at any other\ntime of their troubles.\n\nThe Emperor of Constantinople,(*) to oppose his neighbours, sent ten\nthousand Turks into Greece, who, on the war being finished, were not\nwilling to quit; this was the beginning of the servitude of Greece to\nthe infidels.\n\nTherefore, let him who has no desire to conquer make use of these arms,\nfor they are much more hazardous than mercenaries, because with them the\nruin is ready made; they are all united, all yield obedience to others;\nbut with mercenaries, when they have conquered, more time and better\nopportunities are needed to injure you; they are not all of one\ncommunity, they are found and paid by you, and a third party, which you\nhave made their head, is not able all at once to assume enough authority\nto injure you. In conclusion, in mercenaries dastardy is most dangerous;\nin auxiliaries, valour. The wise prince, therefore, has always avoided\nthese arms and turned to his own; and has been willing rather to lose\nwith them than to conquer with the others, not deeming that a real\nvictory which is gained with the arms of others.\n\nI shall never hesitate to cite Cesare Borgia and his actions. This duke\nentered the Romagna with auxiliaries, taking there only French soldiers,\nand with them he captured Imola and Forli; but afterwards, such forces\nnot appearing to him reliable, he turned to mercenaries, discerning less\ndanger in them, and enlisted the Orsini and Vitelli; whom presently,\non handling and finding them doubtful, unfaithful, and dangerous, he\ndestroyed and turned to his own men. And the difference between one\nand the other of these forces can easily be seen when one considers\nthe difference there was in the reputation of the duke, when he had the\nFrench, when he had the Orsini and Vitelli, and when he relied on his\nown soldiers, on whose fidelity he could always count and found it ever\nincreasing; he was never esteemed more highly than when every one saw\nthat he was complete master of his own forces.\n\nI was not intending to go beyond Italian and recent examples, but I am\nunwilling to leave out Hiero, the Syracusan, he being one of those I\nhave named above. This man, as I have said, made head of the army by the\nSyracusans, soon found out that a mercenary soldiery, constituted like\nour Italian condottieri, was of no use; and it appearing to him that he\ncould neither keep them not let them go, he had them all cut to pieces,\nand afterwards made war with his own forces and not with aliens.\n\nI wish also to recall to memory an instance from the Old Testament\napplicable to this subject. David offered himself to Saul to fight with\nGoliath, the Philistine champion, and, to give him courage, Saul armed\nhim with his own weapons; which David rejected as soon as he had them\non his back, saying he could make no use of them, and that he wished to\nmeet the enemy with his sling and his knife. In conclusion, the arms of\nothers either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind\nyou fast.\n\nCharles the Seventh,(*) the father of King Louis the Eleventh,(+) having\nby good fortune and valour liberated France from the English, recognized\nthe necessity of being armed with forces of his own, and he established\nin his kingdom ordinances concerning men-at-arms and infantry.\nAfterwards his son, King Louis, abolished the infantry and began to\nenlist the Switzers, which mistake, followed by others, is, as is now\nseen, a source of peril to that kingdom; because, having raised the\nreputation of the Switzers, he has entirely diminished the value of\nhis own arms, for he has destroyed the infantry altogether; and his\nmen-at-arms he has subordinated to others, for, being as they are so\naccustomed to fight along with Switzers, it does not appear that they\ncan now conquer without them. Hence it arises that the French cannot\nstand against the Switzers, and without the Switzers they do not come\noff well against others. The armies of the French have thus become\nmixed, partly mercenary and partly national, both of which arms together\nare much better than mercenaries alone or auxiliaries alone, but much\ninferior to one's own forces. And this example proves it, for the\nkingdom of France would be unconquerable if the ordinance of Charles had\nbeen enlarged or maintained.\n\nBut the scanty wisdom of man, on entering into an affair which looks\nwell at first, cannot discern the poison that is hidden in it, as I have\nsaid above of hectic fevers. Therefore, if he who rules a principality\ncannot recognize evils until they are upon him, he is not truly wise;\nand this insight is given to few. And if the first disaster to the Roman\nEmpire(*) should be examined, it will be found to have commenced only\nwith the enlisting of the Goths; because from that time the vigour of\nthe Roman Empire began to decline, and all that valour which had raised\nit passed away to others.\n\n     (*) \"Many speakers to the House the other night in the\n     debate on the reduction of armaments seemed to show a most\n     lamentable ignorance of the conditions under which the\n     British Empire maintains its existence. When Mr Balfour\n     replied to the allegations that the Roman Empire sank under\n     the weight of its military obligations, he said that this\n     was 'wholly unhistorical.' He might well have added that the\n     Roman power was at its zenith when every citizen\n     acknowledged his liability to fight for the State, but that\n     it began to decline as soon as this obligation was no longer\n     recognized.\"--Pall Mall Gazette, 15th May 1906.\n\nI conclude, therefore, that no principality is secure without having its\nown forces; on the contrary, it is entirely dependent on good fortune,\nnot having the valour which in adversity would defend it. And it has\nalways been the opinion and judgment of wise men that nothing can be so\nuncertain or unstable as fame or power not founded on its own strength.\nAnd one's own forces are those which are composed either of subjects,\ncitizens, or dependents; all others are mercenaries or auxiliaries. And\nthe way to make ready one's own forces will be easily found if the rules\nsuggested by me shall be reflected upon, and if one will consider\nhow Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, and many republics and\nprinces have armed and organized themselves, to which rules I entirely\ncommit myself.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else\nfor his study, than war and its rules and discipline; for this is the\nsole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force that it\nnot only upholds those who are born princes, but it often enables men\nto rise from a private station to that rank. And, on the contrary, it is\nseen that when princes have thought more of ease than of arms they have\nlost their states. And the first cause of your losing it is to neglect\nthis art; and what enables you to acquire a state is to be master of\nthe art. Francesco Sforza, through being martial, from a private person\nbecame Duke of Milan; and the sons, through avoiding the hardships and\ntroubles of arms, from dukes became private persons. For among other\nevils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised, and\nthis is one of those ignominies against which a prince ought to guard\nhimself, as is shown later on. Because there is nothing proportionate\nbetween the armed and the unarmed; and it is not reasonable that he who\nis armed should yield obedience willingly to him who is unarmed, or that\nthe unarmed man should be secure among armed servants. Because, there\nbeing in the one disdain and in the other suspicion, it is not possible\nfor them to work well together. And therefore a prince who does not\nunderstand the art of war, over and above the other misfortunes already\nmentioned, cannot be respected by his soldiers, nor can he rely on them.\nHe ought never, therefore, to have out of his thoughts this subject of\nwar, and in peace he should addict himself more to its exercise than in\nwar; this he can do in two ways, the one by action, the other by study.\n\nAs regards action, he ought above all things to keep his men well\norganized and drilled, to follow incessantly the chase, by which he\naccustoms his body to hardships, and learns something of the nature of\nlocalities, and gets to find out how the mountains rise, how the valleys\nopen out, how the plains lie, and to understand the nature of rivers and\nmarshes, and in all this to take the greatest care. Which knowledge\nis useful in two ways. Firstly, he learns to know his country, and\nis better able to undertake its defence; afterwards, by means of the\nknowledge and observation of that locality, he understands with ease any\nother which it may be necessary for him to study hereafter; because\nthe hills, valleys, and plains, and rivers and marshes that are, for\ninstance, in Tuscany, have a certain resemblance to those of other\ncountries, so that with a knowledge of the aspect of one country one can\neasily arrive at a knowledge of others. And the prince that lacks this\nskill lacks the essential which it is desirable that a captain should\npossess, for it teaches him to surprise his enemy, to select quarters,\nto lead armies, to array the battle, to besiege towns to advantage.\n\nPhilopoemen,(*) Prince of the Achaeans, among other praises which\nwriters have bestowed on him, is commended because in time of peace he\nnever had anything in his mind but the rules of war; and when he was in\nthe country with friends, he often stopped and reasoned with them: \"If\nthe enemy should be upon that hill, and we should find ourselves here\nwith our army, with whom would be the advantage? How should one best\nadvance to meet him, keeping the ranks? If we should wish to retreat,\nhow ought we to pursue?\" And he would set forth to them, as he went, all\nthe chances that could befall an army; he would listen to their opinion\nand state his, confirming it with reasons, so that by these continual\ndiscussions there could never arise, in time of war, any unexpected\ncircumstances that he could not deal with.\n\n     (*) Philopoemen, \"the last of the Greeks,\" born 252 B.C.,\n     died 183 B.C.\n\nBut to exercise the intellect the prince should read histories, and\nstudy there the actions of illustrious men, to see how they have borne\nthemselves in war, to examine the causes of their victories and defeat,\nso as to avoid the latter and imitate the former; and above all do as\nan illustrious man did, who took as an exemplar one who had been praised\nand famous before him, and whose achievements and deeds he always kept\nin his mind, as it is said Alexander the Great imitated Achilles, Caesar\nAlexander, Scipio Cyrus. And whoever reads the life of Cyrus, written\nby Xenophon, will recognize afterwards in the life of Scipio how that\nimitation was his glory, and how in chastity, affability, humanity, and\nliberality Scipio conformed to those things which have been written of\nCyrus by Xenophon. A wise prince ought to observe some such rules, and\nnever in peaceful times stand idle, but increase his resources with\nindustry in such a way that they may be available to him in adversity,\nso that if fortune chances it may find him prepared to resist her blows.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt remains now to see what ought to be the rules of conduct for a prince\ntowards subject and friends. And as I know that many have written on\nthis point, I expect I shall be considered presumptuous in mentioning it\nagain, especially as in discussing it I shall depart from the methods of\nother people. But, it being my intention to write a thing which shall\nbe useful to him who apprehends it, it appears to me more appropriate to\nfollow up the real truth of the matter than the imagination of it; for\nmany have pictured republics and principalities which in fact have never\nbeen known or seen, because how one lives is so far distant from how one\nought to live, that he who neglects what is done for what ought to\nbe done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation; for a man who\nwishes to act entirely up to his professions of virtue soon meets with\nwhat destroys him among so much that is evil.\n\nHence it is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know\nhow to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity.\nTherefore, putting on one side imaginary things concerning a prince, and\ndiscussing those which are real, I say that all men when they are spoken\nof, and chiefly princes for being more highly placed, are remarkable\nfor some of those qualities which bring them either blame or praise; and\nthus it is that one is reputed liberal, another miserly, using a Tuscan\nterm (because an avaricious person in our language is still he who\ndesires to possess by robbery, whilst we call one miserly who deprives\nhimself too much of the use of his own); one is reputed generous,\none rapacious; one cruel, one compassionate; one faithless, another\nfaithful; one effeminate and cowardly, another bold and brave; one\naffable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one sincere,\nanother cunning; one hard, another easy; one grave, another frivolous;\none religious, another unbelieving, and the like. And I know that every\none will confess that it would be most praiseworthy in a prince to\nexhibit all the above qualities that are considered good; but because\nthey can neither be entirely possessed nor observed, for human\nconditions do not permit it, it is necessary for him to be sufficiently\nprudent that he may know how to avoid the reproach of those vices which\nwould lose him his state; and also to keep himself, if it be possible,\nfrom those which would not lose him it; but this not being possible, he\nmay with less hesitation abandon himself to them. And again, he need\nnot make himself uneasy at incurring a reproach for those vices without\nwhich the state can only be saved with difficulty, for if everything is\nconsidered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like\nvirtue, if followed, would be his ruin; whilst something else, which\nlooks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCommencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I say\nthat it would be well to be reputed liberal. Nevertheless, liberality\nexercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation for it,\ninjures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should be\nexercised, it may not become known, and you will not avoid the reproach\nof its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among men the\nname of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of magnificence; so\nthat a prince thus inclined will consume in such acts all his property,\nand will be compelled in the end, if he wish to maintain the name\nof liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax them, and do\neverything he can to get money. This will soon make him odious to his\nsubjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by any one; thus,\nwith his liberality, having offended many and rewarded few, he is\naffected by the very first trouble and imperilled by whatever may be the\nfirst danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing to draw back from\nit, he runs at once into the reproach of being miserly.\n\nTherefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of\nliberality in such a way that it is recognized, except to his cost, if\nhe is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in\ntime he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that\nwith his economy his revenues are enough, that he can defend himself\nagainst all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without\nburdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises liberality\ntowards all from whom he does not take, who are numberless, and meanness\ntowards those to whom he does not give, who are few.\n\nWe have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have\nbeen considered mean; the rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was\nassisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for liberality, yet he\ndid not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King of\nFrance; and he made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax on\nhis subjects, for he supplied his additional expenses out of his long\nthriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken or\nconquered in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A\nprince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob his subjects, that he\ncan defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he\nis not forced to become rapacious, ought to hold of little account\na reputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices which will\nenable him to govern.\n\nAnd if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and\nmany others have reached the highest positions by having been liberal,\nand by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in\nfact, or in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is\ndangerous, in the second it is very necessary to be considered liberal;\nand Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in Rome;\nbut if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his\nexpenses, he would have destroyed his government. And if any one should\nreply: Many have been princes, and have done great things with armies,\nwho have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends\nthat which is his own or his subjects' or else that of others. In the\nfirst case he ought to be sparing, in the second he ought not to neglect\nany opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes forth with\nhis army, supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion, handling that\nwhich belongs to others, this liberality is necessary, otherwise he\nwould not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is neither yours\nnor your subjects' you can be a ready giver, as were Cyrus, Caesar, and\nAlexander; because it does not take away your reputation if you squander\nthat of others, but adds to it; it is only squandering your own that\ninjures you.\n\nAnd there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst\nyou exercise it you lose the power to do so, and so become either poor\nor despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated. And a\nprince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised\nand hated; and liberality leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to\nhave a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without hatred,\nthan to be compelled through seeking a reputation for liberality to\nincur a name for rapacity which begets reproach with hatred.\n\n\n\n\n\nComing now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every\nprince ought to desire to be considered clement and not cruel.\nNevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency. Cesare\nBorgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled the\nRomagna, unified it, and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if this\nbe rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much more merciful\nthan the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for cruelty,\npermitted Pistoia to be destroyed.(*) Therefore a prince, so long as he\nkeeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the reproach of\ncruelty; because with a few examples he will be more merciful than those\nwho, through too much mercy, allow disorders to arise, from which follow\nmurders or robberies; for these are wont to injure the whole people,\nwhilst those executions which originate with a prince offend the\nindividual only.\n\n     (*) During the rioting between the Cancellieri and\n     Panciatichi factions in 1502 and 1503.\n\nAnd of all princes, it is impossible for the new prince to avoid the\nimputation of cruelty, owing to new states being full of dangers. Hence\nVirgil, through the mouth of Dido, excuses the inhumanity of her reign\nowing to its being new, saying:\n\n     \"Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt\n     Moliri, et late fines custode tueri.\"(*)\n\nNevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he\nhimself show fear, but proceed in a temperate manner with prudence and\nhumanity, so that too much confidence may not make him incautious and\ntoo much distrust render him intolerable.\n\n     (*) . . . against my will, my fate\n     A throne unsettled, and an infant state,\n     Bid me defend my realms with all my pow'rs,\n     And guard with these severities my shores.\n\n     Christopher Pitt.\n\nUpon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than\nfeared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to\nbe both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it\nis much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be\ndispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that\nthey are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as\nyou succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood,\nproperty, life, and children, as is said above, when the need is far\ndistant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that\nprince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other\nprecautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by\npayments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be\nearned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied\nupon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one\nwho is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which,\nowing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their\nadvantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never\nfails.\n\nNevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he\ndoes not win love, he avoids hatred; because he can endure very well\nbeing feared whilst he is not hated, which will always be as long as he\nabstains from the property of his citizens and subjects and from their\nwomen. But when it is necessary for him to proceed against the life of\nsomeone, he must do it on proper justification and for manifest cause,\nbut above all things he must keep his hands off the property of others,\nbecause men more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss\nof their patrimony. Besides, pretexts for taking away the property are\nnever wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always\nfind pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for taking\nlife, on the contrary, are more difficult to find and sooner lapse. But\nwhen a prince is with his army, and has under control a multitude of\nsoldiers, then it is quite necessary for him to disregard the reputation\nof cruelty, for without it he would never hold his army united or\ndisposed to its duties.\n\nAmong the wonderful deeds of Hannibal this one is enumerated: that\nhaving led an enormous army, composed of many various races of men,\nto fight in foreign lands, no dissensions arose either among them or\nagainst the prince, whether in his bad or in his good fortune. This\narose from nothing else than his inhuman cruelty, which, with his\nboundless valour, made him revered and terrible in the sight of\nhis soldiers, but without that cruelty, his other virtues were not\nsufficient to produce this effect. And short-sighted writers admire\nhis deeds from one point of view and from another condemn the principal\ncause of them. That it is true his other virtues would not have been\nsufficient for him may be proved by the case of Scipio, that most\nexcellent man, not only of his own times but within the memory of man,\nagainst whom, nevertheless, his army rebelled in Spain; this arose from\nnothing but his too great forbearance, which gave his soldiers more\nlicense than is consistent with military discipline. For this he was\nupbraided in the Senate by Fabius Maximus, and called the corrupter of\nthe Roman soldiery. The Locrians were laid waste by a legate of Scipio,\nyet they were not avenged by him, nor was the insolence of the legate\npunished, owing entirely to his easy nature. Insomuch that someone in\nthe Senate, wishing to excuse him, said there were many men who knew\nmuch better how not to err than to correct the errors of others.\nThis disposition, if he had been continued in the command, would have\ndestroyed in time the fame and glory of Scipio; but, he being under the\ncontrol of the Senate, this injurious characteristic not only concealed\nitself, but contributed to his glory.\n\nReturning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the\nconclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing\naccording to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself\non that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must\nendeavour only to avoid hatred, as is noted.\n\n\n\n\n\nEvery one admits how praiseworthy it is in a prince to keep faith, and\nto live with integrity and not with craft. Nevertheless our experience\nhas been that those princes who have done great things have held good\nfaith of little account, and have known how to circumvent the intellect\nof men by craft, and in the end have overcome those who have relied on\ntheir word. You must know there are two ways of contesting,(*) the one\nby the law, the other by force; the first method is proper to men, the\nsecond to beasts; but because the first is frequently not sufficient, it\nis necessary to have recourse to the second. Therefore it is necessary\nfor a prince to understand how to avail himself of the beast and the\nman. This has been figuratively taught to princes by ancient writers,\nwho describe how Achilles and many other princes of old were given to\nthe Centaur Chiron to nurse, who brought them up in his discipline;\nwhich means solely that, as they had for a teacher one who was half\nbeast and half man, so it is necessary for a prince to know how to make\nuse of both natures, and that one without the other is not durable. A\nprince, therefore, being compelled knowingly to adopt the beast, ought\nto choose the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot defend himself\nagainst snares and the fox cannot defend himself against wolves.\nTherefore, it is necessary to be a fox to discover the snares and a\nlion to terrify the wolves. Those who rely simply on the lion do not\nunderstand what they are about. Therefore a wise lord cannot, nor ought\nhe to, keep faith when such observance may be turned against him, and\nwhen the reasons that caused him to pledge it exist no longer. If men\nwere entirely good this precept would not hold, but because they are\nbad, and will not keep faith with you, you too are not bound to observe\nit with them. Nor will there ever be wanting to a prince legitimate\nreasons to excuse this non-observance. Of this endless modern examples\ncould be given, showing how many treaties and engagements have been made\nvoid and of no effect through the faithlessness of princes; and he who\nhas known best how to employ the fox has succeeded best.\n\n     (*) \"Contesting,\" i.e. \"striving for mastery.\" Mr Burd\n     points out that this passage is imitated directly from\n     Cicero's \"De Officiis\": \"Nam cum sint duo genera decertandi,\n     unum per disceptationem, alterum per vim; cumque illud\n     proprium sit hominis, hoc beluarum; confugiendum est ad\n     posterius, si uti non licet superiore.\"\n\nBut it is necessary to know well how to disguise this characteristic,\nand to be a great pretender and dissembler; and men are so simple, and\nso subject to present necessities, that he who seeks to deceive will\nalways find someone who will allow himself to be deceived. One recent\nexample I cannot pass over in silence. Alexander the Sixth did nothing\nelse but deceive men, nor ever thought of doing otherwise, and he\nalways found victims; for there never was a man who had greater power\nin asserting, or who with greater oaths would affirm a thing, yet would\nobserve it less; nevertheless his deceits always succeeded according to\nhis wishes,(*) because he well understood this side of mankind.\n\n     (*) \"Nondimanco sempre gli succederono gli inganni (ad\n     votum).\" The words \"ad votum\" are omitted in the Testina\n     addition, 1550.\n\n     Alexander never did what he said,\n     Cesare never said what he did.\n\nTherefore it is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities\nI have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them. And\nI shall dare to say this also, that to have them and always to observe\nthem is injurious, and that to appear to have them is useful; to appear\nmerciful, faithful, humane, religious, upright, and to be so, but with a\nmind so framed that should you require not to be so, you may be able and\nknow how to change to the opposite.\n\nAnd you have to understand this, that a prince, especially a new one,\ncannot observe all those things for which men are esteemed, being often\nforced, in order to maintain the state, to act contrary to fidelity,(*)\nfriendship, humanity, and religion. Therefore it is necessary for him to\nhave a mind ready to turn itself accordingly as the winds and variations\nof fortune force it, yet, as I have said above, not to diverge from the\ngood if he can avoid doing so, but, if compelled, then to know how to\nset about it.\n\n     (*) \"Contrary to fidelity\" or \"faith,\" \"contro alla fede,\"\n     and \"tutto fede,\" \"altogether faithful,\" in the next\n     paragraph. It is noteworthy that these two phrases, \"contro\n     alla fede\" and \"tutto fede,\" were omitted in the Testina\n     edition, which was published with the sanction of the papal\n     authorities. It may be that the meaning attached to the word\n     \"fede\" was \"the faith,\" i.e. the Catholic creed, and not as\n     rendered here \"fidelity\" and \"faithful.\" Observe that the\n     word \"religione\" was suffered to stand in the text of the\n     Testina, being used to signify indifferently every shade of\n     belief, as witness \"the religion,\" a phrase inevitably\n     employed to designate the Huguenot heresy. South in his\n     Sermon IX, p. 69, ed. 1843, comments on this passage as\n     follows: \"That great patron and Coryphaeus of this tribe,\n     Nicolo Machiavel, laid down this for a master rule in his\n     political scheme: 'That the show of religion was helpful to\n     the politician, but the reality of it hurtful and\n     pernicious.'\"\n\nFor this reason a prince ought to take care that he never lets anything\nslip from his lips that is not replete with the above-named five\nqualities, that he may appear to him who sees and hears him altogether\nmerciful, faithful, humane, upright, and religious. There is nothing\nmore necessary to appear to have than this last quality, inasmuch as men\njudge generally more by the eye than by the hand, because it belongs to\neverybody to see you, to few to come in touch with you. Every one sees\nwhat you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare\nnot oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty\nof the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and\nespecially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges\nby the result.\n\nFor that reason, let a prince have the credit of conquering and holding\nhis state, the means will always be considered honest, and he will be\npraised by everybody; because the vulgar are always taken by what a\nthing seems to be and by what comes of it; and in the world there are\nonly the vulgar, for the few find a place there only when the many have\nno ground to rest on.\n\nOne prince(*) of the present time, whom it is not well to name, never\npreaches anything else but peace and good faith, and to both he is\nmost hostile, and either, if he had kept it, would have deprived him of\nreputation and kingdom many a time.\n\n     (*) Ferdinand of Aragon. \"When Machiavelli was writing 'The\n     Prince' it would have been clearly impossible to mention\n     Ferdinand's name here without giving offence.\" Burd's \"Il\n     Principe,\" p. 308.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNow, concerning the characteristics of which mention is made above, I\nhave spoken of the more important ones, the others I wish to discuss\nbriefly under this generality, that the prince must consider, as has\nbeen in part said before, how to avoid those things which will make him\nhated or contemptible; and as often as he shall have succeeded he\nwill have fulfilled his part, and he need not fear any danger in other\nreproaches.\n\nIt makes him hated above all things, as I have said, to be rapacious,\nand to be a violator of the property and women of his subjects, from\nboth of which he must abstain. And when neither their property nor their\nhonor is touched, the majority of men live content, and he has only to\ncontend with the ambition of a few, whom he can curb with ease in many\nways.\n\nIt makes him contemptible to be considered fickle, frivolous,\neffeminate, mean-spirited, irresolute, from all of which a prince should\nguard himself as from a rock; and he should endeavour to show in his\nactions greatness, courage, gravity, and fortitude; and in his\nprivate dealings with his subjects let him show that his judgments are\nirrevocable, and maintain himself in such reputation that no one can\nhope either to deceive him or to get round him.\n\nThat prince is highly esteemed who conveys this impression of himself,\nand he who is highly esteemed is not easily conspired against; for,\nprovided it is well known that he is an excellent man and revered by\nhis people, he can only be attacked with difficulty. For this reason\na prince ought to have two fears, one from within, on account of his\nsubjects, the other from without, on account of external powers. From\nthe latter he is defended by being well armed and having good allies,\nand if he is well armed he will have good friends, and affairs will\nalways remain quiet within when they are quiet without, unless they\nshould have been already disturbed by conspiracy; and even should\naffairs outside be disturbed, if he has carried out his preparations and\nhas lived as I have said, as long as he does not despair, he will resist\nevery attack, as I said Nabis the Spartan did.\n\nBut concerning his subjects, when affairs outside are disturbed he has\nonly to fear that they will conspire secretly, from which a prince\ncan easily secure himself by avoiding being hated and despised, and by\nkeeping the people satisfied with him, which it is most necessary\nfor him to accomplish, as I said above at length. And one of the most\nefficacious remedies that a prince can have against conspiracies is not\nto be hated and despised by the people, for he who conspires against\na prince always expects to please them by his removal; but when the\nconspirator can only look forward to offending them, he will not have\nthe courage to take such a course, for the difficulties that confront\na conspirator are infinite. And as experience shows, many have been the\nconspiracies, but few have been successful; because he who conspires\ncannot act alone, nor can he take a companion except from those whom he\nbelieves to be malcontents, and as soon as you have opened your mind\nto a malcontent you have given him the material with which to content\nhimself, for by denouncing you he can look for every advantage; so that,\nseeing the gain from this course to be assured, and seeing the other\nto be doubtful and full of dangers, he must be a very rare friend, or a\nthoroughly obstinate enemy of the prince, to keep faith with you.\n\nAnd, to reduce the matter into a small compass, I say that, on the side\nof the conspirator, there is nothing but fear, jealousy, prospect of\npunishment to terrify him; but on the side of the prince there is the\nmajesty of the principality, the laws, the protection of friends and\nthe state to defend him; so that, adding to all these things the\npopular goodwill, it is impossible that any one should be so rash as to\nconspire. For whereas in general the conspirator has to fear before the\nexecution of his plot, in this case he has also to fear the sequel to\nthe crime; because on account of it he has the people for an enemy, and\nthus cannot hope for any escape.\n\nEndless examples could be given on this subject, but I will be content\nwith one, brought to pass within the memory of our fathers. Messer\nAnnibale Bentivogli, who was prince in Bologna (grandfather of the\npresent Annibale), having been murdered by the Canneschi, who had\nconspired against him, not one of his family survived but Messer\nGiovanni,(*) who was in childhood: immediately after his assassination\nthe people rose and murdered all the Canneschi. This sprung from the\npopular goodwill which the house of Bentivogli enjoyed in those days in\nBologna; which was so great that, although none remained there after the\ndeath of Annibale who was able to rule the state, the Bolognese, having\ninformation that there was one of the Bentivogli family in Florence,\nwho up to that time had been considered the son of a blacksmith, sent to\nFlorence for him and gave him the government of their city, and it was\nruled by him until Messer Giovanni came in due course to the government.\n\n     (*) Giovanni Bentivogli, born in Bologna 1438, died at Milan\n     1508. He ruled Bologna from 1462 to 1506. Machiavelli's\n     strong condemnation of conspiracies may get its edge from\n     his own very recent experience (February 1513), when he had\n     been arrested and tortured for his alleged complicity in the\n     Boscoli conspiracy.\n\nFor this reason I consider that a prince ought to reckon conspiracies\nof little account when his people hold him in esteem; but when it\nis hostile to him, and bears hatred towards him, he ought to fear\neverything and everybody. And well-ordered states and wise princes have\ntaken every care not to drive the nobles to desperation, and to keep the\npeople satisfied and contented, for this is one of the most important\nobjects a prince can have.\n\nAmong the best ordered and governed kingdoms of our times is France, and\nin it are found many good institutions on which depend the liberty\nand security of the king; of these the first is the parliament and its\nauthority, because he who founded the kingdom, knowing the ambition of\nthe nobility and their boldness, considered that a bit to their mouths\nwould be necessary to hold them in; and, on the other side, knowing the\nhatred of the people, founded in fear, against the nobles, he wished to\nprotect them, yet he was not anxious for this to be the particular care\nof the king; therefore, to take away the reproach which he would be\nliable to from the nobles for favouring the people, and from the people\nfor favouring the nobles, he set up an arbiter, who should be one who\ncould beat down the great and favour the lesser without reproach to the\nking. Neither could you have a better or a more prudent arrangement, or\na greater source of security to the king and kingdom. From this one can\ndraw another important conclusion, that princes ought to leave affairs\nof reproach to the management of others, and keep those of grace in\ntheir own hands. And further, I consider that a prince ought to cherish\nthe nobles, but not so as to make himself hated by the people.\n\nIt may appear, perhaps, to some who have examined the lives and deaths\nof the Roman emperors that many of them would be an example contrary\nto my opinion, seeing that some of them lived nobly and showed great\nqualities of soul, nevertheless they have lost their empire or have been\nkilled by subjects who have conspired against them. Wishing, therefore,\nto answer these objections, I will recall the characters of some of the\nemperors, and will show that the causes of their ruin were not different\nto those alleged by me; at the same time I will only submit for\nconsideration those things that are noteworthy to him who studies the\naffairs of those times.\n\nIt seems to me sufficient to take all those emperors who succeeded to\nthe empire from Marcus the philosopher down to Maximinus; they were\nMarcus and his son Commodus, Pertinax, Julian, Severus and his son\nAntoninus Caracalla, Macrinus, Heliogabalus, Alexander, and Maximinus.\n\nThere is first to note that, whereas in other principalities the\nambition of the nobles and the insolence of the people only have to be\ncontended with, the Roman emperors had a third difficulty in having to\nput up with the cruelty and avarice of their soldiers, a matter so beset\nwith difficulties that it was the ruin of many; for it was a hard thing\nto give satisfaction both to soldiers and people; because the people\nloved peace, and for this reason they loved the unaspiring prince,\nwhilst the soldiers loved the warlike prince who was bold, cruel, and\nrapacious, which qualities they were quite willing he should exercise\nupon the people, so that they could get double pay and give vent to\ntheir own greed and cruelty. Hence it arose that those emperors were\nalways overthrown who, either by birth or training, had no great\nauthority, and most of them, especially those who came new to the\nprincipality, recognizing the difficulty of these two opposing humours,\nwere inclined to give satisfaction to the soldiers, caring little about\ninjuring the people. Which course was necessary, because, as princes\ncannot help being hated by someone, they ought, in the first place, to\navoid being hated by every one, and when they cannot compass this, they\nought to endeavour with the utmost diligence to avoid the hatred of the\nmost powerful. Therefore, those emperors who through inexperience had\nneed of special favour adhered more readily to the soldiers than to\nthe people; a course which turned out advantageous to them or not,\naccordingly as the prince knew how to maintain authority over them.\n\nFrom these causes it arose that Marcus, Pertinax, and Alexander, being\nall men of modest life, lovers of justice, enemies to cruelty, humane,\nand benignant, came to a sad end except Marcus; he alone lived and died\nhonoured, because he had succeeded to the throne by hereditary title,\nand owed nothing either to the soldiers or the people; and afterwards,\nbeing possessed of many virtues which made him respected, he always kept\nboth orders in their places whilst he lived, and was neither hated nor\ndespised.\n\nBut Pertinax was created emperor against the wishes of the soldiers,\nwho, being accustomed to live licentiously under Commodus, could not\nendure the honest life to which Pertinax wished to reduce them; thus,\nhaving given cause for hatred, to which hatred there was added contempt\nfor his old age, he was overthrown at the very beginning of his\nadministration. And here it should be noted that hatred is acquired as\nmuch by good works as by bad ones, therefore, as I said before, a prince\nwishing to keep his state is very often forced to do evil; for when that\nbody is corrupt whom you think you have need of to maintain yourself--it\nmay be either the people or the soldiers or the nobles--you have to\nsubmit to its humours and to gratify them, and then good works will do\nyou harm.\n\nBut let us come to Alexander, who was a man of such great goodness,\nthat among the other praises which are accorded him is this, that in the\nfourteen years he held the empire no one was ever put to death by\nhim unjudged; nevertheless, being considered effeminate and a man who\nallowed himself to be governed by his mother, he became despised, the\narmy conspired against him, and murdered him.\n\nTurning now to the opposite characters of Commodus, Severus, Antoninus\nCaracalla, and Maximinus, you will find them all cruel and rapacious-men\nwho, to satisfy their soldiers, did not hesitate to commit every kind of\niniquity against the people; and all, except Severus, came to a bad\nend; but in Severus there was so much valour that, keeping the soldiers\nfriendly, although the people were oppressed by him, he reigned\nsuccessfully; for his valour made him so much admired in the sight of\nthe soldiers and people that the latter were kept in a way astonished\nand awed and the former respectful and satisfied. And because the\nactions of this man, as a new prince, were great, I wish to show\nbriefly that he knew well how to counterfeit the fox and the lion, which\nnatures, as I said above, it is necessary for a prince to imitate.\n\nKnowing the sloth of the Emperor Julian, he persuaded the army in\nSclavonia, of which he was captain, that it would be right to go to Rome\nand avenge the death of Pertinax, who had been killed by the praetorian\nsoldiers; and under this pretext, without appearing to aspire to the\nthrone, he moved the army on Rome, and reached Italy before it was known\nthat he had started. On his arrival at Rome, the Senate, through fear,\nelected him emperor and killed Julian. After this there remained for\nSeverus, who wished to make himself master of the whole empire, two\ndifficulties; one in Asia, where Niger, head of the Asiatic army, had\ncaused himself to be proclaimed emperor; the other in the west where\nAlbinus was, who also aspired to the throne. And as he considered it\ndangerous to declare himself hostile to both, he decided to attack\nNiger and to deceive Albinus. To the latter he wrote that, being elected\nemperor by the Senate, he was willing to share that dignity with him and\nsent him the title of Caesar; and, moreover, that the Senate had made\nAlbinus his colleague; which things were accepted by Albinus as true.\nBut after Severus had conquered and killed Niger, and settled oriental\naffairs, he returned to Rome and complained to the Senate that Albinus,\nlittle recognizing the benefits that he had received from him, had\nby treachery sought to murder him, and for this ingratitude he was\ncompelled to punish him. Afterwards he sought him out in France, and\ntook from him his government and life. He who will, therefore, carefully\nexamine the actions of this man will find him a most valiant lion and\na most cunning fox; he will find him feared and respected by every one,\nand not hated by the army; and it need not be wondered at that he, a\nnew man, was able to hold the empire so well, because his supreme\nrenown always protected him from that hatred which the people might have\nconceived against him for his violence.\n\nBut his son Antoninus was a most eminent man, and had very excellent\nqualities, which made him admirable in the sight of the people and\nacceptable to the soldiers, for he was a warlike man, most enduring\nof fatigue, a despiser of all delicate food and other luxuries, which\ncaused him to be beloved by the armies. Nevertheless, his ferocity and\ncruelties were so great and so unheard of that, after endless single\nmurders, he killed a large number of the people of Rome and all those of\nAlexandria. He became hated by the whole world, and also feared by those\nhe had around him, to such an extent that he was murdered in the midst\nof his army by a centurion. And here it must be noted that such-like\ndeaths, which are deliberately inflicted with a resolved and desperate\ncourage, cannot be avoided by princes, because any one who does not fear\nto die can inflict them; but a prince may fear them the less because\nthey are very rare; he has only to be careful not to do any grave injury\nto those whom he employs or has around him in the service of the state.\nAntoninus had not taken this care, but had contumeliously killed a\nbrother of that centurion, whom also he daily threatened, yet retained\nin his bodyguard; which, as it turned out, was a rash thing to do, and\nproved the emperor's ruin.\n\nBut let us come to Commodus, to whom it should have been very easy to\nhold the empire, for, being the son of Marcus, he had inherited it,\nand he had only to follow in the footsteps of his father to please his\npeople and soldiers; but, being by nature cruel and brutal, he gave\nhimself up to amusing the soldiers and corrupting them, so that he might\nindulge his rapacity upon the people; on the other hand, not maintaining\nhis dignity, often descending to the theatre to compete with gladiators,\nand doing other vile things, little worthy of the imperial majesty, he\nfell into contempt with the soldiers, and being hated by one party and\ndespised by the other, he was conspired against and was killed.\n\nIt remains to discuss the character of Maximinus. He was a very warlike\nman, and the armies, being disgusted with the effeminacy of Alexander,\nof whom I have already spoken, killed him and elected Maximinus to the\nthrone. This he did not possess for long, for two things made him hated\nand despised; the one, his having kept sheep in Thrace, which brought\nhim into contempt (it being well known to all, and considered a great\nindignity by every one), and the other, his having at the accession\nto his dominions deferred going to Rome and taking possession of the\nimperial seat; he had also gained a reputation for the utmost ferocity\nby having, through his prefects in Rome and elsewhere in the empire,\npractised many cruelties, so that the whole world was moved to anger\nat the meanness of his birth and to fear at his barbarity. First Africa\nrebelled, then the Senate with all the people of Rome, and all Italy\nconspired against him, to which may be added his own army; this latter,\nbesieging Aquileia and meeting with difficulties in taking it, were\ndisgusted with his cruelties, and fearing him less when they found so\nmany against him, murdered him.\n\nI do not wish to discuss Heliogabalus, Macrinus, or Julian, who, being\nthoroughly contemptible, were quickly wiped out; but I will bring this\ndiscourse to a conclusion by saying that princes in our times have this\ndifficulty of giving inordinate satisfaction to their soldiers in a\nfar less degree, because, notwithstanding one has to give them some\nindulgence, that is soon done; none of these princes have armies that\nare veterans in the governance and administration of provinces, as were\nthe armies of the Roman Empire; and whereas it was then more necessary\nto give satisfaction to the soldiers than to the people, it is now more\nnecessary to all princes, except the Turk and the Soldan, to satisfy the\npeople rather the soldiers, because the people are the more powerful.\n\nFrom the above I have excepted the Turk, who always keeps round him\ntwelve thousand infantry and fifteen thousand cavalry on which depend\nthe security and strength of the kingdom, and it is necessary that,\nputting aside every consideration for the people, he should keep them\nhis friends. The kingdom of the Soldan is similar; being entirely in the\nhands of soldiers, it follows again that, without regard to the people,\nhe must keep them his friends. But you must note that the state of the\nSoldan is unlike all other principalities, for the reason that it\nis like the Christian pontificate, which cannot be called either an\nhereditary or a newly formed principality; because the sons of the old\nprince are not the heirs, but he who is elected to that position by\nthose who have authority, and the sons remain only noblemen. And this\nbeing an ancient custom, it cannot be called a new principality, because\nthere are none of those difficulties in it that are met with in new\nones; for although the prince is new, the constitution of the state is\nold, and it is framed so as to receive him as if he were its hereditary\nlord.\n\nBut returning to the subject of our discourse, I say that whoever will\nconsider it will acknowledge that either hatred or contempt has been\nfatal to the above-named emperors, and it will be recognized also how\nit happened that, a number of them acting in one way and a number\nin another, only one in each way came to a happy end and the rest to\nunhappy ones. Because it would have been useless and dangerous for\nPertinax and Alexander, being new princes, to imitate Marcus, who\nwas heir to the principality; and likewise it would have been utterly\ndestructive to Caracalla, Commodus, and Maximinus to have imitated\nSeverus, they not having sufficient valour to enable them to tread\nin his footsteps. Therefore a prince, new to the principality, cannot\nimitate the actions of Marcus, nor, again, is it necessary to follow\nthose of Severus, but he ought to take from Severus those parts which\nare necessary to found his state, and from Marcus those which are proper\nand glorious to keep a state that may already be stable and firm.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n1. Some princes, so as to hold securely the state, have disarmed their\nsubjects; others have kept their subject towns distracted by factions;\nothers have fostered enmities against themselves; others have laid\nthemselves out to gain over those whom they distrusted in the beginning\nof their governments; some have built fortresses; some have overthrown\nand destroyed them. And although one cannot give a final judgment on all\nof these things unless one possesses the particulars of those states\nin which a decision has to be made, nevertheless I will speak as\ncomprehensively as the matter of itself will admit.\n\n2. There never was a new prince who has disarmed his subjects; rather\nwhen he has found them disarmed he has always armed them, because, by\narming them, those arms become yours, those men who were distrusted\nbecome faithful, and those who were faithful are kept so, and your\nsubjects become your adherents. And whereas all subjects cannot be\narmed, yet when those whom you do arm are benefited, the others can be\nhandled more freely, and this difference in their treatment, which they\nquite understand, makes the former your dependents, and the latter,\nconsidering it to be necessary that those who have the most danger and\nservice should have the most reward, excuse you. But when you disarm\nthem, you at once offend them by showing that you distrust them, either\nfor cowardice or for want of loyalty, and either of these opinions\nbreeds hatred against you. And because you cannot remain unarmed, it\nfollows that you turn to mercenaries, which are of the character already\nshown; even if they should be good they would not be sufficient to\ndefend you against powerful enemies and distrusted subjects. Therefore,\nas I have said, a new prince in a new principality has always\ndistributed arms. Histories are full of examples. But when a prince\nacquires a new state, which he adds as a province to his old one, then\nit is necessary to disarm the men of that state, except those who have\nbeen his adherents in acquiring it; and these again, with time and\nopportunity, should be rendered soft and effeminate; and matters should\nbe managed in such a way that all the armed men in the state shall be\nyour own soldiers who in your old state were living near you.\n\n3. Our forefathers, and those who were reckoned wise, were accustomed\nto say that it was necessary to hold Pistoia by factions and Pisa by\nfortresses; and with this idea they fostered quarrels in some of their\ntributary towns so as to keep possession of them the more easily.\nThis may have been well enough in those times when Italy was in a way\nbalanced, but I do not believe that it can be accepted as a precept\nfor to-day, because I do not believe that factions can ever be of use;\nrather it is certain that when the enemy comes upon you in divided\ncities you are quickly lost, because the weakest party will always\nassist the outside forces and the other will not be able to resist.\nThe Venetians, moved, as I believe, by the above reasons, fostered the\nGuelph and Ghibelline factions in their tributary cities; and although\nthey never allowed them to come to bloodshed, yet they nursed these\ndisputes amongst them, so that the citizens, distracted by their\ndifferences, should not unite against them. Which, as we saw, did not\nafterwards turn out as expected, because, after the rout at Vaila, one\nparty at once took courage and seized the state. Such methods argue,\ntherefore, weakness in the prince, because these factions will never be\npermitted in a vigorous principality; such methods for enabling one the\nmore easily to manage subjects are only useful in times of peace, but if\nwar comes this policy proves fallacious.\n\n4. Without doubt princes become great when they overcome the\ndifficulties and obstacles by which they are confronted, and therefore\nfortune, especially when she desires to make a new prince great, who\nhas a greater necessity to earn renown than an hereditary one, causes\nenemies to arise and form designs against him, in order that he may have\nthe opportunity of overcoming them, and by them to mount higher, as by a\nladder which his enemies have raised. For this reason many consider that\na wise prince, when he has the opportunity, ought with craft to foster\nsome animosity against himself, so that, having crushed it, his renown\nmay rise higher.\n\n5. Princes, especially new ones, have found more fidelity and assistance\nin those men who in the beginning of their rule were distrusted than\namong those who in the beginning were trusted. Pandolfo Petrucci, Prince\nof Siena, ruled his state more by those who had been distrusted than by\nothers. But on this question one cannot speak generally, for it varies\nso much with the individual; I will only say this, that those men who\nat the commencement of a princedom have been hostile, if they are of\na description to need assistance to support themselves, can always be\ngained over with the greatest ease, and they will be tightly held to\nserve the prince with fidelity, inasmuch as they know it to be very\nnecessary for them to cancel by deeds the bad impression which he had\nformed of them; and thus the prince always extracts more profit from\nthem than from those who, serving him in too much security, may neglect\nhis affairs. And since the matter demands it, I must not fail to warn a\nprince, who by means of secret favours has acquired a new state, that he\nmust well consider the reasons which induced those to favour him who\ndid so; and if it be not a natural affection towards him, but only\ndiscontent with their government, then he will only keep them friendly\nwith great trouble and difficulty, for it will be impossible to satisfy\nthem. And weighing well the reasons for this in those examples which\ncan be taken from ancient and modern affairs, we shall find that it is\neasier for the prince to make friends of those men who were contented\nunder the former government, and are therefore his enemies, than of\nthose who, being discontented with it, were favourable to him and\nencouraged him to seize it.\n\n6. It has been a custom with princes, in order to hold their states\nmore securely, to build fortresses that may serve as a bridle and bit\nto those who might design to work against them, and as a place of refuge\nfrom a first attack. I praise this system because it has been made use\nof formerly. Notwithstanding that, Messer Nicolo Vitelli in our times\nhas been seen to demolish two fortresses in Citta di Castello so that he\nmight keep that state; Guido Ubaldo, Duke of Urbino, on returning to\nhis dominion, whence he had been driven by Cesare Borgia, razed to the\nfoundations all the fortresses in that province, and considered that\nwithout them it would be more difficult to lose it; the Bentivogli\nreturning to Bologna came to a similar decision. Fortresses, therefore,\nare useful or not according to circumstances; if they do you good in one\nway they injure you in another. And this question can be reasoned thus:\nthe prince who has more to fear from the people than from foreigners\nought to build fortresses, but he who has more to fear from foreigners\nthan from the people ought to leave them alone. The castle of Milan,\nbuilt by Francesco Sforza, has made, and will make, more trouble for the\nhouse of Sforza than any other disorder in the state. For this reason\nthe best possible fortress is--not to be hated by the people, because,\nalthough you may hold the fortresses, yet they will not save you if the\npeople hate you, for there will never be wanting foreigners to assist\na people who have taken arms against you. It has not been seen in our\ntimes that such fortresses have been of use to any prince, unless to the\nCountess of Forli,(*) when the Count Girolamo, her consort, was killed;\nfor by that means she was able to withstand the popular attack and wait\nfor assistance from Milan, and thus recover her state; and the posture\nof affairs was such at that time that the foreigners could not assist\nthe people. But fortresses were of little value to her afterwards when\nCesare Borgia attacked her, and when the people, her enemy, were allied\nwith foreigners. Therefore, it would have been safer for her, both then\nand before, not to have been hated by the people than to have had the\nfortresses. All these things considered then, I shall praise him\nwho builds fortresses as well as him who does not, and I shall blame\nwhoever, trusting in them, cares little about being hated by the people.\n\n     (*) Catherine Sforza, a daughter of Galeazzo Sforza and\n     Lucrezia Landriani, born 1463, died 1509. It was to the\n     Countess of Forli that Machiavelli was sent as envoy on 1499.\n     A letter from Fortunati to the countess announces the\n     appointment: \"I have been with the signori,\" wrote\n     Fortunati, \"to learn whom they would send and when. They\n     tell me that Nicolo Machiavelli, a learned young Florentine\n     noble, secretary to my Lords of the Ten, is to leave with me\n     at once.\" Cf. \"Catherine Sforza,\" by Count Pasolini,\n     translated by P. Sylvester, 1898.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNothing makes a prince so much esteemed as great enterprises and setting\na fine example. We have in our time Ferdinand of Aragon, the present\nKing of Spain. He can almost be called a new prince, because he has\nrisen, by fame and glory, from being an insignificant king to be the\nforemost king in Christendom; and if you will consider his deeds\nyou will find them all great and some of them extraordinary. In the\nbeginning of his reign he attacked Granada, and this enterprise was the\nfoundation of his dominions. He did this quietly at first and without\nany fear of hindrance, for he held the minds of the barons of Castile\noccupied in thinking of the war and not anticipating any innovations;\nthus they did not perceive that by these means he was acquiring power\nand authority over them. He was able with the money of the Church and\nof the people to sustain his armies, and by that long war to lay the\nfoundation for the military skill which has since distinguished him.\nFurther, always using religion as a plea, so as to undertake greater\nschemes, he devoted himself with pious cruelty to driving out and\nclearing his kingdom of the Moors; nor could there be a more admirable\nexample, nor one more rare. Under this same cloak he assailed Africa,\nhe came down on Italy, he has finally attacked France; and thus his\nachievements and designs have always been great, and have kept the minds\nof his people in suspense and admiration and occupied with the issue of\nthem. And his actions have arisen in such a way, one out of the other,\nthat men have never been given time to work steadily against him.\n\nAgain, it much assists a prince to set unusual examples in internal\naffairs, similar to those which are related of Messer Bernabo da Milano,\nwho, when he had the opportunity, by any one in civil life doing some\nextraordinary thing, either good or bad, would take some method of\nrewarding or punishing him, which would be much spoken about. And a\nprince ought, above all things, always endeavour in every action to gain\nfor himself the reputation of being a great and remarkable man.\n\nA prince is also respected when he is either a true friend or a\ndownright enemy, that is to say, when, without any reservation, he\ndeclares himself in favour of one party against the other; which course\nwill always be more advantageous than standing neutral; because if two\nof your powerful neighbours come to blows, they are of such a character\nthat, if one of them conquers, you have either to fear him or not.\nIn either case it will always be more advantageous for you to declare\nyourself and to make war strenuously; because, in the first case, if\nyou do not declare yourself, you will invariably fall a prey to\nthe conqueror, to the pleasure and satisfaction of him who has been\nconquered, and you will have no reasons to offer, nor anything to\nprotect or to shelter you. Because he who conquers does not want\ndoubtful friends who will not aid him in the time of trial; and he who\nloses will not harbour you because you did not willingly, sword in hand,\ncourt his fate.\n\nAntiochus went into Greece, being sent for by the Aetolians to drive\nout the Romans. He sent envoys to the Achaeans, who were friends of\nthe Romans, exhorting them to remain neutral; and on the other hand the\nRomans urged them to take up arms. This question came to be discussed in\nthe council of the Achaeans, where the legate of Antiochus urged them to\nstand neutral. To this the Roman legate answered: \"As for that which has\nbeen said, that it is better and more advantageous for your state not\nto interfere in our war, nothing can be more erroneous; because by\nnot interfering you will be left, without favour or consideration, the\nguerdon of the conqueror.\" Thus it will always happen that he who is not\nyour friend will demand your neutrality, whilst he who is your friend\nwill entreat you to declare yourself with arms. And irresolute princes,\nto avoid present dangers, generally follow the neutral path, and are\ngenerally ruined. But when a prince declares himself gallantly in favour\nof one side, if the party with whom he allies himself conquers, although\nthe victor may be powerful and may have him at his mercy, yet he is\nindebted to him, and there is established a bond of amity; and men are\nnever so shameless as to become a monument of ingratitude by oppressing\nyou. Victories after all are never so complete that the victor must not\nshow some regard, especially to justice. But if he with whom you ally\nyourself loses, you may be sheltered by him, and whilst he is able he\nmay aid you, and you become companions on a fortune that may rise again.\n\nIn the second case, when those who fight are of such a character that\nyou have no anxiety as to who may conquer, so much the more is it\ngreater prudence to be allied, because you assist at the destruction\nof one by the aid of another who, if he had been wise, would have saved\nhim; and conquering, as it is impossible that he should not do with your\nassistance, he remains at your discretion. And here it is to be noted\nthat a prince ought to take care never to make an alliance with one\nmore powerful than himself for the purposes of attacking others, unless\nnecessity compels him, as is said above; because if he conquers you are\nat his discretion, and princes ought to avoid as much as possible being\nat the discretion of any one. The Venetians joined with France against\nthe Duke of Milan, and this alliance, which caused their ruin, could\nhave been avoided. But when it cannot be avoided, as happened to the\nFlorentines when the Pope and Spain sent armies to attack Lombardy, then\nin such a case, for the above reasons, the prince ought to favour one of\nthe parties.\n\nNever let any Government imagine that it can choose perfectly safe\ncourses; rather let it expect to have to take very doubtful ones,\nbecause it is found in ordinary affairs that one never seeks to avoid\none trouble without running into another; but prudence consists in\nknowing how to distinguish the character of troubles, and for choice to\ntake the lesser evil.\n\nA prince ought also to show himself a patron of ability, and to honour\nthe proficient in every art. At the same time he should encourage his\ncitizens to practise their callings peaceably, both in commerce and\nagriculture, and in every other following, so that the one should not be\ndeterred from improving his possessions for fear lest they be taken away\nfrom him or another from opening up trade for fear of taxes; but the\nprince ought to offer rewards to whoever wishes to do these things and\ndesigns in any way to honour his city or state.\n\nFurther, he ought to entertain the people with festivals and spectacles\nat convenient seasons of the year; and as every city is divided into\nguilds or into societies,(*) he ought to hold such bodies in esteem, and\nassociate with them sometimes, and show himself an example of courtesy\nand liberality; nevertheless, always maintaining the majesty of his\nrank, for this he must never consent to abate in anything.\n\n     (*) \"Guilds or societies,\" \"in arti o in tribu.\" \"Arti\" were\n     craft or trade guilds, cf. Florio: \"Arte . . . a whole\n     company of any trade in any city or corporation town.\" The\n     guilds of Florence are most admirably described by Mr\n     Edgcumbe Staley in his work on the subject (Methuen, 1906).\n     Institutions of a somewhat similar character, called\n     \"artel,\" exist in Russia to-day, cf. Sir Mackenzie Wallace's\n     \"Russia,\" ed. 1905: \"The sons . . . were always during the\n     working season members of an artel. In some of the larger\n     towns there are artels of a much more complex kind--\n     permanent associations, possessing large capital, and\n     pecuniarily responsible for the acts of the individual\n     members.\" The word \"artel,\" despite its apparent similarity,\n     has, Mr Aylmer Maude assures me, no connection with \"ars\" or\n     \"arte.\" Its root is that of the verb \"rotisya,\" to bind\n     oneself by an oath; and it is generally admitted to be only\n     another form of \"rota,\" which now signifies a \"regimental\n     company.\" In both words the underlying idea is that of a\n     body of men united by an oath. \"Tribu\" were possibly gentile\n     groups, united by common descent, and included individuals\n     connected by marriage. Perhaps our words \"sects\" or \"clans\"\n     would be most appropriate.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they\nare good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the\nfirst opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is\nby observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and\nfaithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how\nto recognize the capable and to keep them faithful. But when they are\notherwise one cannot form a good opinion of him, for the prime error\nwhich he made was in choosing them.\n\nThere were none who knew Messer Antonio da Venafro as the servant of\nPandolfo Petrucci, Prince of Siena, who would not consider Pandolfo to\nbe a very clever man in having Venafro for his servant. Because there\nare three classes of intellects: one which comprehends by itself;\nanother which appreciates what others comprehended; and a third which\nneither comprehends by itself nor by the showing of others; the first is\nthe most excellent, the second is good, the third is useless. Therefore,\nit follows necessarily that, if Pandolfo was not in the first rank, he\nwas in the second, for whenever one has judgment to know good and\nbad when it is said and done, although he himself may not have the\ninitiative, yet he can recognize the good and the bad in his servant,\nand the one he can praise and the other correct; thus the servant cannot\nhope to deceive him, and is kept honest.\n\nBut to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one\ntest which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his\nown interests than of yours, and seeking inwardly his own profit in\neverything, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you ever\nbe able to trust him; because he who has the state of another in his\nhands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince, and\nnever pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not concerned.\n\nOn the other hand, to keep his servant honest the prince ought to study\nhim, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with\nhim the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he\ncannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more,\nmany riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him\ndread chances. When, therefore, servants, and princes towards servants,\nare thus disposed, they can trust each other, but when it is otherwise,\nthe end will always be disastrous for either one or the other.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nI do not wish to leave out an important branch of this subject, for it\nis a danger from which princes are with difficulty preserved, unless\nthey are very careful and discriminating. It is that of flatterers, of\nwhom courts are full, because men are so self-complacent in their own\naffairs, and in a way so deceived in them, that they are preserved with\ndifficulty from this pest, and if they wish to defend themselves they\nrun the danger of falling into contempt. Because there is no other way\nof guarding oneself from flatterers except letting men understand that\nto tell you the truth does not offend you; but when every one may tell\nyou the truth, respect for you abates.\n\nTherefore a wise prince ought to hold a third course by choosing the\nwise men in his state, and giving to them only the liberty of speaking\nthe truth to him, and then only of those things of which he inquires,\nand of none others; but he ought to question them upon everything, and\nlisten to their opinions, and afterwards form his own conclusions.\nWith these councillors, separately and collectively, he ought to carry\nhimself in such a way that each of them should know that, the more\nfreely he shall speak, the more he shall be preferred; outside of\nthese, he should listen to no one, pursue the thing resolved on, and be\nsteadfast in his resolutions. He who does otherwise is either overthrown\nby flatterers, or is so often changed by varying opinions that he falls\ninto contempt.\n\nI wish on this subject to adduce a modern example. Fra Luca, the man of\naffairs to Maximilian,(*) the present emperor, speaking of his majesty,\nsaid: He consulted with no one, yet never got his own way in anything.\nThis arose because of his following a practice the opposite to the\nabove; for the emperor is a secretive man--he does not communicate his\ndesigns to any one, nor does he receive opinions on them. But as in\ncarrying them into effect they become revealed and known, they are\nat once obstructed by those men whom he has around him, and he, being\npliant, is diverted from them. Hence it follows that those things he\ndoes one day he undoes the next, and no one ever understands what he\nwishes or intends to do, and no one can rely on his resolutions.\n\n     (*) Maximilian I, born in 1459, died 1519, Emperor of the\n     Holy Roman Empire. He married, first, Mary, daughter of\n     Charles the Bold; after her death, Bianca Sforza; and thus\n     became involved in Italian politics.\n\nA prince, therefore, ought always to take counsel, but only when he\nwishes and not when others wish; he ought rather to discourage every one\nfrom offering advice unless he asks it; but, however, he ought to be\na constant inquirer, and afterwards a patient listener concerning the\nthings of which he inquired; also, on learning that any one, on any\nconsideration, has not told him the truth, he should let his anger be\nfelt.\n\nAnd if there are some who think that a prince who conveys an impression\nof his wisdom is not so through his own ability, but through the good\nadvisers that he has around him, beyond doubt they are deceived, because\nthis is an axiom which never fails: that a prince who is not wise\nhimself will never take good advice, unless by chance he has yielded his\naffairs entirely to one person who happens to be a very prudent man. In\nthis case indeed he may be well governed, but it would not be for long,\nbecause such a governor would in a short time take away his state from\nhim.\n\nBut if a prince who is not inexperienced should take counsel from more\nthan one he will never get united counsels, nor will he know how to\nunite them. Each of the counsellors will think of his own interests, and\nthe prince will not know how to control them or to see through them. And\nthey are not to be found otherwise, because men will always prove untrue\nto you unless they are kept honest by constraint. Therefore it must be\ninferred that good counsels, whencesoever they come, are born of\nthe wisdom of the prince, and not the wisdom of the prince from good\ncounsels.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince\nto appear well established, and render him at once more secure and fixed\nin the state than if he had been long seated there. For the actions of\na new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an hereditary\none, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men and bind\nfar tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more by the\npresent than by the past, and when they find the present good they enjoy\nit and seek no further; they will also make the utmost defence of a\nprince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will be a double\nglory for him to have established a new principality, and adorned and\nstrengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and with a good\nexample; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a prince,\nshall lose his state by want of wisdom.\n\nAnd if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in\nItaly in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan,\nand others, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in\nregard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in\nthe next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the\npeople hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known\nhow to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that\nhave power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost.\n\nPhilip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who\nwas conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to\nthe greatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a\nwarlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles, he\nsustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the\nend he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the\nkingdom.\n\nTherefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their\nprincipalities after so many years' possession, but rather their own\nsloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change\n(it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm\nagainst the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they\nthought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that\nthe people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would recall\nthem. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very bad to\nhave neglected all other expedients for that, since you would never\nwish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later on to\nrestore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does, it will\nnot be for your security, because that deliverance is of no avail which\ndoes not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable, certain, and\ndurable that depend on yourself and your valour.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIt is not unknown to me how many men have had, and still have, the\nopinion that the affairs of the world are in such wise governed by\nfortune and by God that men with their wisdom cannot direct them and\nthat no one can even help them; and because of this they would have us\nbelieve that it is not necessary to labour much in affairs, but to let\nchance govern them. This opinion has been more credited in our times\nbecause of the great changes in affairs which have been seen, and\nmay still be seen, every day, beyond all human conjecture. Sometimes\npondering over this, I am in some degree inclined to their opinion.\nNevertheless, not to extinguish our free will, I hold it to be true that\nFortune is the arbiter of one-half of our actions,(*) but that she still\nleaves us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less.\n\n     (*) Frederick the Great was accustomed to say: \"The older\n     one gets the more convinced one becomes that his Majesty\n     King Chance does three-quarters of the business of this\n     miserable universe.\" Sorel's \"Eastern Question.\"\n\nI compare her to one of those raging rivers, which when in flood\noverflows the plains, sweeping away trees and buildings, bearing away\nthe soil from place to place; everything flies before it, all yield to\nits violence, without being able in any way to withstand it; and yet,\nthough its nature be such, it does not follow therefore that men, when\nthe weather becomes fair, shall not make provision, both with defences\nand barriers, in such a manner that, rising again, the waters may\npass away by canal, and their force be neither so unrestrained nor so\ndangerous. So it happens with fortune, who shows her power where valour\nhas not prepared to resist her, and thither she turns her forces where\nshe knows that barriers and defences have not been raised to constrain\nher.\n\nAnd if you will consider Italy, which is the seat of these changes, and\nwhich has given to them their impulse, you will see it to be an open\ncountry without barriers and without any defence. For if it had been\ndefended by proper valour, as are Germany, Spain, and France, either\nthis invasion would not have made the great changes it has made or it\nwould not have come at all. And this I consider enough to say concerning\nresistance to fortune in general.\n\nBut confining myself more to the particular, I say that a prince may be\nseen happy to-day and ruined to-morrow without having shown any change\nof disposition or character. This, I believe, arises firstly from causes\nthat have already been discussed at length, namely, that the prince who\nrelies entirely on fortune is lost when it changes. I believe also that\nhe will be successful who directs his actions according to the spirit of\nthe times, and that he whose actions do not accord with the times will\nnot be successful. Because men are seen, in affairs that lead to the end\nwhich every man has before him, namely, glory and riches, to get there\nby various methods; one with caution, another with haste; one by force,\nanother by skill; one by patience, another by its opposite; and each one\nsucceeds in reaching the goal by a different method. One can also see of\ntwo cautious men the one attain his end, the other fail; and similarly,\ntwo men by different observances are equally successful, the one being\ncautious, the other impetuous; all this arises from nothing else than\nwhether or not they conform in their methods to the spirit of the times.\nThis follows from what I have said, that two men working differently\nbring about the same effect, and of two working similarly, one attains\nhis object and the other does not.\n\nChanges in estate also issue from this, for if, to one who governs\nhimself with caution and patience, times and affairs converge in such a\nway that his administration is successful, his fortune is made; but if\ntimes and affairs change, he is ruined if he does not change his course\nof action. But a man is not often found sufficiently circumspect to know\nhow to accommodate himself to the change, both because he cannot deviate\nfrom what nature inclines him to do, and also because, having always\nprospered by acting in one way, he cannot be persuaded that it is well\nto leave it; and, therefore, the cautious man, when it is time to turn\nadventurous, does not know how to do it, hence he is ruined; but had he\nchanged his conduct with the times fortune would not have changed.\n\nPope Julius the Second went to work impetuously in all his affairs, and\nfound the times and circumstances conform so well to that line of action\nthat he always met with success. Consider his first enterprise against\nBologna, Messer Giovanni Bentivogli being still alive. The Venetians\nwere not agreeable to it, nor was the King of Spain, and he had the\nenterprise still under discussion with the King of France; nevertheless\nhe personally entered upon the expedition with his accustomed boldness\nand energy, a move which made Spain and the Venetians stand irresolute\nand passive, the latter from fear, the former from desire to recover\nthe kingdom of Naples; on the other hand, he drew after him the King of\nFrance, because that king, having observed the movement, and desiring\nto make the Pope his friend so as to humble the Venetians, found it\nimpossible to refuse him. Therefore Julius with his impetuous action\naccomplished what no other pontiff with simple human wisdom could have\ndone; for if he had waited in Rome until he could get away, with his\nplans arranged and everything fixed, as any other pontiff would have\ndone, he would never have succeeded. Because the King of France would\nhave made a thousand excuses, and the others would have raised a\nthousand fears.\n\nI will leave his other actions alone, as they were all alike, and they\nall succeeded, for the shortness of his life did not let him experience\nthe contrary; but if circumstances had arisen which required him to go\ncautiously, his ruin would have followed, because he would never have\ndeviated from those ways to which nature inclined him.\n\nI conclude, therefore that, fortune being changeful and mankind\nsteadfast in their ways, so long as the two are in agreement men are\nsuccessful, but unsuccessful when they fall out. For my part I consider\nthat it is better to be adventurous than cautious, because fortune is\na woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and\nill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by\nthe adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly. She is,\ntherefore, always, woman-like, a lover of young men, because they are\nless cautious, more violent, and with more audacity command her.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHaving carefully considered the subject of the above discourses, and\nwondering within myself whether the present times were propitious to\na new prince, and whether there were elements that would give an\nopportunity to a wise and virtuous one to introduce a new order of\nthings which would do honour to him and good to the people of this\ncountry, it appears to me that so many things concur to favour a new\nprince that I never knew a time more fit than the present.\n\nAnd if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel should be\ncaptive so as to make manifest the ability of Moses; that the Persians\nshould be oppressed by the Medes so as to discover the greatness of the\nsoul of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed to illustrate\nthe capabilities of Theseus: then at the present time, in order to\ndiscover the virtue of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy\nshould be reduced to the extremity that she is now in, that she should\nbe more enslaved than the Hebrews, more oppressed than the Persians,\nmore scattered than the Athenians; without head, without order, beaten,\ndespoiled, torn, overrun; and to have endured every kind of desolation.\n\nAlthough lately some spark may have been shown by one, which made us\nthink he was ordained by God for our redemption, nevertheless it was\nafterwards seen, in the height of his career, that fortune rejected him;\nso that Italy, left as without life, waits for him who shall yet heal\nher wounds and put an end to the ravaging and plundering of Lombardy,\nto the swindling and taxing of the kingdom and of Tuscany, and cleanse\nthose sores that for long have festered. It is seen how she entreats God\nto send someone who shall deliver her from these wrongs and barbarous\ninsolencies. It is seen also that she is ready and willing to follow a\nbanner if only someone will raise it.\n\nNor is there to be seen at present one in whom she can place more hope\nthan in your illustrious house,(*) with its valour and fortune, favoured\nby God and by the Church of which it is now the chief, and which could\nbe made the head of this redemption. This will not be difficult if you\nwill recall to yourself the actions and lives of the men I have named.\nAnd although they were great and wonderful men, yet they were men, and\neach one of them had no more opportunity than the present offers, for\ntheir enterprises were neither more just nor easier than this, nor was\nGod more their friend than He is yours.\n\n     (*) Giuliano de Medici. He had just been created a cardinal\n     by Leo X. In 1523 Giuliano was elected Pope, and took the\n     title of Clement VII.\n\nWith us there is great justice, because that war is just which is\nnecessary, and arms are hallowed when there is no other hope but in\nthem. Here there is the greatest willingness, and where the willingness\nis great the difficulties cannot be great if you will only follow those\nmen to whom I have directed your attention. Further than this, how\nextraordinarily the ways of God have been manifested beyond example:\nthe sea is divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured\nforth water, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to\nyour greatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do\neverything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory\nwhich belongs to us.\n\nAnd it is not to be wondered at if none of the above-named Italians\nhave been able to accomplish all that is expected from your illustrious\nhouse; and if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in so many campaigns,\nit has always appeared as if military virtue were exhausted, this has\nhappened because the old order of things was not good, and none of us\nhave known how to find a new one. And nothing honours a man more than to\nestablish new laws and new ordinances when he himself was newly risen.\nSuch things when they are well founded and dignified will make him\nrevered and admired, and in Italy there are not wanting opportunities to\nbring such into use in every form.\n\nHere there is great valour in the limbs whilst it fails in the head.\nLook attentively at the duels and the hand-to-hand combats, how superior\nthe Italians are in strength, dexterity, and subtlety. But when it comes\nto armies they do not bear comparison, and this springs entirely from\nthe insufficiency of the leaders, since those who are capable are not\nobedient, and each one seems to himself to know, there having never been\nany one so distinguished above the rest, either by valour or fortune,\nthat others would yield to him. Hence it is that for so long a time,\nand during so much fighting in the past twenty years, whenever there\nhas been an army wholly Italian, it has always given a poor account of\nitself; the first witness to this is Il Taro, afterwards Allesandria,\nCapua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, Mestri.(*)\n\n     (*) The battles of Il Taro, 1495; Alessandria, 1499; Capua,\n     1501; Genoa, 1507; Vaila, 1509; Bologna, 1511; Mestri, 1513.\n\nIf, therefore, your illustrious house wishes to follow these remarkable\nmen who have redeemed their country, it is necessary before all things,\nas a true foundation for every enterprise, to be provided with your\nown forces, because there can be no more faithful, truer, or better\nsoldiers. And although singly they are good, altogether they will\nbe much better when they find themselves commanded by their prince,\nhonoured by him, and maintained at his expense. Therefore it is\nnecessary to be prepared with such arms, so that you can be defended\nagainst foreigners by Italian valour.\n\nAnd although Swiss and Spanish infantry may be considered very\nformidable, nevertheless there is a defect in both, by reason of which\na third order would not only be able to oppose them, but might be relied\nupon to overthrow them. For the Spaniards cannot resist cavalry, and the\nSwitzers are afraid of infantry whenever they encounter them in close\ncombat. Owing to this, as has been and may again be seen, the Spaniards\nare unable to resist French cavalry, and the Switzers are overthrown by\nSpanish infantry. And although a complete proof of this latter cannot\nbe shown, nevertheless there was some evidence of it at the battle of\nRavenna, when the Spanish infantry were confronted by German battalions,\nwho follow the same tactics as the Swiss; when the Spaniards, by agility\nof body and with the aid of their shields, got in under the pikes of the\nGermans and stood out of danger, able to attack, while the Germans stood\nhelpless, and, if the cavalry had not dashed up, all would have been\nover with them. It is possible, therefore, knowing the defects of both\nthese infantries, to invent a new one, which will resist cavalry and not\nbe afraid of infantry; this need not create a new order of arms, but\na variation upon the old. And these are the kind of improvements which\nconfer reputation and power upon a new prince.\n\nThis opportunity, therefore, ought not to be allowed to pass for letting\nItaly at last see her liberator appear. Nor can one express the love\nwith which he would be received in all those provinces which have\nsuffered so much from these foreign scourings, with what thirst for\nrevenge, with what stubborn faith, with what devotion, with what tears.\nWhat door would be closed to him? Who would refuse obedience to him?\nWhat envy would hinder him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To all\nof us this barbarous dominion stinks. Let, therefore, your illustrious\nhouse take up this charge with that courage and hope with which all\njust enterprises are undertaken, so that under its standard our native\ncountry may be ennobled, and under its auspices may be verified that\nsaying of Petrarch:\n\n     Virtu contro al Furore\n     Prendera l'arme, e fia il combatter corto:\n     Che l'antico valore\n     Negli italici cuor non e ancor morto.\n\n     Virtue against fury shall advance the fight,\n     And it i' th' combat soon shall put to flight:\n     For the old Roman valour is not dead,\n     Nor in th' Italians' brests extinguished.\n\n     Edward Dacre, 1640.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Duke Valentino had returned from Lombardy, where he had been to\nclear himself with the King of France from the calumnies which had been\nraised against him by the Florentines concerning the rebellion of Arezzo\nand other towns in the Val di Chiana, and had arrived at Imola, whence\nhe intended with his army to enter upon the campaign against Giovanni\nBentivogli, the tyrant of Bologna: for he intended to bring that city\nunder his domination, and to make it the head of his Romagnian duchy.\n\nThese matters coming to the knowledge of the Vitelli and Orsini and\ntheir following, it appeared to them that the duke would become too\npowerful, and it was feared that, having seized Bologna, he would seek\nto destroy them in order that he might become supreme in Italy. Upon\nthis a meeting was called at Magione in the district of Perugia,\nto which came the cardinal, Pagolo, and the Duke di Gravina Orsini,\nVitellozzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da Fermo, Gianpagolo Baglioni, the tyrant\nof Perugia, and Messer Antonio da Venafro, sent by Pandolfo Petrucci,\nthe Prince of Siena. Here were discussed the power and courage of the\nduke and the necessity of curbing his ambitions, which might otherwise\nbring danger to the rest of being ruined. And they decided not to\nabandon the Bentivogli, but to strive to win over the Florentines; and\nthey sent their men to one place and another, promising to one party\nassistance and to another encouragement to unite with them against the\ncommon enemy. This meeting was at once reported throughout all Italy,\nand those who were discontented under the duke, among whom were the\npeople of Urbino, took hope of effecting a revolution.\n\nThus it arose that, men's minds being thus unsettled, it was decided by\ncertain men of Urbino to seize the fortress of San Leo, which was\nheld for the duke, and which they captured by the following means. The\ncastellan was fortifying the rock and causing timber to be taken there;\nso the conspirators watched, and when certain beams which were being\ncarried to the rock were upon the bridge, so that it was prevented from\nbeing drawn up by those inside, they took the opportunity of leaping\nupon the bridge and thence into the fortress. Upon this capture being\neffected, the whole state rebelled and recalled the old duke, being\nencouraged in this, not so much by the capture of the fort, as by the\nDiet at Magione, from whom they expected to get assistance.\n\nThose who heard of the rebellion at Urbino thought they would not lose\nthe opportunity, and at once assembled their men so as to take any town,\nshould any remain in the hands of the duke in that state; and they sent\nagain to Florence to beg that republic to join with them in destroying\nthe common firebrand, showing that the risk was lessened and that they\nought not to wait for another opportunity.\n\nBut the Florentines, from hatred, for sundry reasons, of the Vitelli and\nOrsini, not only would not ally themselves, but sent Nicolo Machiavelli,\ntheir secretary, to offer shelter and assistance to the duke against\nhis enemies. The duke was found full of fear at Imola, because, against\neverybody's expectation, his soldiers had at once gone over to the\nenemy and he found himself disarmed and war at his door. But recovering\ncourage from the offers of the Florentines, he decided to temporize\nbefore fighting with the few soldiers that remained to him, and to\nnegotiate for a reconciliation, and also to get assistance. This latter\nhe obtained in two ways, by sending to the King of France for men and by\nenlisting men-at-arms and others whom he turned into cavalry of a sort:\nto all he gave money.\n\nNotwithstanding this, his enemies drew near to him, and approached\nFossombrone, where they encountered some men of the duke and, with the\naid of the Orsini and Vitelli, routed them. When this happened, the duke\nresolved at once to see if he could not close the trouble with offers of\nreconciliation, and being a most perfect dissembler he did not fail in\nany practices to make the insurgents understand that he wished every man\nwho had acquired anything to keep it, as it was enough for him to have\nthe title of prince, whilst others might have the principality.\n\nAnd the duke succeeded so well in this that they sent Signor Pagolo to\nhim to negotiate for a reconciliation, and they brought their army to a\nstandstill. But the duke did not stop his preparations, and took\nevery care to provide himself with cavalry and infantry, and that such\npreparations might not be apparent to the others, he sent his troops in\nseparate parties to every part of the Romagna. In the meanwhile there\ncame also to him five hundred French lancers, and although he found\nhimself sufficiently strong to take vengeance on his enemies in open\nwar, he considered that it would be safer and more advantageous\nto outwit them, and for this reason he did not stop the work of\nreconciliation.\n\nAnd that this might be effected the duke concluded a peace with them in\nwhich he confirmed their former covenants; he gave them four thousand\nducats at once; he promised not to injure the Bentivogli; and he formed\nan alliance with Giovanni; and moreover he would not force them to come\npersonally into his presence unless it pleased them to do so. On the\nother hand, they promised to restore to him the duchy of Urbino and\nother places seized by them, to serve him in all his expeditions, and\nnot to make war against or ally themselves with any one without his\npermission.\n\nThis reconciliation being completed, Guido Ubaldo, the Duke of Urbino,\nagain fled to Venice, having first destroyed all the fortresses in\nhis state; because, trusting in the people, he did not wish that the\nfortresses, which he did not think he could defend, should be held by\nthe enemy, since by these means a check would be kept upon his friends.\nBut the Duke Valentino, having completed this convention, and dispersed\nhis men throughout the Romagna, set out for Imola at the end of November\ntogether with his French men-at-arms: thence he went to Cesena, where he\nstayed some time to negotiate with the envoys of the Vitelli and Orsini,\nwho had assembled with their men in the duchy of Urbino, as to the\nenterprise in which they should now take part; but nothing being\nconcluded, Oliverotto da Fermo was sent to propose that if the duke\nwished to undertake an expedition against Tuscany they were ready; if\nhe did not wish it, then they would besiege Sinigalia. To this the duke\nreplied that he did not wish to enter into war with Tuscany, and thus\nbecome hostile to the Florentines, but that he was very willing to\nproceed against Sinigalia.\n\nIt happened that not long afterwards the town surrendered, but the\nfortress would not yield to them because the castellan would not give\nit up to any one but the duke in person; therefore they exhorted him\nto come there. This appeared a good opportunity to the duke, as, being\ninvited by them, and not going of his own will, he would awaken no\nsuspicions. And the more to reassure them, he allowed all the French\nmen-at-arms who were with him in Lombardy to depart, except the hundred\nlancers under Mons. di Candales, his brother-in-law. He left Cesena\nabout the middle of December, and went to Fano, and with the utmost\ncunning and cleverness he persuaded the Vitelli and Orsini to wait for\nhim at Sinigalia, pointing out to them that any lack of compliance would\ncast a doubt upon the sincerity and permanency of the reconciliation,\nand that he was a man who wished to make use of the arms and councils of\nhis friends. But Vitellozzo remained very stubborn, for the death of\nhis brother warned him that he should not offend a prince and afterwards\ntrust him; nevertheless, persuaded by Pagolo Orsini, whom the duke had\ncorrupted with gifts and promises, he agreed to wait.\n\nUpon this the duke, before his departure from Fano, which was to be\non 30th December 1502, communicated his designs to eight of his most\ntrusted followers, among whom were Don Michele and the Monsignor d'Euna,\nwho was afterwards cardinal; and he ordered that, as soon as Vitellozzo,\nPagolo Orsini, the Duke di Gravina, and Oliverotto should arrive, his\nfollowers in pairs should take them one by one, entrusting certain\nmen to certain pairs, who should entertain them until they reached\nSinigalia; nor should they be permitted to leave until they came to the\nduke's quarters, where they should be seized.\n\nThe duke afterwards ordered all his horsemen and infantry, of which\nthere were more than two thousand cavalry and ten thousand footmen, to\nassemble by daybreak at the Metauro, a river five miles distant from\nFano, and await him there. He found himself, therefore, on the last day\nof December at the Metauro with his men, and having sent a cavalcade\nof about two hundred horsemen before him, he then moved forward the\ninfantry, whom he accompanied with the rest of the men-at-arms.\n\nFano and Sinigalia are two cities of La Marca situated on the shore of\nthe Adriatic Sea, fifteen miles distant from each other, so that he who\ngoes towards Sinigalia has the mountains on his right hand, the bases\nof which are touched by the sea in some places. The city of Sinigalia is\ndistant from the foot of the mountains a little more than a bow-shot\nand from the shore about a mile. On the side opposite to the city runs\na little river which bathes that part of the walls looking towards Fano,\nfacing the high road. Thus he who draws near to Sinigalia comes for\na good space by road along the mountains, and reaches the river which\npasses by Sinigalia. If he turns to his left hand along the bank of it,\nand goes for the distance of a bow-shot, he arrives at a bridge which\ncrosses the river; he is then almost abreast of the gate that leads into\nSinigalia, not by a straight line, but transversely. Before this gate\nthere stands a collection of houses with a square to which the bank of\nthe river forms one side.\n\nThe Vitelli and Orsini having received orders to wait for the duke, and\nto honour him in person, sent away their men to several castles distant\nfrom Sinigalia about six miles, so that room could be made for the men\nof the duke; and they left in Sinigalia only Oliverotto and his band,\nwhich consisted of one thousand infantry and one hundred and fifty\nhorsemen, who were quartered in the suburb mentioned above. Matters\nhaving been thus arranged, the Duke Valentino left for Sinigalia, and\nwhen the leaders of the cavalry reached the bridge they did not pass\nover, but having opened it, one portion wheeled towards the river and\nthe other towards the country, and a way was left in the middle through\nwhich the infantry passed, without stopping, into the town.\n\nVitellozzo, Pagolo, and the Duke di Gravina on mules, accompanied by a\nfew horsemen, went towards the duke; Vitellozo, unarmed and wearing a\ncape lined with green, appeared very dejected, as if conscious of his\napproaching death--a circumstance which, in view of the ability of the\nman and his former fortune, caused some amazement. And it is said that\nwhen he parted from his men before setting out for Sinigalia to meet the\nduke he acted as if it were his last parting from them. He recommended\nhis house and its fortunes to his captains, and advised his nephews that\nit was not the fortune of their house, but the virtues of their fathers\nthat should be kept in mind. These three, therefore, came before\nthe duke and saluted him respectfully, and were received by him with\ngoodwill; they were at once placed between those who were commissioned\nto look after them.\n\nBut the duke noticing that Oliverotto, who had remained with his band in\nSinigalia, was missing--for Oliverotto was waiting in the square before\nhis quarters near the river, keeping his men in order and drilling\nthem--signalled with his eye to Don Michelle, to whom the care of\nOliverotto had been committed, that he should take measures that\nOliverotto should not escape. Therefore Don Michele rode off and joined\nOliverotto, telling him that it was not right to keep his men out of\ntheir quarters, because these might be taken up by the men of the duke;\nand he advised him to send them at once to their quarters and to come\nhimself to meet the duke. And Oliverotto, having taken this advice, came\nbefore the duke, who, when he saw him, called to him; and Oliverotto,\nhaving made his obeisance, joined the others.\n\nSo the whole party entered Sinigalia, dismounted at the duke's quarters,\nand went with him into a secret chamber, where the duke made them\nprisoners; he then mounted on horseback, and issued orders that the men\nof Oliverotto and the Orsini should be stripped of their arms. Those of\nOliverotto, being at hand, were quickly settled, but those of the Orsini\nand Vitelli, being at a distance, and having a presentiment of the\ndestruction of their masters, had time to prepare themselves, and\nbearing in mind the valour and discipline of the Orsinian and Vitellian\nhouses, they stood together against the hostile forces of the country\nand saved themselves.\n\nBut the duke's soldiers, not being content with having pillaged the\nmen of Oliverotto, began to sack Sinigalia, and if the duke had\nnot repressed this outrage by killing some of them they would have\ncompletely sacked it. Night having come and the tumult being silenced,\nthe duke prepared to kill Vitellozzo and Oliverotto; he led them into\na room and caused them to be strangled. Neither of them used words in\nkeeping with their past lives: Vitellozzo prayed that he might ask of\nthe pope full pardon for his sins; Oliverotto cringed and laid the blame\nfor all injuries against the duke on Vitellozzo. Pagolo and the Duke di\nGravina Orsini were kept alive until the duke heard from Rome that the\npope had taken the Cardinal Orsino, the Archbishop of Florence, and\nMesser Jacopo da Santa Croce. After which news, on 18th January 1502, in\nthe castle of Pieve, they also were strangled in the same way.\n\n\n\n\n\nIt appears, dearest Zanobi and Luigi, a wonderful thing to those who\nhave considered the matter, that all men, or the larger number of them,\nwho have performed great deeds in the world, and excelled all others in\ntheir day, have had their birth and beginning in baseness and obscurity;\nor have been aggrieved by Fortune in some outrageous way. They have\neither been exposed to the mercy of wild beasts, or they have had so\nmean a parentage that in shame they have given themselves out to be\nsons of Jove or of some other deity. It would be wearisome to relate who\nthese persons may have been because they are well known to everybody,\nand, as such tales would not be particularly edifying to those who read\nthem, they are omitted. I believe that these lowly beginnings of great\nmen occur because Fortune is desirous of showing to the world that such\nmen owe much to her and little to wisdom, because she begins to show\nher hand when wisdom can really take no part in their career: thus all\nsuccess must be attributed to her. Castruccio Castracani of Lucca was\none of those men who did great deeds, if he is measured by the times in\nwhich he lived and the city in which he was born; but, like many others,\nhe was neither fortunate nor distinguished in his birth, as the course\nof this history will show. It appeared to be desirable to recall his\nmemory, because I have discerned in him such indications of valour and\nfortune as should make him a great exemplar to men. I think also that\nI ought to call your attention to his actions, because you of all men I\nknow delight most in noble deeds.\n\nThe family of Castracani was formerly numbered among the noble families\nof Lucca, but in the days of which I speak it had somewhat fallen in\nestate, as so often happens in this world. To this family was born a son\nAntonio, who became a priest of the order of San Michele of Lucca, and\nfor this reason was honoured with the title of Messer Antonio. He had an\nonly sister, who had been married to Buonaccorso Cenami, but Buonaccorso\ndying she became a widow, and not wishing to marry again went to live\nwith her brother. Messer Antonio had a vineyard behind the house where\nhe resided, and as it was bounded on all sides by gardens, any person\ncould have access to it without difficulty. One morning, shortly after\nsunrise, Madonna Dianora, as the sister of Messer Antonio was called,\nhad occasion to go into the vineyard as usual to gather herbs for\nseasoning the dinner, and hearing a slight rustling among the leaves\nof a vine she turned her eyes in that direction, and heard something\nresembling the cry of an infant. Whereupon she went towards it, and saw\nthe hands and face of a baby who was lying enveloped in the leaves and\nwho seemed to be crying for its mother. Partly wondering and partly\nfearing, yet full of compassion, she lifted it up and carried it to\nthe house, where she washed it and clothed it with clean linen as is\ncustomary, and showed it to Messer Antonio when he returned home. When\nhe heard what had happened and saw the child he was not less surprised\nor compassionate than his sister. They discussed between themselves\nwhat should be done, and seeing that he was priest and that she had no\nchildren, they finally determined to bring it up. They had a nurse for\nit, and it was reared and loved as if it were their own child. They\nbaptized it, and gave it the name of Castruccio after their father. As\nthe years passed Castruccio grew very handsome, and gave evidence of\nwit and discretion, and learnt with a quickness beyond his years those\nlessons which Messer Antonio imparted to him. Messer Antonio intended\nto make a priest of him, and in time would have inducted him into his\ncanonry and other benefices, and all his instruction was given with\nthis object; but Antonio discovered that the character of Castruccio was\nquite unfitted for the priesthood. As soon as Castruccio reached the\nage of fourteen he began to take less notice of the chiding of Messer\nAntonio and Madonna Dianora and no longer to fear them; he left\noff reading ecclesiastical books, and turned to playing with arms,\ndelighting in nothing so much as in learning their uses, and in running,\nleaping, and wrestling with other boys. In all exercises he far excelled\nhis companions in courage and bodily strength, and if at any time he did\nturn to books, only those pleased him which told of wars and the mighty\ndeeds of men. Messer Antonio beheld all this with vexation and sorrow.\n\nThere lived in the city of Lucca a gentleman of the Guinigi family,\nnamed Messer Francesco, whose profession was arms and who in riches,\nbodily strength, and valour excelled all other men in Lucca. He had\noften fought under the command of the Visconti of Milan, and as a\nGhibelline was the valued leader of that party in Lucca. This gentleman\nresided in Lucca and was accustomed to assemble with others most\nmornings and evenings under the balcony of the Podesta, which is at the\ntop of the square of San Michele, the finest square in Lucca, and he had\noften seen Castruccio taking part with other children of the street\nin those games of which I have spoken. Noticing that Castruccio far\nexcelled the other boys, and that he appeared to exercise a royal\nauthority over them, and that they loved and obeyed him, Messer\nFrancesco became greatly desirous of learning who he was. Being informed\nof the circumstances of the bringing up of Castruccio he felt a greater\ndesire to have him near to him. Therefore he called him one day and\nasked him whether he would more willingly live in the house of a\ngentleman, where he would learn to ride horses and use arms, or in\nthe house of a priest, where he would learn nothing but masses and\nthe services of the Church. Messer Francesco could see that it pleased\nCastruccio greatly to hear horses and arms spoken of, even though\nhe stood silent, blushing modestly; but being encouraged by Messer\nFrancesco to speak, he answered that, if his master were agreeable,\nnothing would please him more than to give up his priestly studies and\ntake up those of a soldier. This reply delighted Messer Francesco, and\nin a very short time he obtained the consent of Messer Antonio, who was\ndriven to yield by his knowledge of the nature of the lad, and the fear\nthat he would not be able to hold him much longer.\n\nThus Castruccio passed from the house of Messer Antonio the priest\nto the house of Messer Francesco Guinigi the soldier, and it was\nastonishing to find that in a very short time he manifested all that\nvirtue and bearing which we are accustomed to associate with a true\ngentleman. In the first place he became an accomplished horseman, and\ncould manage with ease the most fiery charger, and in all jousts and\ntournaments, although still a youth, he was observed beyond all others,\nand he excelled in all exercises of strength and dexterity. But what\nenhanced so much the charm of these accomplishments, was the delightful\nmodesty which enabled him to avoid offence in either act or word to\nothers, for he was deferential to the great men, modest with his equals,\nand courteous to his inferiors. These gifts made him beloved, not only\nby all the Guinigi family, but by all Lucca. When Castruccio had reached\nhis eighteenth year, the Ghibellines were driven from Pavia by the\nGuelphs, and Messer Francesco was sent by the Visconti to assist the\nGhibellines, and with him went Castruccio, in charge of his forces.\nCastruccio gave ample proof of his prudence and courage in this\nexpedition, acquiring greater reputation than any other captain, and\nhis name and fame were known, not only in Pavia, but throughout all\nLombardy.\n\nCastruccio, having returned to Lucca in far higher estimation than he\nleft it, did not omit to use all the means in his power to gain as many\nfriends as he could, neglecting none of those arts which are necessary\nfor that purpose. About this time Messer Francesco died, leaving a son\nthirteen years of age named Pagolo, and having appointed Castruccio\nto be his son's tutor and administrator of his estate. Before he died\nFrancesco called Castruccio to him, and prayed him to show Pagolo that\ngoodwill which he (Francesco) had always shown to HIM, and to render to\nthe son the gratitude which he had not been able to repay to the father.\nUpon the death of Francesco, Castruccio became the governor and tutor of\nPagolo, which increased enormously his power and position, and created\na certain amount of envy against him in Lucca in place of the former\nuniversal goodwill, for many men suspected him of harbouring tyrannical\nintentions. Among these the leading man was Giorgio degli Opizi, the\nhead of the Guelph party. This man hoped after the death of Messer\nFrancesco to become the chief man in Lucca, but it seemed to him that\nCastruccio, with the great abilities which he already showed, and\nholding the position of governor, deprived him of his opportunity;\ntherefore he began to sow those seeds which should rob Castruccio of his\neminence. Castruccio at first treated this with scorn, but afterwards\nhe grew alarmed, thinking that Messer Giorgio might be able to bring\nhim into disgrace with the deputy of King Ruberto of Naples and have him\ndriven out of Lucca.\n\nThe Lord of Pisa at that time was Uguccione of the Faggiuola of Arezzo,\nwho being in the first place elected their captain afterwards became\ntheir lord. There resided in Paris some exiled Ghibellines from Lucca,\nwith whom Castruccio held communications with the object of effecting\ntheir restoration by the help of Uguccione. Castruccio also brought into\nhis plans friends from Lucca who would not endure the authority of the\nOpizi. Having fixed upon a plan to be followed, Castruccio cautiously\nfortified the tower of the Onesti, filling it with supplies and\nmunitions of war, in order that it might stand a siege for a few days\nin case of need. When the night came which had been agreed upon with\nUguccione, who had occupied the plain between the mountains and\nPisa with many men, the signal was given, and without being observed\nUguccione approached the gate of San Piero and set fire to the\nportcullis. Castruccio raised a great uproar within the city, calling\nthe people to arms and forcing open the gate from his side. Uguccione\nentered with his men, poured through the town, and killed Messer Giorgio\nwith all his family and many of his friends and supporters. The governor\nwas driven out, and the government reformed according to the wishes of\nUguccione, to the detriment of the city, because it was found that more\nthan one hundred families were exiled at that time. Of those who\nfled, part went to Florence and part to Pistoia, which city was the\nheadquarters of the Guelph party, and for this reason it became most\nhostile to Uguccione and the Lucchese.\n\nAs it now appeared to the Florentines and others of the Guelph party\nthat the Ghibellines absorbed too much power in Tuscany, they determined\nto restore the exiled Guelphs to Lucca. They assembled a large army in\nthe Val di Nievole, and seized Montecatini; from thence they marched to\nMontecarlo, in order to secure the free passage into Lucca. Upon this\nUguccione assembled his Pisan and Lucchese forces, and with a number\nof German cavalry which he drew out of Lombardy, he moved against\nthe quarters of the Florentines, who upon the appearance of the enemy\nwithdrew from Montecarlo, and posted themselves between Montecatini and\nPescia. Uguccione now took up a position near to Montecarlo, and within\nabout two miles of the enemy, and slight skirmishes between the horse\nof both parties were of daily occurrence. Owing to the illness of\nUguccione, the Pisans and Lucchese delayed coming to battle with the\nenemy. Uguccione, finding himself growing worse, went to Montecarlo to\nbe cured, and left the command of the army in the hands of Castruccio.\nThis change brought about the ruin of the Guelphs, who, thinking\nthat the hostile army having lost its captain had lost its head, grew\nover-confident. Castruccio observed this, and allowed some days to pass\nin order to encourage this belief; he also showed signs of fear, and\ndid not allow any of the munitions of the camp to be used. On the other\nside, the Guelphs grew more insolent the more they saw these evidences\nof fear, and every day they drew out in the order of battle in front\nof the army of Castruccio. Presently, deeming that the enemy was\nsufficiently emboldened, and having mastered their tactics, he decided\nto join battle with them. First he spoke a few words of encouragement to\nhis soldiers, and pointed out to them the certainty of victory if they\nwould but obey his commands. Castruccio had noticed how the enemy had\nplaced all his best troops in the centre of the line of battle, and his\nless reliable men on the wings of the army; whereupon he did exactly\nthe opposite, putting his most valiant men on the flanks, while those\non whom he could not so strongly rely he moved to the centre. Observing\nthis order of battle, he drew out of his lines and quickly came in sight\nof the hostile army, who, as usual, had come in their insolence to defy\nhim. He then commanded his centre squadrons to march slowly, whilst\nhe moved rapidly forward those on the wings. Thus, when they came into\ncontact with the enemy, only the wings of the two armies became engaged,\nwhilst the center battalions remained out of action, for these two\nportions of the line of battle were separated from each other by a long\ninterval and thus unable to reach each other. By this expedient the more\nvaliant part of Castruccio's men were opposed to the weaker part of the\nenemy's troops, and the most efficient men of the enemy were disengaged;\nand thus the Florentines were unable to fight with those who were\narrayed opposite to them, or to give any assistance to their own flanks.\nSo, without much difficulty, Castruccio put the enemy to flight on\nboth flanks, and the centre battalions took to flight when they found\nthemselves exposed to attack, without having a chance of displaying\ntheir valour. The defeat was complete, and the loss in men very heavy,\nthere being more than ten thousand men killed with many officers and\nknights of the Guelph party in Tuscany, and also many princes who had\ncome to help them, among whom were Piero, the brother of King Ruberto,\nand Carlo, his nephew, and Filippo, the lord of Taranto. On the part of\nCastruccio the loss did not amount to more than three hundred men, among\nwhom was Francesco, the son of Uguccione, who, being young and rash, was\nkilled in the first onset.\n\nThis victory so greatly increased the reputation of Castruccio that\nUguccione conceived some jealousy and suspicion of him, because it\nappeared to Uguccione that this victory had given him no increase of\npower, but rather than diminished it. Being of this mind, he only waited\nfor an opportunity to give effect to it. This occurred on the death of\nPier Agnolo Micheli, a man of great repute and abilities in Lucca, the\nmurderer of whom fled to the house of Castruccio for refuge. On the\nsergeants of the captain going to arrest the murderer, they were driven\noff by Castruccio, and the murderer escaped. This affair coming to\nthe knowledge of Uguccione, who was then at Pisa, it appeared to him a\nproper opportunity to punish Castruccio. He therefore sent for his\nson Neri, who was the governor of Lucca, and commissioned him to take\nCastruccio prisoner at a banquet and put him to death. Castruccio,\nfearing no evil, went to the governor in a friendly way, was entertained\nat supper, and then thrown into prison. But Neri, fearing to put him to\ndeath lest the people should be incensed, kept him alive, in order to\nhear further from his father concerning his intentions. Ugucionne cursed\nthe hesitation and cowardice of his son, and at once set out from Pisa\nto Lucca with four hundred horsemen to finish the business in his own\nway; but he had not yet reached the baths when the Pisans rebelled and\nput his deputy to death and created Count Gaddo della Gherardesca their\nlord. Before Uguccione reached Lucca he heard of the occurrences at\nPisa, but it did not appear wise to him to turn back, lest the Lucchese\nwith the example of Pisa before them should close their gates against\nhim. But the Lucchese, having heard of what had happened at Pisa,\navailed themselves of this opportunity to demand the liberation of\nCastruccio, notwithstanding that Uguccione had arrived in their city.\nThey first began to speak of it in private circles, afterwards openly\nin the squares and streets; then they raised a tumult, and with arms in\ntheir hands went to Uguccione and demanded that Castruccio should be\nset at liberty. Uguccione, fearing that worse might happen, released him\nfrom prison. Whereupon Castruccio gathered his friends around him, and\nwith the help of the people attacked Uguccione; who, finding he had no\nresource but in flight, rode away with his friends to Lombardy, to the\nlords of Scale, where he died in poverty.\n\nBut Castruccio from being a prisoner became almost a prince in Lucca,\nand he carried himself so discreetly with his friends and the people\nthat they appointed him captain of their army for one year. Having\nobtained this, and wishing to gain renown in war, he planned the\nrecovery of the many towns which had rebelled after the departure of\nUguccione, and with the help of the Pisans, with whom he had concluded a\ntreaty, he marched to Serezzana. To capture this place he constructed a\nfort against it, which is called to-day Zerezzanello; in the course of\ntwo months Castruccio captured the town. With the reputation gained\nat that siege, he rapidly seized Massa, Carrara, and Lavenza, and in\na short time had overrun the whole of Lunigiana. In order to close the\npass which leads from Lombardy to Lunigiana, he besieged Pontremoli and\nwrested it from the hands of Messer Anastagio Palavicini, who was the\nlord of it. After this victory he returned to Lucca, and was welcomed by\nthe whole people. And now Castruccio, deeming it imprudent any longer to\ndefer making himself a prince, got himself created the lord of Lucca\nby the help of Pazzino del Poggio, Puccinello dal Portico, Francesco\nBoccansacchi, and Cecco Guinigi, all of whom he had corrupted; and he\nwas afterwards solemnly and deliberately elected prince by the people.\nAt this time Frederick of Bavaria, the King of the Romans, came into\nItaly to assume the Imperial crown, and Castruccio, in order that\nhe might make friends with him, met him at the head of five hundred\nhorsemen. Castruccio had left as his deputy in Lucca, Pagolo Guinigi,\nwho was held in high estimation, because of the people's love for\nthe memory of his father. Castruccio was received in great honour by\nFrederick, and many privileges were conferred upon him, and he was\nappointed the emperor's lieutenant in Tuscany. At this time the Pisans\nwere in great fear of Gaddo della Gherardesca, whom they had driven out\nof Pisa, and they had recourse for assistance to Frederick. Frederick\ncreated Castruccio the lord of Pisa, and the Pisans, in dread of the\nGuelph party, and particularly of the Florentines, were constrained to\naccept him as their lord.\n\nFrederick, having appointed a governor in Rome to watch his Italian\naffairs, returned to Germany. All the Tuscan and Lombardian Ghibellines,\nwho followed the imperial lead, had recourse to Castruccio for help\nand counsel, and all promised him the governorship of his country,\nif enabled to recover it with his assistance. Among these exiles were\nMatteo Guidi, Nardo Scolari, Lapo Uberti, Gerozzo Nardi, and Piero\nBuonaccorsi, all exiled Florentines and Ghibellines. Castruccio had the\nsecret intention of becoming the master of all Tuscany by the aid of\nthese men and of his own forces; and in order to gain greater weight\nin affairs, he entered into a league with Messer Matteo Visconti, the\nPrince of Milan, and organized for him the forces of his city and the\ncountry districts. As Lucca had five gates, he divided his own country\ndistricts into five parts, which he supplied with arms, and enrolled the\nmen under captains and ensigns, so that he could quickly bring into the\nfield twenty thousand soldiers, without those whom he could summon to\nhis assistance from Pisa. While he surrounded himself with these forces\nand allies, it happened at Messer Matteo Visconti was attacked by\nthe Guelphs of Piacenza, who had driven out the Ghibellines with the\nassistance of a Florentine army and the King Ruberto. Messer Matteo\ncalled upon Castruccio to invade the Florentines in their own\nterritories, so that, being attacked at home, they should be compelled\nto draw their army out of Lombardy in order to defend themselves.\nCastruccio invaded the Valdarno, and seized Fucecchio and San Miniato,\ninflicting immense damage upon the country. Whereupon the Florentines\nrecalled their army, which had scarcely reached Tuscany, when Castruccio\nwas forced by other necessities to return to Lucca.\n\nThere resided in the city of Lucca the Poggio family, who were so\npowerful that they could not only elevate Castruccio, but even advance\nhim to the dignity of prince; and it appearing to them they had not\nreceived such rewards for their services as they deserved, they incited\nother families to rebel and to drive Castruccio out of Lucca. They found\ntheir opportunity one morning, and arming themselves, they set upon the\nlieutenant whom Castruccio had left to maintain order and killed him.\nThey endeavoured to raise the people in revolt, but Stefano di Poggio, a\npeaceable old man who had taken no hand in the rebellion, intervened and\ncompelled them by his authority to lay down their arms; and he offered\nto be their mediator with Castruccio to obtain from him what\nthey desired. Therefore they laid down their arms with no greater\nintelligence than they had taken them up. Castruccio, having heard\nthe news of what had happened at Lucca, at once put Pagolo Guinigi\nin command of the army, and with a troop of cavalry set out for home.\nContrary to his expectations, he found the rebellion at an end, yet he\nposted his men in the most advantageous places throughout the city. As\nit appeared to Stefano that Castruccio ought to be very much obliged to\nhim, he sought him out, and without saying anything on his own behalf,\nfor he did not recognize any need for doing so, he begged Castruccio to\npardon the other members of his family by reason of their youth, their\nformer friendships, and the obligations which Castruccio was under to\ntheir house. To this Castruccio graciously responded, and begged Stefano\nto reassure himself, declaring that it gave him more pleasure to find\nthe tumult at an end than it had ever caused him anxiety to hear of its\ninception. He encouraged Stefano to bring his family to him, saying\nthat he thanked God for having given him the opportunity of showing his\nclemency and liberality. Upon the word of Stefano and Castruccio they\nsurrendered, and with Stefano were immediately thrown into prison and\nput to death. Meanwhile the Florentines had recovered San Miniato,\nwhereupon it seemed advisable to Castruccio to make peace, as it did not\nappear to him that he was sufficiently secure at Lucca to leave him.\nHe approached the Florentines with the proposal of a truce, which they\nreadily entertained, for they were weary of the war, and desirous of\ngetting rid of the expenses of it. A treaty was concluded with them for\ntwo years, by which both parties agreed to keep the conquests they had\nmade. Castruccio thus released from this trouble, turned his attention\nto affairs in Lucca, and in order that he should not again be subject to\nthe perils from which he had just escaped, he, under various pretences\nand reasons, first wiped out all those who by their ambition might\naspire to the principality; not sparing one of them, but depriving them\nof country and property, and those whom he had in his hands of life\nalso, stating that he had found by experience that none of them were to\nbe trusted. Then for his further security he raised a fortress in Lucca\nwith the stones of the towers of those whom he had killed or hunted out\nof the state.\n\nWhilst Castruccio made peace with the Florentines, and strengthened his\nposition in Lucca, he neglected no opportunity, short of open war, of\nincreasing his importance elsewhere. It appeared to him that if he could\nget possession of Pistoia, he would have one foot in Florence, which was\nhis great desire. He, therefore, in various ways made friends with\nthe mountaineers, and worked matters so in Pistoia that both parties\nconfided their secrets to him. Pistoia was divided, as it always had\nbeen, into the Bianchi and Neri parties; the head of the Bianchi was\nBastiano di Possente, and of the Neri, Jacopo da Gia. Each of these men\nheld secret communications with Castruccio, and each desired to drive\nthe other out of the city; and, after many threatenings, they came to\nblows. Jacopo fortified himself at the Florentine gate, Bastiano at that\nof the Lucchese side of the city; both trusted more in Castruccio than\nin the Florentines, because they believed that Castruccio was far more\nready and willing to fight than the Florentines, and they both sent to\nhim for assistance. He gave promises to both, saying to Bastiano that he\nwould come in person, and to Jacopo that he would send his pupil, Pagolo\nGuinigi. At the appointed time he sent forward Pagolo by way of Pisa,\nand went himself direct to Pistoia; at midnight both of them met outside\nthe city, and both were admitted as friends. Thus the two leaders\nentered, and at a signal given by Castruccio, one killed Jacopo da Gia,\nand the other Bastiano di Possente, and both took prisoners or killed\nthe partisans of either faction. Without further opposition Pistoia\npassed into the hands of Castruccio, who, having forced the Signoria to\nleave the palace, compelled the people to yield obedience to him,\nmaking them many promises and remitting their old debts. The countryside\nflocked to the city to see the new prince, and all were filled with hope\nand quickly settled down, influenced in a great measure by his great\nvalour.\n\nAbout this time great disturbances arose in Rome, owing to the dearness\nof living which was caused by the absence of the pontiff at Avignon. The\nGerman governor, Enrico, was much blamed for what happened--murders and\ntumults following each other daily, without his being able to put an end\nto them. This caused Enrico much anxiety lest the Romans should call\nin Ruberto, the King of Naples, who would drive the Germans out of the\ncity, and bring back the Pope. Having no nearer friend to whom he could\napply for help than Castruccio, he sent to him, begging him not only\nto give him assistance, but also to come in person to Rome. Castruccio\nconsidered that he ought not to hesitate to render the emperor this\nservice, because he believed that he himself would not be safe if at any\ntime the emperor ceased to hold Rome. Leaving Pagolo Guinigi in command\nat Lucca, Castruccio set out for Rome with six hundred horsemen, where\nhe was received by Enrico with the greatest distinction. In a short time\nthe presence of Castruccio obtained such respect for the emperor that,\nwithout bloodshed or violence, good order was restored, chiefly by\nreason of Castruccio having sent by sea from the country round Pisa\nlarge quantities of corn, and thus removed the source of the trouble.\nWhen he had chastised some of the Roman leaders, and admonished others,\nvoluntary obedience was rendered to Enrico. Castruccio received many\nhonours, and was made a Roman senator. This dignity was assumed with the\ngreatest pomp, Castruccio being clothed in a brocaded toga, which had\nthe following words embroidered on its front: \"I am what God wills.\"\nWhilst on the back was: \"What God desires shall be.\"\n\nDuring this time the Florentines, who were much enraged that Castruccio\nshould have seized Pistoia during the truce, considered how they could\ntempt the city to rebel, to do which they thought would not be difficult\nin his absence. Among the exiled Pistoians in Florence were Baldo Cecchi\nand Jacopo Baldini, both men of leading and ready to face danger. These\nmen kept up communications with their friends in Pistoia, and with the\naid of the Florentines entered the city by night, and after driving out\nsome of Castruccio's officials and partisans, and killing others, they\nrestored the city to its freedom. The news of this greatly angered\nCastruccio, and taking leave of Enrico, he pressed on in great haste to\nPistoia. When the Florentines heard of his return, knowing that he would\nlose no time, they decided to intercept him with their forces in the\nVal di Nievole, under the belief that by doing so they would cut off his\nroad to Pistoia. Assembling a great army of the supporters of the Guelph\ncause, the Florentines entered the Pistoian territories. On the other\nhand, Castruccio reached Montecarlo with his army; and having heard\nwhere the Florentines' lay, he decided not to encounter it in the plains\nof Pistoia, nor to await it in the plains of Pescia, but, as far as\nhe possibly could, to attack it boldly in the Pass of Serravalle. He\nbelieved that if he succeeded in this design, victory was assured,\nalthough he was informed that the Florentines had thirty thousand men,\nwhilst he had only twelve thousand. Although he had every confidence\nin his own abilities and the valour of his troops, yet he hesitated to\nattack his enemy in the open lest he should be overwhelmed by numbers.\nSerravalle is a castle between Pescia and Pistoia, situated on a hill\nwhich blocks the Val di Nievole, not in the exact pass, but about a\nbowshot beyond; the pass itself is in places narrow and steep, whilst in\ngeneral it ascends gently, but is still narrow, especially at the summit\nwhere the waters divide, so that twenty men side by side could hold it.\nThe lord of Serravalle was Manfred, a German, who, before Castruccio\nbecame lord of Pistoia, had been allowed to remain in possession of the\ncastle, it being common to the Lucchese and the Pistoians, and unclaimed\nby either--neither of them wishing to displace Manfred as long as he\nkept his promise of neutrality, and came under obligations to no one.\nFor these reasons, and also because the castle was well fortified,\nhe had always been able to maintain his position. It was here that\nCastruccio had determined to fall upon his enemy, for here his few men\nwould have the advantage, and there was no fear lest, seeing the large\nmasses of the hostile force before they became engaged, they should not\nstand. As soon as this trouble with Florence arose, Castruccio saw the\nimmense advantage which possession of this castle would give him, and\nhaving an intimate friendship with a resident in the castle, he managed\nmatters so with him that four hundred of his men were to be admitted\ninto the castle the night before the attack on the Florentines, and the\ncastellan put to death.\n\nCastruccio, having prepared everything, had now to encourage the\nFlorentines to persist in their desire to carry the seat of war away\nfrom Pistoia into the Val di Nievole, therefore he did not move his\narmy from Montecarlo. Thus the Florentines hurried on until they reached\ntheir encampment under Serravalle, intending to cross the hill on the\nfollowing morning. In the meantime, Castruccio had seized the castle at\nnight, had also moved his army from Montecarlo, and marching from thence\nat midnight in dead silence, had reached the foot of Serravalle: thus he\nand the Florentines commenced the ascent of the hill at the same time in\nthe morning. Castruccio sent forward his infantry by the main road,\nand a troop of four hundred horsemen by a path on the left towards the\ncastle. The Florentines sent forward four hundred cavalry ahead of\ntheir army which was following, never expecting to find Castruccio in\npossession of the hill, nor were they aware of his having seized the\ncastle. Thus it happened that the Florentine horsemen mounting the hill\nwere completely taken by surprise when they discovered the infantry of\nCastruccio, and so close were they upon it they had scarcely time to\npull down their visors. It was a case of unready soldiers being attacked\nby ready, and they were assailed with such vigour that with difficulty\nthey could hold their own, although some few of them got through. When\nthe noise of the fighting reached the Florentine camp below, it was\nfilled with confusion. The cavalry and infantry became inextricably\nmixed: the captains were unable to get their men either backward or\nforward, owing to the narrowness of the pass, and amid all this tumult\nno one knew what ought to be done or what could be done. In a short time\nthe cavalry who were engaged with the enemy's infantry were scattered\nor killed without having made any effective defence because of their\nunfortunate position, although in sheer desperation they had offered\na stout resistance. Retreat had been impossible, with the mountains on\nboth flanks, whilst in front were their enemies, and in the rear their\nfriends. When Castruccio saw that his men were unable to strike a\ndecisive blow at the enemy and put them to flight, he sent one thousand\ninfantrymen round by the castle, with orders to join the four hundred\nhorsemen he had previously dispatched there, and commanded the whole\nforce to fall upon the flank of the enemy. These orders they carried out\nwith such fury that the Florentines could not sustain the attack,\nbut gave way, and were soon in full retreat--conquered more by their\nunfortunate position than by the valour of their enemy. Those in the\nrear turned towards Pistoia, and spread through the plains, each\nman seeking only his own safety. The defeat was complete and very\nsanguinary. Many captains were taken prisoners, among whom were\nBandini dei Rossi, Francesco Brunelleschi, and Giovanni della Tosa, all\nFlorentine noblemen, with many Tuscans and Neapolitans who fought on the\nFlorentine side, having been sent by King Ruberto to assist the Guelphs.\nImmediately the Pistoians heard of this defeat they drove out the\nfriends of the Guelphs, and surrendered to Castruccio. He was not\ncontent with occupying Prato and all the castles on the plains on both\nsides of the Arno, but marched his army into the plain of Peretola,\nabout two miles from Florence. Here he remained many days, dividing the\nspoils, and celebrating his victory with feasts and games, holding\nhorse races, and foot races for men and women. He also struck medals\nin commemoration of the defeat of the Florentines. He endeavoured to\ncorrupt some of the citizens of Florence, who were to open the city\ngates at night; but the conspiracy was discovered, and the participators\nin it taken and beheaded, among whom were Tommaso Lupacci and\nLambertuccio Frescobaldi. This defeat caused the Florentines great\nanxiety, and despairing of preserving their liberty, they sent envoys to\nKing Ruberto of Naples, offering him the dominion of their city; and he,\nknowing of what immense importance the maintenance of the Guelph cause\nwas to him, accepted it. He agreed with the Florentines to receive from\nthem a yearly tribute of two hundred thousand florins, and he sent his\nson Carlo to Florence with four thousand horsemen.\n\nShortly after this the Florentines were relieved in some degree of the\npressure of Castruccio's army, owing to his being compelled to leave\nhis positions before Florence and march on Pisa, in order to suppress a\nconspiracy that had been raised against him by Benedetto Lanfranchi,\none of the first men in Pisa, who could not endure that his fatherland\nshould be under the dominion of the Lucchese. He had formed this\nconspiracy, intending to seize the citadel, kill the partisans of\nCastruccio, and drive out the garrison. As, however, in a conspiracy\npaucity of numbers is essential to secrecy, so for its execution a few\nare not sufficient, and in seeking more adherents to his conspiracy\nLanfranchi encountered a person who revealed the design to Castruccio.\nThis betrayal cannot be passed by without severe reproach to Bonifacio\nCerchi and Giovanni Guidi, two Florentine exiles who were suffering\ntheir banishment in Pisa. Thereupon Castruccio seized Benedetto and put\nhim to death, and beheaded many other noble citizens, and drove their\nfamilies into exile. It now appeared to Castruccio that both Pisa and\nPistoia were thoroughly disaffected; he employed much thought and energy\nupon securing his position there, and this gave the Florentines their\nopportunity to reorganize their army, and to await the coming of Carlo,\nthe son of the King of Naples. When Carlo arrived they decided to lose\nno more time, and assembled a great army of more than thirty thousand\ninfantry and ten thousand cavalry--having called to their aid every\nGuelph there was in Italy. They consulted whether they should attack\nPistoia or Pisa first, and decided that it would be better to march on\nthe latter--a course, owing to the recent conspiracy, more likely to\nsucceed, and of more advantage to them, because they believed that the\nsurrender of Pistoia would follow the acquisition of Pisa.\n\nIn the early part of May 1328, the Florentines put in motion this army\nand quickly occupied Lastra, Signa, Montelupo, and Empoli, passing from\nthence on to San Miniato. When Castruccio heard of the enormous army\nwhich the Florentines were sending against him, he was in no degree\nalarmed, believing that the time had now arrived when Fortune would\ndeliver the empire of Tuscany into his hands, for he had no reason to\nthink that his enemy would make a better fight, or had better prospects\nof success, than at Pisa or Serravalle. He assembled twenty thousand\nfoot soldiers and four thousand horsemen, and with this army went to\nFucecchio, whilst he sent Pagolo Guinigi to Pisa with five thousand\ninfantry. Fucecchio has a stronger position than any other town in\nthe Pisan district, owing to its situation between the rivers Arno and\nGusciana and its slight elevation above the surrounding plain. Moreover,\nthe enemy could not hinder its being victualled unless they divided\ntheir forces, nor could they approach it either from the direction\nof Lucca or Pisa, nor could they get through to Pisa, or attack\nCastruccio's forces except at a disadvantage. In one case they would\nfind themselves placed between his two armies, the one under his own\ncommand and the other under Pagolo, and in the other case they would\nhave to cross the Arno to get to close quarters with the enemy, an\nundertaking of great hazard. In order to tempt the Florentines to take\nthis latter course, Castruccio withdrew his men from the banks of the\nriver and placed them under the walls of Fucecchio, leaving a wide\nexpanse of land between them and the river.\n\nThe Florentines, having occupied San Miniato, held a council of war to\ndecide whether they should attack Pisa or the army of Castruccio, and,\nhaving weighed the difficulties of both courses, they decided upon the\nlatter. The river Arno was at that time low enough to be fordable, yet\nthe water reached to the shoulders of the infantrymen and to the\nsaddles of the horsemen. On the morning of 10 June 1328, the Florentines\ncommenced the battle by ordering forward a number of cavalry and ten\nthousand infantry. Castruccio, whose plan of action was fixed, and\nwho well knew what to do, at once attacked the Florentines with five\nthousand infantry and three thousand horsemen, not allowing them to\nissue from the river before he charged them; he also sent one thousand\nlight infantry up the river bank, and the same number down the Arno. The\ninfantry of the Florentines were so much impeded by their arms and the\nwater that they were not able to mount the banks of the river, whilst\nthe cavalry had made the passage of the river more difficult for the\nothers, by reason of the few who had crossed having broken up the bed of\nthe river, and this being deep with mud, many of the horses rolled over\nwith their riders and many of them had stuck so fast that they could not\nmove. When the Florentine captains saw the difficulties their men were\nmeeting, they withdrew them and moved higher up the river, hoping to\nfind the river bed less treacherous and the banks more adapted for\nlanding. These men were met at the bank by the forces which Castruccio\nhad already sent forward, who, being light armed with bucklers and\njavelins in their hands, let fly with tremendous shouts into the faces\nand bodies of the cavalry. The horses, alarmed by the noise and the\nwounds, would not move forward, and trampled each other in great\nconfusion. The fight between the men of Castruccio and those of the\nenemy who succeeded in crossing was sharp and terrible; both sides\nfought with the utmost desperation and neither would yield. The soldiers\nof Castruccio fought to drive the others back into the river, whilst the\nFlorentines strove to get a footing on land in order to make room for\nthe others pressing forward, who if they could but get out of the water\nwould be able to fight, and in this obstinate conflict they were urged\non by their captains. Castruccio shouted to his men that these were the\nsame enemies whom they had before conquered at Serravalle, whilst the\nFlorentines reproached each other that the many should be overcome by\nthe few. At length Castruccio, seeing how long the battle had lasted,\nand that both his men and the enemy were utterly exhausted, and that\nboth sides had many killed and wounded, pushed forward another body of\ninfantry to take up a position at the rear of those who were fighting;\nhe then commanded these latter to open their ranks as if they intended\nto retreat, and one part of them to turn to the right and another to\nthe left. This cleared a space of which the Florentines at once took\nadvantage, and thus gained possession of a portion of the battlefield.\nBut when these tired soldiers found themselves at close quarters with\nCastruccio's reserves they could not stand against them and at once fell\nback into the river. The cavalry of either side had not as yet gained\nany decisive advantage over the other, because Castruccio, knowing his\ninferiority in this arm, had commanded his leaders only to stand on the\ndefensive against the attacks of their adversaries, as he hoped that\nwhen he had overcome the infantry he would be able to make short work\nof the cavalry. This fell out as he had hoped, for when he saw the\nFlorentine army driven back across the river he ordered the remainder\nof his infantry to attack the cavalry of the enemy. This they did with\nlance and javelin, and, joined by their own cavalry, fell upon the\nenemy with the greatest fury and soon put him to flight. The Florentine\ncaptains, having seen the difficulty their cavalry had met with in\ncrossing the river, had attempted to make their infantry cross lower\ndown the river, in order to attack the flanks of Castruccio's army.\nBut here, also, the banks were steep and already lined by the men of\nCastruccio, and this movement was quite useless. Thus the Florentines\nwere so completely defeated at all points that scarcely a third of them\nescaped, and Castruccio was again covered with glory. Many captains were\ntaken prisoners, and Carlo, the son of King Ruberto, with Michelagnolo\nFalconi and Taddeo degli Albizzi, the Florentine commissioners, fled to\nEmpoli. If the spoils were great, the slaughter was infinitely greater,\nas might be expected in such a battle. Of the Florentines there fell\ntwenty thousand two hundred and thirty-one men, whilst Castruccio lost\none thousand five hundred and seventy men.\n\nBut Fortune growing envious of the glory of Castruccio took away his\nlife just at the time when she should have preserved it, and thus ruined\nall those plans which for so long a time he had worked to carry into\neffect, and in the successful prosecution of which nothing but death\ncould have stopped him. Castruccio was in the thick of the battle the\nwhole of the day; and when the end of it came, although fatigued and\noverheated, he stood at the gate of Fucecchio to welcome his men on\ntheir return from victory and personally thank them. He was also on the\nwatch for any attempt of the enemy to retrieve the fortunes of the day;\nhe being of the opinion that it was the duty of a good general to be the\nfirst man in the saddle and the last out of it. Here Castruccio stood\nexposed to a wind which often rises at midday on the banks of the Arno,\nand which is often very unhealthy; from this he took a chill, of which\nhe thought nothing, as he was accustomed to such troubles; but it was\nthe cause of his death. On the following night he was attacked with high\nfever, which increased so rapidly that the doctors saw it must prove\nfatal. Castruccio, therefore, called Pagolo Guinigi to him, and\naddressed him as follows:\n\n\"If I could have believed that Fortune would have cut me off in the\nmidst of the career which was leading to that glory which all my\nsuccesses promised, I should have laboured less, and I should have\nleft thee, if a smaller state, at least with fewer enemies and perils,\nbecause I should have been content with the governorships of Lucca and\nPisa. I should neither have subjugated the Pistoians, nor outraged the\nFlorentines with so many injuries. But I would have made both these\npeoples my friends, and I should have lived, if no longer, at least more\npeacefully, and have left you a state without a doubt smaller, but one\nmore secure and established on a surer foundation. But Fortune, who\ninsists upon having the arbitrament of human affairs, did not endow me\nwith sufficient judgment to recognize this from the first, nor the time\nto surmount it. Thou hast heard, for many have told thee, and I have\nnever concealed it, how I entered the house of thy father whilst yet a\nboy--a stranger to all those ambitions which every generous soul should\nfeel--and how I was brought up by him, and loved as though I had been\nborn of his blood; how under his governance I learned to be valiant and\ncapable of availing myself of all that fortune, of which thou hast been\nwitness. When thy good father came to die, he committed thee and all his\npossessions to my care, and I have brought thee up with that love, and\nincreased thy estate with that care, which I was bound to show. And in\norder that thou shouldst not only possess the estate which thy father\nleft, but also that which my fortune and abilities have gained, I have\nnever married, so that the love of children should never deflect my mind\nfrom that gratitude which I owed to the children of thy father. Thus I\nleave thee a vast estate, of which I am well content, but I am deeply\nconcerned, inasmuch as I leave it thee unsettled and insecure. Thou hast\nthe city of Lucca on thy hands, which will never rest contented under\nthy government. Thou hast also Pisa, where the men are of nature\nchangeable and unreliable, who, although they may be sometimes held\nin subjection, yet they will ever disdain to serve under a Lucchese.\nPistoia is also disloyal to thee, she being eaten up with factions and\ndeeply incensed against thy family by reason of the wrongs recently\ninflicted upon them. Thou hast for neighbours the offended Florentines,\ninjured by us in a thousand ways, but not utterly destroyed, who\nwill hail the news of my death with more delight than they would the\nacquisition of all Tuscany. In the Emperor and in the princes of Milan\nthou canst place no reliance, for they are far distant, slow, and their\nhelp is very long in coming. Therefore, thou hast no hope in anything\nbut in thine own abilities, and in the memory of my valour, and in the\nprestige which this latest victory has brought thee; which, as thou\nknowest how to use it with prudence, will assist thee to come to terms\nwith the Florentines, who, as they are suffering under this great\ndefeat, should be inclined to listen to thee. And whereas I have sought\nto make them my enemies, because I believed that war with them would\nconduce to my power and glory, thou hast every inducement to make\nfriends of them, because their alliance will bring thee advantages\nand security. It is of the greatest important in this world that a man\nshould know himself, and the measure of his own strength and means; and\nhe who knows that he has not a genius for fighting must learn how to\ngovern by the arts of peace. And it will be well for thee to rule\nthy conduct by my counsel, and to learn in this way to enjoy what my\nlife-work and dangers have gained; and in this thou wilt easily succeed\nwhen thou hast learnt to believe that what I have told thee is true. And\nthou wilt be doubly indebted to me, in that I have left thee this realm\nand have taught thee how to keep it.\"\n\nAfter this there came to Castruccio those citizens of Pisa, Pistoia, and\nLucca, who had been fighting at his side, and whilst recommending Pagolo\nto them, and making them swear obedience to him as his successor, he\ndied. He left a happy memory to those who had known him, and no\nprince of those times was ever loved with such devotion as he was. His\nobsequies were celebrated with every sign of mourning, and he was buried\nin San Francesco at Lucca. Fortune was not so friendly to Pagolo Guinigi\nas she had been to Castruccio, for he had not the abilities. Not long\nafter the death of Castruccio, Pagolo lost Pisa, and then Pistoia, and\nonly with difficulty held on to Lucca. This latter city continued in the\nfamily of Guinigi until the time of the great-grandson of Pagolo.\n\nFrom what has been related here it will be seen that Castruccio was a\nman of exceptional abilities, not only measured by men of his own\ntime, but also by those of an earlier date. In stature he was above\nthe ordinary height, and perfectly proportioned. He was of a gracious\npresence, and he welcomed men with such urbanity that those who spoke\nwith him rarely left him displeased. His hair was inclined to be red,\nand he wore it cut short above the ears, and, whether it rained or\nsnowed, he always went without a hat. He was delightful among friends,\nbut terrible to his enemies; just to his subjects; ready to play false\nwith the unfaithful, and willing to overcome by fraud those whom he\ndesired to subdue, because he was wont to say that it was the victory\nthat brought the glory, not the methods of achieving it. No one was\nbolder in facing danger, none more prudent in extricating himself. He\nwas accustomed to say that men ought to attempt everything and fear\nnothing; that God is a lover of strong men, because one always sees that\nthe weak are chastised by the strong. He was also wonderfully sharp or\nbiting though courteous in his answers; and as he did not look for any\nindulgence in this way of speaking from others, so he was not angered\nwith others did not show it to him. It has often happened that he has\nlistened quietly when others have spoken sharply to him, as on the\nfollowing occasions. He had caused a ducat to be given for a partridge,\nand was taken to task for doing so by a friend, to whom Castruccio had\nsaid: \"You would not have given more than a penny.\" \"That is true,\"\nanswered the friend. Then said Castruccio to him: \"A ducat is much less\nto me.\" Having about him a flatterer on whom he had spat to show that\nhe scorned him, the flatterer said to him: \"Fisherman are willing to let\nthe waters of the sea saturate them in order that they may take a few\nlittle fishes, and I allow myself to be wetted by spittle that I may\ncatch a whale\"; and this was not only heard by Castruccio with patience\nbut rewarded. When told by a priest that it was wicked for him to live\nso sumptuously, Castruccio said: \"If that be a vice then you should\nnot fare so splendidly at the feasts of our saints.\" Passing through a\nstreet he saw a young man as he came out of a house of ill fame blush at\nbeing seen by Castruccio, and said to him: \"Thou shouldst not be ashamed\nwhen thou comest out, but when thou goest into such places.\" A friend\ngave him a very curiously tied knot to undo and was told: \"Fool, do\nyou think that I wish to untie a thing which gave so much trouble to\nfasten.\" Castruccio said to one who professed to be a philosopher: \"You\nare like the dogs who always run after those who will give them the best\nto eat,\" and was answered: \"We are rather like the doctors who go to the\nhouses of those who have the greatest need of them.\" Going by water from\nPisa to Leghorn, Castruccio was much disturbed by a dangerous storm that\nsprang up, and was reproached for cowardice by one of those with him,\nwho said that he did not fear anything. Castruccio answered that he\ndid not wonder at that, since every man valued his soul for what is was\nworth. Being asked by one what he ought to do to gain estimation, he\nsaid: \"When thou goest to a banquet take care that thou dost not seat\none piece of wood upon another.\" To a person who was boasting that he\nhad read many things, Castruccio said: \"He knows better than to boast\nof remembering many things.\" Someone bragged that he could drink much\nwithout becoming intoxicated. Castruccio replied: \"An ox does the\nsame.\" Castruccio was acquainted with a girl with whom he had intimate\nrelations, and being blamed by a friend who told him that it was\nundignified for him to be taken in by a woman, he said: \"She has not\ntaken me in, I have taken her.\" Being also blamed for eating very dainty\nfoods, he answered: \"Thou dost not spend as much as I do?\" and being\ntold that it was true, he continued: \"Then thou art more avaricious\nthan I am gluttonous.\" Being invited by Taddeo Bernardi, a very rich and\nsplendid citizen of Luca, to supper, he went to the house and was shown\nby Taddeo into a chamber hung with silk and paved with fine stones\nrepresenting flowers and foliage of the most beautiful colouring.\nCastruccio gathered some saliva in his mouth and spat it out upon\nTaddeo, and seeing him much disturbed by this, said to him: \"I knew not\nwhere to spit in order to offend thee less.\" Being asked how Caesar\ndied he said: \"God willing I will die as he did.\" Being one night in the\nhouse of one of his gentlemen where many ladies were assembled, he was\nreproved by one of his friends for dancing and amusing himself with\nthem more than was usual in one of his station, so he said: \"He who is\nconsidered wise by day will not be considered a fool at night.\" A person\ncame to demand a favour of Castruccio, and thinking he was not listening\nto his plea threw himself on his knees to the ground, and being sharply\nreproved by Castruccio, said: \"Thou art the reason of my acting thus for\nthou hast thy ears in thy feet,\" whereupon he obtained double the favour\nhe had asked. Castruccio used to say that the way to hell was an easy\none, seeing that it was in a downward direction and you travelled\nblindfolded. Being asked a favour by one who used many superfluous\nwords, he said to him: \"When you have another request to make, send\nsomeone else to make it.\" Having been wearied by a similar man with a\nlong oration who wound up by saying: \"Perhaps I have fatigued you by\nspeaking so long,\" Castruccio said: \"You have not, because I have not\nlistened to a word you said.\" He used to say of one who had been a\nbeautiful child and who afterwards became a fine man, that he was\ndangerous, because he first took the husbands from the wives and now he\ntook the wives from their husbands. To an envious man who laughed, he\nsaid: \"Do you laugh because you are successful or because another is\nunfortunate?\" Whilst he was still in the charge of Messer Francesco\nGuinigi, one of his companions said to him: \"What shall I give you if\nyou will let me give you a blow on the nose?\" Castruccio answered:\n\"A helmet.\" Having put to death a citizen of Lucca who had been\ninstrumental in raising him to power, and being told that he had done\nwrong to kill one of his old friends, he answered that people deceived\nthemselves; he had only killed a new enemy. Castruccio praised greatly\nthose men who intended to take a wife and then did not do so, saying\nthat they were like men who said they would go to sea, and then refused\nwhen the time came. He said that it always struck him with surprise that\nwhilst men in buying an earthen or glass vase would sound it first to\nlearn if it were good, yet in choosing a wife they were content with\nonly looking at her. He was once asked in what manner he would wish to\nbe buried when he died, and answered: \"With the face turned downwards,\nfor I know when I am gone this country will be turned upside down.\" On\nbeing asked if it had ever occurred to him to become a friar in order to\nsave his soul, he answered that it had not, because it appeared strange\nto him that Fra Lazerone should go to Paradise and Uguccione della\nFaggiuola to the Inferno. He was once asked when should a man eat to\npreserve his health, and replied: \"If the man be rich let him eat\nwhen he is hungry; if he be poor, then when he can.\" Seeing one of his\ngentlemen make a member of his family lace him up, he said to him: \"I\npray God that you will let him feed you also.\" Seeing that someone had\nwritten upon his house in Latin the words: \"May God preserve this house\nfrom the wicked,\" he said, \"The owner must never go in.\" Passing through\none of the streets he saw a small house with a very large door, and\nremarked: \"That house will fly through the door.\" He was having a\ndiscussion with the ambassador of the King of Naples concerning the\nproperty of some banished nobles, when a dispute arose between them, and\nthe ambassador asked him if he had no fear of the king. \"Is this king of\nyours a bad man or a good one?\" asked Castruccio, and was told that he\nwas a good one, whereupon he said, \"Why should you suggest that I should\nbe afraid of a good man?\"\n\nI could recount many other stories of his sayings both witty and\nweighty, but I think that the above will be sufficient testimony to\nhis high qualities. He lived forty-four years, and was in every way a\nprince. And as he was surrounded by many evidences of his good fortune,\nso he also desired to have near him some memorials of his bad fortune;\ntherefore the manacles with which he was chained in prison are to be\nseen to this day fixed up in the tower of his residence, where they were\nplaced by him to testify forever to his days of adversity. As in\nhis life he was inferior neither to Philip of Macedon, the father of\nAlexander, nor to Scipio of Rome, so he died in the same year of his\nage as they did, and he would doubtless have excelled both of them had\nFortune decreed that he should be born, not in Lucca, but in Macedonia\nor Rome.\n\n\n\n\n\n", "summary": [{"source": "gradesaver", "text": "The Prince begins with an address to Lorenzo de Medici, in which Machiavelli explains that he is seeking favor with the prince by offering him some of his knowledge. He then proceeds to classify the various kinds of states: republics, hereditary princedoms, brand-new princedoms, and mixed principalities. New states are his primary focus, for those are the hardest to deal with. A conquered state whose original prince was its sole ruler is difficult to conquer, but easy to maintain; a conquered state in which the prince shared power with the barons is easy to conquer, but difficult to maintain. When possible, a prince should strive to rise to power on his own merits and with his own arms. Relying on friends, good luck, or other people's arms may make the rise easier, but holding onto his newfound power will prove a difficult task. Machiavelli devotes almost an entire chapter to Cesare Borgia, who rose to prominence largely through connections and his father's help, but was crafty enough to carve out his own niche - though he wound up failing in the end. Princes who rise to the throne through crime are another matter altogether: Machiavelli condemns them as wicked, and yet his words betray his admiration for their cleverness. Cruelty, when well-used, can be justified. According to Machiavelli, reliance on mercenaries and auxiliaries for troops is a grave mistake. A prince must lay strong foundations - good laws and good arms - and if the latter is lacking, the former is rendered irrelevant. A state needs both to survive. Mercenaries are disloyal and divided; foreign auxiliaries come already united under another master, and so are in a way even more dangerous. The prince himself should be a student of war and an avid reader of military history. Reputation is another important element to consider. The front princes put on to appeal to the populace is often a lie, as Machiavelli notes; the better the liar, the better the prince. That said, giving out money when it is fiscally irresponsible, just to appear generous, is a mistake; displaying excessive mercy in order to garner affection can prove fatal. Better safe than sorry; better to be feared than to be loved. Machiavelli closes The Prince with a meditation on luck and its role in human affairs, and a call to unite Italy. He addresses much of this last argument to Lorenzo de Medici, thereby imposing some semblance of symmetry on his book's structure and honing his theoretical musings into a direct exhortation.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "shmoop", "text": "How to be a prince, by Niccolo Machiavelli to his BFF Lorenzo de' Medici: Step 1: get yourself a kingdom, and preferably have your own army while doing it since mercenaries are bad news. Be careful when choosing a place to take over. Even though it will be harder to conquer at first, choose the land of a king with no powerful barons or ministers, because it will be easiest to maintain in the long run. Make sure you kill anyone who might oppose you before continuing. And choose a role model. Step 2: keep your kingdom secure by not allowing people as strong as you are into the neighborhood. Also, make friends with your neighbors. Don't let people hate you, but don't worry too much if they grumble a bit. Maintain a reputation for awesomeness. When in doubt, think of Cesare Borgia. P.S. Pleasie weasie come rule Italy using the steps Machiavelli showed you. You can do it! Okay, okay, we'll break it down a little more: Chapters 1-4: States can be republics or kingdoms, old or new. The easiest to rule are old hereditary kingdoms, lands that are passed down from father to son . Basically, instead of passing along their 2001 Toyota Camry, your parents give you a kingdom. You'd have to be an idiot to have problems ruling one of these. Because they're so easy to rule, they are hard to take. The opposite is true of states that are easy to take: they tend to be hard to rule. The best way to take old hereditary kingdoms is by killing the old monarchy. Every last one. Chapters 5-7: You also need violence to take self-governed republics, because they will rebel if you don't crush them. Just remember not to keep being violent. Get it over with so you can start being nice and people won't hate you. Never let your people hate you. Lie, cheat, steal--just don't become hated. And make sure you have your own army. Chapters 10-14: Mercenaries and auxiliaries are a waste of time and dangerous, to boot. If you have a strong army, and your people love you, no one can touch you. They won't even think about it. On that topic, you need to run your army, so war needs to be on your mind all day every day. You need to be on the cutting edge of war techniques and technology. By the way, a word on fortresses: they look cool and everything, but they can also make people resent you. They're really only useful if you are afraid of your people. Chapters 16-23: Throw parties for your people. Listen to your ministers but avoid brown-noses. Chapters 24-26: Finally, Italy is not doing so great right now because its rulers didn't follow Machiavelli's rules. They blame bad luck, but you can always prepare for luck, and they didn't. Don't be like them. Be awesome.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "cliffnotes", "text": "The Prince is an extended analysis of how to acquire and maintain political power. It includes 26 chapters and an opening dedication to Lorenzo de Medici. The dedication declares Machiavelli's intention to discuss in plain language the conduct of great men and the principles of princely government. He does so in hope of pleasing and enlightening the Medici family. The book's 26 chapters can be divided into four sections: Chapters 1-11 discuss the different types of principalities or states, Chapters 12-14 discuss the different types of armies and the proper conduct of a prince as military leader, Chapters 15-23 discuss the character and behavior of the prince, and Chapters 24-26 discuss Italy's desperate political situation. The final chapter is a plea for the Medici family to supply the prince who will lead Italy out of humiliation. The types of principalities Machiavelli lists four types of principalities: Hereditary principalities, which are inherited by the ruler Mixed principalities, territories that are annexed to the ruler's existing territories New principalities, which may be acquired by several methods: by one's own power, by the power of others, by criminal acts or extreme cruelty, or by the will of the people Ecclesiastical principalities, namely the Papal States belonging to the Catholic church The types of armies A prince must always pay close attention to military affairs if he wants to remain in power. Machiavelli lists four types of armies: Mercenaries or hired soldiers, which are dangerous and unreliable Auxiliaries, troops that are loaned to you by other rulers--also dangerous and unreliable Native troops, composed of one's own citizens or subjects--by far the most desirable kind Mixed troops, a combination of native troops and mercenaries or auxiliaries--still less desirable than a completely native army The character and behavior of the prince Machiavelli recommends the following character and behavior for princes: It is better to be stingy than generous. It is better to be cruel than merciful. It is better to break promises if keeping them would be against one's interests. Princes must avoid making themselves hated and despised; the goodwill of the people is a better defense than any fortress. Princes should undertake great projects to enhance their reputation. Princes should choose wise advisors and avoid flatterers. Italy's political situation Machiavelli outlines and recommends the following: The rulers of Italy have lost their states by ignoring the political and military principles Machiavelli enumerates. Fortune controls half of human affairs, but free will controls the rest, leaving the prince free to act. However, few princes can adapt their actions to the times. The final chapter is an exhortation to the Medici family to follow Machiavelli's principles and thereby free Italy from foreign domination.", "analysis": ""}, {"source": "sparknotes", "text": "Machiavelli composed The Prince as a practical guide for ruling . This goal is evident from the very beginning, the dedication of the book to Lorenzo de' Medici, the ruler of Florence. The Prince is not particularly theoretical or abstract; its prose is simple and its logic straightforward. These traits underscore Machiavelli's desire to provide practical, easily understandable advice. The first two chapters describe the book's scope. The Prince is concerned with autocratic regimes, not with republican regimes. The first chapter defines the various types of principalities and princes; in doing so, it constructs an outline for the rest of the book. Chapter III comprehensively describes how to maintain composite principalities--that is, principalities that are newly created or annexed from another power, so that the prince is not familiar to the people he rules. Chapter III also introduces the book's main concerns--power politics, warcraft, and popular goodwill--in an encapsulated form. Chapters IV through XIV constitute the heart of the book. Machiavelli offers practical advice on a variety of matters, including the advantages and disadvantages that attend various routes to power, how to acquire and hold new states, how to deal with internal insurrection, how to make alliances, and how to maintain a strong military. Implicit in these chapters are Machiavelli's views regarding free will, human nature, and ethics, but these ideas do not manifest themselves explicitly as topics of discussion until later. Chapters XV to XXIII focus on the qualities of the prince himself. Broadly speaking, this discussion is guided by Machiavelli's underlying view that lofty ideals translate into bad government. This premise is especially true with respect to personal virtue. Certain virtues may be admired for their own sake, but for a prince to act in accordance with virtue is often detrimental to the state. Similarly, certain vices may be frowned upon, but vicious actions are sometimes indispensable to the good of the state. Machiavelli combines this line of reasoning with another: the theme that obtaining the goodwill of the populace is the best way to maintain power. Thus, the appearance of virtue may be more important than true virtue, which may be seen as a liability. The final sections of The Prince link the book to a specific historical context: Italy's disunity. Machiavelli sets down his account and explanation of the failure of past Italian rulers and concludes with an impassioned plea to the future rulers of the nation. Machiavelli asserts the belief that only Lorenzo de' Medici, to whom the book is dedicated, can restore Italy's honor and pride.", "analysis": ""}]}
{"bid": "1200", "title": "Gargantua and Pantagruel", "text": "The Author's Prologue to the First Book.\n\nMost noble and illustrious drinkers, and you thrice precious pockified\nblades (for to you, and none else, do I dedicate my writings), Alcibiades,\nin that dialogue of Plato's, which is entitled The Banquet, whilst he was\nsetting forth the praises of his schoolmaster Socrates (without all\nquestion the prince of philosophers), amongst other discourses to that\npurpose, said that he resembled the Silenes.  Silenes of old were little\nboxes, like those we now may see in the shops of apothecaries, painted on\nthe outside with wanton toyish figures, as harpies, satyrs, bridled geese,\nhorned hares, saddled ducks, flying goats, thiller harts, and other\nsuch-like counterfeited pictures at discretion, to excite people unto\nlaughter, as Silenus himself, who was the foster-father of good Bacchus, was\nwont to do; but within those capricious caskets were carefully preserved and\nkept many rich jewels and fine drugs, such as balm, ambergris, amomon, musk,\ncivet, with several kinds of precious stones, and other things of great\nprice.  Just such another thing was Socrates.  For to have eyed his outside,\nand esteemed of him by his exterior appearance, you would not have given the\npeel of an onion for him, so deformed he was in body, and ridiculous in his\ngesture.  He had a sharp pointed nose, with the look of a bull, and\ncountenance of a fool:  he was in his carriage simple, boorish in his\napparel, in fortune poor, unhappy in his wives, unfit for all offices in the\ncommonwealth, always laughing, tippling, and merrily carousing to everyone,\nwith continual gibes and jeers, the better by those means to conceal his\ndivine knowledge.  Now, opening this box you would have found within it a\nheavenly and inestimable drug, a more than human understanding, an admirable\nvirtue, matchless learning, invincible courage, unimitable sobriety, certain\ncontentment of mind, perfect assurance, and an incredible misregard of all\nthat for which men commonly do so much watch, run, sail, fight, travel, toil\nand turmoil themselves.\n\nWhereunto (in your opinion) doth this little flourish of a preamble tend?\nFor so much as you, my good disciples, and some other jolly fools of ease\nand leisure, reading the pleasant titles of some books of our invention, as\nGargantua, Pantagruel, Whippot (Fessepinte.), the Dignity of Codpieces, of\nPease and Bacon with a Commentary, &c., are too ready to judge that there\nis nothing in them but jests, mockeries, lascivious discourse, and\nrecreative lies; because the outside (which is the title) is usually,\nwithout any farther inquiry, entertained with scoffing and derision.  But\ntruly it is very unbeseeming to make so slight account of the works of men,\nseeing yourselves avouch that it is not the habit makes the monk, many\nbeing monasterially accoutred, who inwardly are nothing less than monachal,\nand that there are of those that wear Spanish capes, who have but little of\nthe valour of Spaniards in them.  Therefore is it, that you must open the\nbook, and seriously consider of the matter treated in it.  Then shall you\nfind that it containeth things of far higher value than the box did\npromise; that is to say, that the subject thereof is not so foolish as by\nthe title at the first sight it would appear to be.\n\nAnd put the case, that in the literal sense you meet with purposes merry\nand solacious enough, and consequently very correspondent to their\ninscriptions, yet must not you stop there as at the melody of the charming\nsyrens, but endeavour to interpret that in a sublimer sense which possibly\nyou intended to have spoken in the jollity of your heart.  Did you ever\npick the lock of a cupboard to steal a bottle of wine out of it?  Tell me\ntruly, and, if you did, call to mind the countenance which then you had.\nOr, did you ever see a dog with a marrowbone in his mouth,--the beast of\nall other, says Plato, lib. 2, de Republica, the most philosophical?  If\nyou have seen him, you might have remarked with what devotion and\ncircumspectness he wards and watcheth it:  with what care he keeps it:  how\nfervently he holds it:  how prudently he gobbets it:  with what affection\nhe breaks it:  and with what diligence he sucks it.  To what end all this?\nWhat moveth him to take all these pains?  What are the hopes of his labour?\nWhat doth he expect to reap thereby?  Nothing but a little marrow.  True it\nis, that this little is more savoury and delicious than the great\nquantities of other sorts of meat, because the marrow (as Galen testifieth,\n5. facult. nat. & 11. de usu partium) is a nourishment most perfectly\nelaboured by nature.\n\nIn imitation of this dog, it becomes you to be wise, to smell, feel and\nhave in estimation these fair goodly books, stuffed with high conceptions,\nwhich, though seemingly easy in the pursuit, are in the cope and encounter\nsomewhat difficult.  And then, like him, you must, by a sedulous lecture,\nand frequent meditation, break the bone, and suck out the marrow,--that is,\nmy allegorical sense, or the things I to myself propose to be signified by\nthese Pythagorical symbols, with assured hope, that in so doing you will at\nlast attain to be both well-advised and valiant by the reading of them:\nfor in the perusal of this treatise you shall find another kind of taste,\nand a doctrine of a more profound and abstruse consideration, which will\ndisclose unto you the most glorious sacraments and dreadful mysteries, as\nwell in what concerneth your religion, as matters of the public state, and\nlife economical.\n\nDo you believe, upon your conscience, that Homer, whilst he was a-couching\nhis Iliads and Odysses, had any thought upon those allegories, which\nPlutarch, Heraclides Ponticus, Eustathius, Cornutus squeezed out of him,\nand which Politian filched again from them?  If you trust it, with neither\nhand nor foot do you come near to my opinion, which judgeth them to have\nbeen as little dreamed of by Homer, as the Gospel sacraments were by Ovid\nin his Metamorphoses, though a certain gulligut friar (Frere Lubin\ncroquelardon.) and true bacon-picker would have undertaken to prove it, if\nperhaps he had met with as very fools as himself, (and as the proverb says)\na lid worthy of such a kettle.\n\nIf you give no credit thereto, why do not you the same in these jovial new\nchronicles of mine?  Albeit when I did dictate them, I thought upon no more\nthan you, who possibly were drinking the whilst as I was.  For in the\ncomposing of this lordly book, I never lost nor bestowed any more, nor any\nother time than what was appointed to serve me for taking of my bodily\nrefection, that is, whilst I was eating and drinking.  And indeed that is\nthe fittest and most proper hour wherein to write these high matters and\ndeep sciences:  as Homer knew very well, the paragon of all philologues,\nand Ennius, the father of the Latin poets, as Horace calls him, although a\ncertain sneaking jobernol alleged that his verses smelled more of the wine\nthan oil.\n\nSo saith a turlupin or a new start-up grub of my books, but a turd for him.\nThe fragrant odour of the wine, O how much more dainty, pleasant, laughing\n(Riant, priant, friant.), celestial and delicious it is, than that smell of\noil!  And I will glory as much when it is said of me, that I have spent\nmore on wine than oil, as did Demosthenes, when it was told him, that his\nexpense on oil was greater than on wine.  I truly hold it for an honour and\npraise to be called and reputed a Frolic Gualter and a Robin Goodfellow;\nfor under this name am I welcome in all choice companies of Pantagruelists.\nIt was upbraided to Demosthenes by an envious surly knave, that his\nOrations did smell like the sarpler or wrapper of a foul and filthy\noil-vessel.  For this cause interpret you all my deeds and sayings in the\nperfectest sense; reverence the cheese-like brain that feeds you with these\nfair billevezees and trifling jollities, and do what lies in you to keep me\nalways merry.  Be frolic now, my lads, cheer up your hearts, and joyfully\nread the rest, with all the ease of your body and profit of your reins.\nBut hearken, joltheads, you viedazes, or dickens take ye, remember to drink\na health to me for the like favour again, and I will pledge you instantly,\nTout ares-metys.\n\n\n\nRabelais to the Reader.\n\nGood friends, my Readers, who peruse this Book,\nBe not offended, whilst on it you look:\nDenude yourselves of all depraved affection,\nFor it contains no badness, nor infection:\n'Tis true that it brings forth to you no birth\nOf any value, but in point of mirth;\nThinking therefore how sorrow might your mind\nConsume, I could no apter subject find;\nOne inch of joy surmounts of grief a span;\nBecause to laugh is proper to the man.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the Genealogy and Antiquity of Gargantua.\n\nI must refer you to the great chronicle of Pantagruel for the knowledge of\nthat genealogy and antiquity of race by which Gargantua is come unto us.\nIn it you may understand more at large how the giants were born in this\nworld, and how from them by a direct line issued Gargantua, the father of\nPantagruel:  and do not take it ill, if for this time I pass by it,\nalthough the subject be such, that the oftener it were remembered, the more\nit would please your worshipful Seniorias; according to which you have the\nauthority of Plato in Philebo and Gorgias; and of Flaccus, who says that\nthere are some kinds of purposes (such as these are without doubt), which,\nthe frequentlier they be repeated, still prove the more delectable.\n\nWould to God everyone had as certain knowledge of his genealogy since the\ntime of the ark of Noah until this age.  I think many are at this day\nemperors, kings, dukes, princes, and popes on the earth, whose extraction\nis from some porters and pardon-pedlars; as, on the contrary, many are now\npoor wandering beggars, wretched and miserable, who are descended of the\nblood and lineage of great kings and emperors, occasioned, as I conceive\nit, by the transport and revolution of kingdoms and empires, from the\nAssyrians to the Medes, from the Medes to the Persians, from the Persians\nto the Macedonians, from the Macedonians to the Romans, from the Romans to\nthe Greeks, from the Greeks to the French.\n\nAnd to give you some hint concerning myself, who speaks unto you, I cannot\nthink but I am come of the race of some rich king or prince in former\ntimes; for never yet saw you any man that had a greater desire to be a\nking, and to be rich, than I have, and that only that I may make good\ncheer, do nothing, nor care for anything, and plentifully enrich my\nfriends, and all honest and learned men.  But herein do I comfort myself,\nthat in the other world I shall be so, yea and greater too than at this\npresent I dare wish.  As for you, with the same or a better conceit\nconsolate yourselves in your distresses, and drink fresh if you can come by\nit.\n\nTo return to our wethers, I say that by the sovereign gift of heaven, the\nantiquity and genealogy of Gargantua hath been reserved for our use more\nfull and perfect than any other except that of the Messias, whereof I mean\nnot to speak; for it belongs not unto my purpose, and the devils, that is\nto say, the false accusers and dissembled gospellers, will therein oppose\nme.  This genealogy was found by John Andrew in a meadow, which he had near\nthe pole-arch, under the olive-tree, as you go to Narsay:  where, as he was\nmaking cast up some ditches, the diggers with their mattocks struck against\na great brazen tomb, and unmeasurably long, for they could never find the\nend thereof, by reason that it entered too far within the sluices of\nVienne.  Opening this tomb in a certain place thereof, sealed on the top\nwith the mark of a goblet, about which was written in Etrurian letters Hic\nBibitur, they found nine flagons set in such order as they use to rank\ntheir kyles in Gascony, of which that which was placed in the middle had\nunder it a big, fat, great, grey, pretty, small, mouldy, little pamphlet,\nsmelling stronger, but no better than roses.  In that book the said\ngenealogy was found written all at length, in a chancery hand, not in\npaper, not in parchment, nor in wax, but in the bark of an elm-tree, yet so\nworn with the long tract of time, that hardly could three letters together\nbe there perfectly discerned.\n\nI (though unworthy) was sent for thither, and with much help of those\nspectacles, whereby the art of reading dim writings, and letters that do\nnot clearly appear to the sight, is practised, as Aristotle teacheth it,\ndid translate the book as you may see in your Pantagruelizing, that is to\nsay, in drinking stiffly to your own heart's desire, and reading the\ndreadful and horrific acts of Pantagruel.  At the end of the book there was\na little treatise entitled the Antidoted Fanfreluches, or a Galimatia of\nextravagant conceits.  The rats and moths, or (that I may not lie) other\nwicked beasts, had nibbled off the beginning:  the rest I have hereto\nsubjoined, for the reverence I bear to antiquity.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Antidoted Fanfreluches:  or, a Galimatia of extravagant Conceits found\nin an ancient Monument.\n\nNo sooner did the Cymbrians' overcomer\nPass through the air to shun the dew of summer,\nBut at his coming straight great tubs were fill'd,\nWith pure fresh butter down in showers distill'd:\nWherewith when water'd was his grandam, Hey,\nAloud he cried, Fish it, sir, I pray y';\nBecause his beard is almost all beray'd;\nOr, that he would hold to 'm a scale, he pray'd.\n\nTo lick his slipper, some told was much better,\nThan to gain pardons, and the merit greater.\nIn th' interim a crafty chuff approaches,\nFrom the depth issued, where they fish for roaches;\nWho said, Good sirs, some of them let us save,\nThe eel is here, and in this hollow cave\nYou'll find, if that our looks on it demur,\nA great waste in the bottom of his fur.\n\nTo read this chapter when he did begin,\nNothing but a calf's horns were found therein;\nI feel, quoth he, the mitre which doth hold\nMy head so chill, it makes my brains take cold.\nBeing with the perfume of a turnip warm'd,\nTo stay by chimney hearths himself he arm'd,\nProvided that a new thill-horse they made\nOf every person of a hair-brain'd head.\n\nThey talked of the bunghole of Saint Knowles,\nOf Gilbathar and thousand other holes,\nIf they might be reduced t' a scarry stuff,\nSuch as might not be subject to the cough:\nSince ev'ry man unseemly did it find,\nTo see them gaping thus at ev'ry wind:\nFor, if perhaps they handsomely were closed,\nFor pledges they to men might be exposed.\n\nIn this arrest by Hercules the raven\nWas flayed at her (his) return from Lybia haven.\nWhy am not I, said Minos, there invited?\nUnless it be myself, not one's omitted:\nAnd then it is their mind, I do no more\nOf frogs and oysters send them any store:\nIn case they spare my life and prove but civil,\nI give their sale of distaffs to the devil.\n\nTo quell him comes Q.B., who limping frets\nAt the safe pass of tricksy crackarets:\nThe boulter, the grand Cyclops' cousin, those\nDid massacre, whilst each one wiped his nose:\nFew ingles in this fallow ground are bred,\nBut on a tanner's mill are winnowed.\nRun thither all of you, th' alarms sound clear,\nYou shall have more than you had the last year.\n\nShort while thereafter was the bird of Jove\nResolved to speak, though dismal it should prove;\nYet was afraid, when he saw them in ire,\nThey should o'erthrow quite flat down dead th' empire.\nHe rather choosed the fire from heaven to steal,\nTo boats where were red herrings put to sale;\nThan to be calm 'gainst those, who strive to brave us,\nAnd to the Massorets' fond words enslave us.\n\nAll this at last concluded gallantly,\nIn spite of Ate and her hern-like thigh,\nWho, sitting, saw Penthesilea ta'en,\nIn her old age, for a cress-selling quean.\nEach one cried out, Thou filthy collier toad,\nDoth it become thee to be found abroad?\nThou hast the Roman standard filch'd away,\nWhich they in rags of parchment did display.\n\nJuno was born, who, under the rainbow,\nWas a-bird-catching with her duck below:\nWhen her with such a grievous trick they plied\nThat she had almost been bethwacked by it.\nThe bargain was, that, of that throatful, she\nShould of Proserpina have two eggs free;\nAnd if that she thereafter should be found,\nShe to a hawthorn hill should be fast bound.\n\nSeven months thereafter, lacking twenty-two,\nHe, that of old did Carthage town undo,\nDid bravely midst them all himself advance,\nRequiring of them his inheritance;\nAlthough they justly made up the division,\nAccording to the shoe-welt-law's decision,\nBy distributing store of brews and beef\nTo these poor fellows that did pen the brief.\n\nBut th' year will come, sign of a Turkish bow,\nFive spindles yarn'd, and three pot-bottoms too,\nWherein of a discourteous king the dock\nShall pepper'd be under an hermit's frock.\nAh! that for one she hypocrite you must\nPermit so many acres to be lost!\nCease, cease, this vizard may become another,\nWithdraw yourselves unto the serpent's brother.\n\n'Tis in times past, that he who is shall reign\nWith his good friends in peace now and again.\nNo rash nor heady prince shall then rule crave,\nEach good will its arbitrement shall have;\nAnd the joy, promised of old as doom\nTo the heaven's guests, shall in its beacon come.\nThen shall the breeding mares, that benumb'd were,\nLike royal palfreys ride triumphant there.\n\nAnd this continue shall from time to time,\nTill Mars be fetter'd for an unknown crime;\nThen shall one come, who others will surpass,\nDelightful, pleasing, matchless, full of grace.\nCheer up your hearts, approach to this repast,\nAll trusty friends of mine; for he's deceased,\nWho would not for a world return again,\nSo highly shall time past be cried up then.\n\nHe who was made of wax shall lodge each member\nClose by the hinges of a block of timber.\nWe then no more shall Master, master, whoot,\nThe swagger, who th' alarum bell holds out;\nCould one seize on the dagger which he bears,\nHeads would be free from tingling in the ears,\nTo baffle the whole storehouse of abuses.\nThe thus farewell Apollo and the Muses.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua was carried eleven months in his mother's belly.\n\nGrangousier was a good fellow in his time, and notable jester; he loved to\ndrink neat, as much as any man that then was in the world, and would\nwillingly eat salt meat.  To this intent he was ordinarily well furnished\nwith gammons of bacon, both of Westphalia, Mayence and Bayonne, with store\nof dried neat's tongues, plenty of links, chitterlings and puddings in\ntheir season; together with salt beef and mustard, a good deal of hard roes\nof powdered mullet called botargos, great provision of sausages, not of\nBolonia (for he feared the Lombard Boccone), but of Bigorre, Longaulnay,\nBrene, and Rouargue.  In the vigour of his age he married Gargamelle,\ndaughter to the King of the Parpaillons, a jolly pug, and well-mouthed\nwench.  These two did oftentimes do the two-backed beast together, joyfully\nrubbing and frotting their bacon 'gainst one another, in so far, that at\nlast she became great with child of a fair son, and went with him unto the\neleventh month; for so long, yea longer, may a woman carry her great belly,\nespecially when it is some masterpiece of nature, and a person\npredestinated to the performance, in his due time, of great exploits.  As\nHomer says, that the child, which Neptune begot upon the nymph, was born a\nwhole year after the conception, that is, in the twelfth month.  For, as\nAulus Gellius saith, lib. 3, this long time was suitable to the majesty of\nNeptune, that in it the child might receive his perfect form.  For the like\nreason Jupiter made the night, wherein he lay with Alcmena, last\nforty-eight hours, a shorter time not being sufficient for the forging of\nHercules, who cleansed the world of the monsters and tyrants wherewith it\nwas suppressed.  My masters, the ancient Pantagruelists, have confirmed\nthat which I say, and withal declared it to be not only possible, but also\nmaintained the lawful birth and legitimation of the infant born of a woman\nin the eleventh month after the decease of her husband.  Hypocrates, lib.\nde alimento.  Plinius, lib. 7, cap. 5.  Plautus, in his Cistelleria.\nMarcus Varro, in his satire inscribed The Testament, alleging to this\npurpose the authority of Aristotle.  Censorinus, lib. de die natali.\nArist. lib. 7, cap. 3 & 4, de natura animalium.  Gellius, lib. 3, cap. 16.\nServius, in his exposition upon this verse of Virgil's eclogues, Matri\nlonga decem, &c., and a thousand other fools, whose number hath been\nincreased by the lawyers ff. de suis, et legit l. intestato. paragrapho.\nfin. and in Auth. de restitut. et ea quae parit in xi mense.  Moreover upon\nthese grounds they have foisted in their Robidilardic, or Lapiturolive law.\nGallus ff. de lib. et posth. l. sept. ff. de stat. hom., and some other\nlaws, which at this time I dare not name.  By means whereof the honest\nwidows may without danger play at the close buttock game with might and\nmain, and as hard as they can, for the space of the first two months after\nthe decease of their husbands.  I pray you, my good lusty springal lads, if\nyou find any of these females, that are worth the pains of untying the\ncodpiece-point, get up, ride upon them, and bring them to me; for, if they\nhappen within the third month to conceive, the child should be heir to the\ndeceased, if, before he died, he had no other children, and the mother\nshall pass for an honest woman.\n\nWhen she is known to have conceived, thrust forward boldly, spare her not,\nwhatever betide you, seeing the paunch is full.  As Julia, the daughter of\nthe Emperor Octavian, never prostituted herself to her belly-bumpers, but\nwhen she found herself with child, after the manner of ships, that receive\nnot their steersman till they have their ballast and lading.  And if any\nblame them for this their rataconniculation, and reiterated lechery upon\ntheir pregnancy and big-belliedness, seeing beasts, in the like exigent of\ntheir fulness, will never suffer the male-masculant to encroach them, their\nanswer will be, that those are beasts, but they are women, very well\nskilled in the pretty vales and small fees of the pleasant trade and\nmysteries of superfetation:  as Populia heretofore answered, according to\nthe relation of Macrobius, lib. 2. Saturnal.  If the devil will not have\nthem to bag, he must wring hard the spigot, and stop the bung-hole.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargamelle, being great with Gargantua, did eat a huge deal of tripes.\n\nThe occasion and manner how Gargamelle was brought to bed, and delivered of\nher child, was thus:  and, if you do not believe it, I wish your bum-gut\nfall out and make an escapade.  Her bum-gut, indeed, or fundament escaped\nher in an afternoon, on the third day of February, with having eaten at\ndinner too many godebillios.  Godebillios are the fat tripes of coiros.\nCoiros are beeves fattened at the cratch in ox-stalls, or in the fresh\nguimo meadows.  Guimo meadows are those that for their fruitfulness may be\nmowed twice a year.  Of those fat beeves they had killed three hundred\nsixty-seven thousand and fourteen, to be salted at Shrovetide, that in the\nentering of the spring they might have plenty of powdered beef, wherewith\nto season their mouths at the beginning of their meals, and to taste their\nwine the better.\n\nThey had abundance of tripes, as you have heard, and they were so\ndelicious, that everyone licked his fingers.  But the mischief was this,\nthat, for all men could do, there was no possibility to keep them long in\nthat relish; for in a very short while they would have stunk, which had\nbeen an undecent thing.  It was therefore concluded, that they should be\nall of them gulched up, without losing anything.  To this effect they\ninvited all the burghers of Sainais, of Suille, of the Roche-Clermaud, of\nVaugaudry, without omitting the Coudray, Monpensier, the Gue de Vede, and\nother their neighbours, all stiff drinkers, brave fellows, and good players\nat the kyles.  The good man Grangousier took great pleasure in their\ncompany, and commanded there should be no want nor pinching for anything.\nNevertheless he bade his wife eat sparingly, because she was near her time,\nand that these tripes were no very commendable meat.  They would fain, said\nhe, be at the chewing of ordure, that would eat the case wherein it was.\nNotwithstanding these admonitions, she did eat sixteen quarters, two\nbushels, three pecks and a pipkin full.  O the fair fecality wherewith she\nswelled, by the ingrediency of such shitten stuff!\n\nAfter dinner they all went out in a hurl to the grove of the willows,\nwhere, on the green grass, to the sound of the merry flutes and pleasant\nbagpipes, they danced so gallantly, that it was a sweet and heavenly sport\nto see them so frolic.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Discourse of the Drinkers.\n\nThen did they fall upon the chat of victuals and some belly furniture to be\nsnatched at in the very same place.  Which purpose was no sooner mentioned,\nbut forthwith began flagons to go, gammons to trot, goblets to fly, great\nbowls to ting, glasses to ring.  Draw, reach, fill, mix, give it me without\nwater.  So, my friend, so, whip me off this glass neatly, bring me hither\nsome claret, a full weeping glass till it run over.  A cessation and truce\nwith thirst.  Ha, thou false fever, wilt thou not be gone?  By my figgins,\ngodmother, I cannot as yet enter in the humour of being merry, nor drink so\ncurrently as I would.  You have catched a cold, gammer?  Yea, forsooth,\nsir.  By the belly of Sanct Buff, let us talk of our drink:  I never drink\nbut at my hours, like the Pope's mule.  And I never drink but in my\nbreviary, like a fair father guardian.  Which was first, thirst or\ndrinking?  Thirst, for who in the time of innocence would have drunk\nwithout being athirst?  Nay, sir, it was drinking; for privatio\npraesupponit habitum.  I am learned, you see:  Foecundi calices quem non\nfecere disertum?  We poor innocents drink but too much without thirst.  Not\nI truly, who am a sinner, for I never drink without thirst, either present\nor future.  To prevent it, as you know, I drink for the thirst to come.  I\ndrink eternally.  This is to me an eternity of drinking, and drinking of\neternity.  Let us sing, let us drink, and tune up our roundelays.  Where is\nmy funnel?  What, it seems I do not drink but by an attorney?  Do you wet\nyourselves to dry, or do you dry to wet you?  Pish, I understand not the\nrhetoric (theoric, I should say), but I help myself somewhat by the\npractice.  Baste! enough!  I sup, I wet, I humect, I moisten my gullet, I\ndrink, and all for fear of dying.  Drink always and you shall never die.\nIf I drink not, I am a-ground, dry, gravelled and spent.  I am stark dead\nwithout drink, and my soul ready to fly into some marsh amongst frogs; the\nsoul never dwells in a dry place, drouth kills it.  O you butlers, creators\nof new forms, make me of no drinker a drinker, a perennity and\neverlastingness of sprinkling and bedewing me through these my parched and\nsinewy bowels.  He drinks in vain that feels not the pleasure of it.  This\nentereth into my veins,--the pissing tools and urinal vessels shall have\nnothing of it.  I would willingly wash the tripes of the calf which I\napparelled this morning.  I have pretty well now ballasted my stomach and\nstuffed my paunch.  If the papers of my bonds and bills could drink as well\nas I do, my creditors would not want for wine when they come to see me, or\nwhen they are to make any formal exhibition of their rights to what of me\nthey can demand.  This hand of yours spoils your nose.  O how many other\nsuch will enter here before this go out!  What, drink so shallow?  It is\nenough to break both girds and petrel.  This is called a cup of\ndissimulation, or flagonal hypocrisy.\n\nWhat difference is there between a bottle and a flagon.  Great difference;\nfor the bottle is stopped and shut up with a stopple, but the flagon with a\nvice (La bouteille est fermee a bouchon, et le flaccon a vis.).  Bravely\nand well played upon the words!  Our fathers drank lustily, and emptied\ntheir cans.  Well cacked, well sung!  Come, let us drink:  will you send\nnothing to the river?  Here is one going to wash the tripes.  I drink no\nmore than a sponge.  I drink like a Templar knight.  And I, tanquam\nsponsus.  And I, sicut terra sine aqua.  Give me a synonymon for a gammon\nof bacon.  It is the compulsory of drinkers:  it is a pulley.  By a\npulley-rope wine is let down into a cellar, and by a gammon into the\nstomach. Hey! now, boys, hither, some drink, some drink.  There is no\ntrouble in it. Respice personam, pone pro duos, bus non est in usu.  If I\ncould get up as well as I can swallow down, I had been long ere now very\nhigh in the air.\n\nThus became Tom Tosspot rich,--thus went in the tailor's stitch.  Thus did\nBacchus conquer th' Inde--thus Philosophy, Melinde.  A little rain allays a\ngreat deal of wind:  long tippling breaks the thunder.  But if there came\nsuch liquor from my ballock, would you not willingly thereafter suck the\nudder whence it issued?  Here, page, fill!  I prithee, forget me not when\nit comes to my turn, and I will enter the election I have made of thee into\nthe very register of my heart.  Sup, Guillot, and spare not, there is\nsomewhat in the pot.  I appeal from thirst, and disclaim its jurisdiction.\nPage, sue out my appeal in form.  This remnant in the bottom of the glass\nmust follow its leader.  I was wont heretofore to drink out all, but now I\nleave nothing.  Let us not make too much haste; it is requisite we carry\nall along with us.  Heyday, here are tripes fit for our sport, and, in\nearnest, excellent godebillios of the dun ox (you know) with the black\nstreak.  O, for God's sake, let us lash them soundly, yet thriftily.\nDrink, or I will,--No, no, drink, I beseech you (Ou je vous, je vous\nprie.).  Sparrows will not eat unless you bob them on the tail, nor can I\ndrink if I be not fairly spoke to.  The concavities of my body are like\nanother Hell for their capacity.  Lagonaedatera (lagon lateris cavitas:\naides orcus: and eteros alter.).  There is not a corner, nor coney-burrow in\nall my body, where this wine doth not ferret out my thirst.  Ho, this will\nbang it soundly.  But this shall banish it utterly.  Let us wind our horns\nby the sound of flagons and bottles, and cry aloud, that whoever hath lost\nhis thirst come not hither to seek it.  Long clysters of drinking are to be\nvoided without doors.  The great God made the planets, and we make the\nplatters neat.  I have the word of the gospel in my mouth, Sitio.  The\nstone called asbestos is not more unquenchable than the thirst of my\npaternity.  Appetite comes with eating, says Angeston, but the thirst goes\naway with drinking.  I have a remedy against thirst, quite contrary to that\nwhich is good against the biting of a mad dog.  Keep running after a dog,\nand he will never bite you; drink always before the thirst, and it will\nnever come upon you.  There I catch you, I awake you.  Argus had a hundred\neyes for his sight, a butler should have (like Briareus) a hundred hands\nwherewith to fill us wine indefatigably.  Hey now, lads, let us moisten\nourselves, it will be time to dry hereafter.  White wine here, wine, boys!\nPour out all in the name of Lucifer, fill here, you, fill and fill\n(peascods on you) till it be full.  My tongue peels.  Lans trinque; to\nthee, countryman, I drink to thee, good fellow, comrade to thee, lusty,\nlively!  Ha, la, la, that was drunk to some purpose, and bravely gulped\nover.  O lachryma Christi, it is of the best grape!  I'faith, pure Greek,\nGreek!  O the fine white wine! upon my conscience, it is a kind of taffetas\nwine,--hin, hin, it is of one ear, well wrought, and of good wool.\nCourage, comrade, up thy heart, billy!  We will not be beasted at this\nbout, for I have got one trick.  Ex hoc in hoc.  There is no enchantment\nnor charm there, every one of you hath seen it.  My 'prenticeship is out, I\nam a free man at this trade.  I am prester mast (Prestre mace, maistre\npasse.), Prish, Brum!  I should say, master past.  O the drinkers, those\nthat are a-dry, O poor thirsty souls!  Good page, my friend, fill me here\nsome, and crown the wine, I pray thee.  Like a cardinal!  Natura abhorret\nvacuum.  Would you say that a fly could drink in this?  This is after the\nfashion of Switzerland.  Clear off, neat, supernaculum!  Come, therefore,\nblades, to this divine liquor and celestial juice, swill it over heartily,\nand spare not!  It is a decoction of nectar and ambrosia.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua was born in a strange manner.\n\nWhilst they were on this discourse and pleasant tattle of drinking,\nGargamelle began to be a little unwell in her lower parts; whereupon\nGrangousier arose from off the grass, and fell to comfort her very honestly\nand kindly, suspecting that she was in travail, and told her that it was\nbest for her to sit down upon the grass under the willows, because she was\nlike very shortly to see young feet, and that therefore it was convenient\nshe should pluck up her spirits, and take a good heart of new at the fresh\narrival of her baby; saying to her withal, that although the pain was\nsomewhat grievous to her, it would be but of short continuance, and that\nthe succeeding joy would quickly remove that sorrow, in such sort that she\nshould not so much as remember it.  On, with a sheep's courage! quoth he.\nDespatch this boy, and we will speedily fall to work for the making of\nanother.  Ha! said she, so well as you speak at your own ease, you that are\nmen!  Well, then, in the name of God, I'll do my best, seeing that you will\nhave it so, but would to God that it were cut off from you!  What? said\nGrangousier.  Ha, said she, you are a good man indeed, you understand it\nwell enough.  What, my member? said he.  By the goat's blood, if it please\nyou, that shall be done instantly; cause bring hither a knife.  Alas, said\nshe, the Lord forbid, and pray Jesus to forgive me!  I did not say it from\nmy heart, therefore let it alone, and do not do it neither more nor less\nany kind of harm for my speaking so to you.  But I am like to have work\nenough to do to-day and all for your member, yet God bless you and it.\n\nCourage, courage, said he, take you no care of the matter, let the four\nforemost oxen do the work.  I will yet go drink one whiff more, and if in\nthe mean time anything befall you that may require my presence, I will be\nso near to you, that, at the first whistling in your fist, I shall be with\nyou forthwith.  A little while after she began to groan, lament and cry.\nThen suddenly came the midwives from all quarters, who groping her below,\nfound some peloderies, which was a certain filthy stuff, and of a taste\ntruly bad enough.  This they thought had been the child, but it was her\nfundament, that was slipped out with the mollification of her straight\nentrail, which you call the bum-gut, and that merely by eating of too many\ntripes, as we have showed you before.  Whereupon an old ugly trot in the\ncompany, who had the repute of an expert she-physician, and was come from\nBrisepaille, near to Saint Genou, three score years before, made her so\nhorrible a restrictive and binding medicine, and whereby all her larris,\narse-pipes, and conduits were so oppilated, stopped, obstructed, and\ncontracted, that you could hardly have opened and enlarged them with your\nteeth, which is a terrible thing to think upon; seeing the Devil at the\nmass at Saint Martin's was puzzled with the like task, when with his teeth\nhe had lengthened out the parchment whereon he wrote the tittle-tattle of\ntwo young mangy whores.  By this inconvenient the cotyledons of her matrix\nwere presently loosed, through which the child sprang up and leaped, and\nso, entering into the hollow vein, did climb by the diaphragm even above\nher shoulders, where the vein divides itself into two, and from thence\ntaking his way towards the left side, issued forth at her left ear.  As\nsoon as he was born, he cried not as other babes use to do, Miez, miez,\nmiez, miez, but with a high, sturdy, and big voice shouted about, Some\ndrink, some drink, some drink, as inviting all the world to drink with him.\nThe noise hereof was so extremely great, that it was heard in both the\ncountries at once of Beauce and Bibarois.  I doubt me, that you do not\nthoroughly believe the truth of this strange nativity.  Though you believe\nit not, I care not much:  but an honest man, and of good judgment,\nbelieveth still what is told him, and that which he finds written.\n\nIs this beyond our law or our faith--against reason or the holy Scripture?\nFor my part, I find nothing in the sacred Bible that is against it.  But\ntell me, if it had been the will of God, would you say that he could not do\nit?  Ha, for favour sake, I beseech you, never emberlucock or inpulregafize\nyour spirits with these vain thoughts and idle conceits; for I tell you, it\nis not impossible with God, and, if he pleased, all women henceforth should\nbring forth their children at the ear.  Was not Bacchus engendered out of\nthe very thigh of Jupiter?  Did not Roquetaillade come out at his mother's\nheel, and Crocmoush from the slipper of his nurse?  Was not Minerva born of\nthe brain, even through the ear of Jove?  Adonis, of the bark of a myrrh\ntree; and Castor and Pollux of the doupe of that egg which was laid and\nhatched by Leda?  But you would wonder more, and with far greater\namazement, if I should now present you with that chapter of Plinius,\nwherein he treateth of strange births, and contrary to nature, and yet am\nnot I so impudent a liar as he was.  Read the seventh book of his Natural\nHistory, chap.3, and trouble not my head any more about this.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAfter what manner Gargantua had his name given him, and how he tippled,\nbibbed, and curried the can.\n\nThe good man Grangousier, drinking and making merry with the rest, heard\nthe horrible noise which his son had made as he entered into the light of\nthis world, when he cried out, Some drink, some drink, some drink;\nwhereupon he said in French, Que grand tu as et souple le gousier! that is\nto say, How great and nimble a throat thou hast.  Which the company\nhearing, said that verily the child ought to be called Gargantua; because\nit was the first word that after his birth his father had spoke, in\nimitation, and at the example of the ancient Hebrews; whereunto he\ncondescended, and his mother was very well pleased therewith.  In the\nmeanwhile, to quiet the child, they gave him to drink a tirelaregot, that\nis, till his throat was like to crack with it; then was he carried to the\nfont, and there baptized, according to the manner of good Christians.\n\nImmediately thereafter were appointed for him seventeen thousand, nine\nhundred, and thirteen cows of the towns of Pautille and Brehemond, to\nfurnish him with milk in ordinary, for it was impossible to find a nurse\nsufficient for him in all the country, considering the great quantity of\nmilk that was requisite for his nourishment; although there were not\nwanting some doctors of the opinion of Scotus, who affirmed that his own\nmother gave him suck, and that she could draw out of her breasts one\nthousand, four hundred, two pipes, and nine pails of milk at every time.\n\nWhich indeed is not probable, and this point hath been found duggishly\nscandalous and offensive to tender ears, for that it savoured a little of\nheresy.  Thus was he handled for one year and ten months; after which time,\nby the advice of physicians, they began to carry him, and then was made for\nhim a fine little cart drawn with oxen, of the invention of Jan Denio,\nwherein they led him hither and thither with great joy; and he was worth\nthe seeing, for he was a fine boy, had a burly physiognomy, and almost ten\nchins.  He cried very little, but beshit himself every hour:  for, to speak\ntruly of him, he was wonderfully phlegmatic in his posteriors, both by\nreason of his natural complexion and the accidental disposition which had\nbefallen him by his too much quaffing of the Septembral juice.  Yet without\na cause did not he sup one drop; for if he happened to be vexed, angry,\ndispleased, or sorry, if he did fret, if he did weep, if he did cry, and\nwhat grievous quarter soever he kept, in bringing him some drink, he would\nbe instantly pacified, reseated in his own temper, in a good humour again,\nand as still and quiet as ever.  One of his governesses told me (swearing\nby her fig), how he was so accustomed to this kind of way, that, at the\nsound of pints and flagons, he would on a sudden fall into an ecstasy, as\nif he had then tasted of the joys of paradise; so that they, upon\nconsideration of this, his divine complexion, would every morning, to cheer\nhim up, play with a knife upon the glasses, on the bottles with their\nstopples, and on the pottle-pots with their lids and covers, at the sound\nwhereof he became gay, did leap for joy, would loll and rock himself in the\ncradle, then nod with his head, monochordizing with his fingers, and\nbarytonizing with his tail.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow they apparelled Gargantua.\n\nBeing of this age, his father ordained to have clothes made to him in his\nown livery, which was white and blue.  To work then went the tailors, and\nwith great expedition were those clothes made, cut, and sewed, according to\nthe fashion that was then in request.  I find by the ancient records or\npancarts, to be seen in the chamber of accounts, or court of the exchequer\nat Montsoreau, that he was accoutred in manner as followeth.  To make him\nevery shirt of his were taken up nine hundred ells of Chasteleraud linen,\nand two hundred for the gussets, in manner of cushions, which they put\nunder his armpits.  His shirt was not gathered nor plaited, for the\nplaiting of shirts was not found out till the seamstresses (when the point\nof their needle (Besongner du cul, Englished The eye of the needle.) was\nbroken) began to work and occupy with the tail.  There were taken up for\nhis doublet, eight hundred and thirteen ells of white satin, and for his\npoints fifteen hundred and nine dogs' skins and a half.  Then was it that\nmen began to tie their breeches to their doublets, and not their doublets\nto their breeches:  for it is against nature, as hath most amply been\nshowed by Ockham upon the exponibles of Master Haultechaussade.\n\nFor his breeches were taken up eleven hundred and five ells and a third of\nwhite broadcloth.  They were cut in the form of pillars, chamfered,\nchannelled and pinked behind that they might not over-heat his reins:  and\nwere, within the panes, puffed out with the lining of as much blue damask\nas was needful:  and remark, that he had very good leg-harness,\nproportionable to the rest of his stature.\n\nFor his codpiece were used sixteen ells and a quarter of the same cloth,\nand it was fashioned on the top like unto a triumphant arch, most gallantly\nfastened with two enamelled clasps, in each of which was set a great\nemerald, as big as an orange; for, as says Orpheus, lib. de lapidibus, and\nPlinius, libro ultimo, it hath an erective virtue and comfortative of the\nnatural member.  The exiture, outjecting or outstanding, of his codpiece\nwas of the length of a yard, jagged and pinked, and withal bagging, and\nstrutting out with the blue damask lining, after the manner of his\nbreeches.  But had you seen the fair embroidery of the small needlework\npurl, and the curiously interlaced knots, by the goldsmith's art set out\nand trimmed with rich diamonds, precious rubies, fine turquoises, costly\nemeralds, and Persian pearls, you would have compared it to a fair\ncornucopia, or horn of abundance, such as you see in antiques, or as Rhea\ngave to the two nymphs, Amalthea and Ida, the nurses of Jupiter.\n\nAnd, like to that horn of abundance, it was still gallant, succulent,\ndroppy, sappy, pithy, lively, always flourishing, always fructifying, full\nof juice, full of flower, full of fruit, and all manner of delight.  I avow\nGod, it would have done one good to have seen him, but I will tell you more\nof him in the book which I have made of the dignity of codpieces.  One\nthing I will tell you, that as it was both long and large, so was it well\nfurnished and victualled within, nothing like unto the hypocritical\ncodpieces of some fond wooers and wench-courtiers, which are stuffed only\nwith wind, to the great prejudice of the female sex.\n\nFor his shoes were taken up four hundred and six ells of blue\ncrimson-velvet, and were very neatly cut by parallel lines, joined in\nuniform cylinders.  For the soling of them were made use of eleven hundred\nhides of brown cows, shapen like the tail of a keeling.\n\nFor his coat were taken up eighteen hundred ells of blue velvet, dyed in\ngrain, embroidered in its borders with fair gilliflowers, in the middle\ndecked with silver purl, intermixed with plates of gold and store of\npearls, hereby showing that in his time he would prove an especial good\nfellow and singular whipcan.\n\nHis girdle was made of three hundred ells and a half of silken serge, half\nwhite and half blue, if I mistake it not.  His sword was not of Valentia,\nnor his dagger of Saragossa, for his father could not endure these hidalgos\nborrachos maranisados como diablos:  but he had a fair sword made of wood,\nand the dagger of boiled leather, as well painted and gilded as any man\ncould wish.\n\nHis purse was made of the cod of an elephant, which was given him by Herr\nPracontal, proconsul of Lybia.\n\nFor his gown were employed nine thousand six hundred ells, wanting\ntwo-thirds, of blue velvet, as before, all so diagonally purled, that by\ntrue perspective issued thence an unnamed colour, like that you see in the\nnecks of turtle-doves or turkey-cocks, which wonderfully rejoiced the eyes\nof the beholders.  For his bonnet or cap were taken up three hundred, two\nells and a quarter of white velvet, and the form thereof was wide and round,\nof the bigness of his head; for his father said that the caps of the\nMarrabaise fashion, made like the cover of a pasty, would one time or other\nbring a mischief on those that wore them.  For his plume, he wore a fair\ngreat blue feather, plucked from an onocrotal of the country of Hircania the\nwild, very prettily hanging down over his right ear.  For the jewel or\nbrooch which in his cap he carried, he had in a cake of gold, weighing three\nscore and eight marks, a fair piece enamelled, wherein was portrayed a man's\nbody with two heads, looking towards one another, four arms, four feet, two\narses, such as Plato, in Symposio, says was the mystical beginning of man's\nnature; and about it was written in Ionic letters, Agame ou zetei ta eautes,\nor rather, Aner kai gune zugada anthrotos idiaitata, that is, Vir et mulier\njunctim propriissime homo.  To wear about his neck, he had a golden chain,\nweighing twenty-five thousand and sixty-three marks of gold, the links\nthereof being made after the manner of great berries, amongst which were set\nin work green jaspers engraven and cut dragon-like, all environed with beams\nand sparks, as king Nicepsos of old was wont to wear them:  and it reached\ndown to the very bust of the rising of his belly, whereby he reaped great\nbenefit all his life long, as the Greek physicians know well enough.  For\nhis gloves were put in work sixteen otters' skins, and three of the\nloupgarous, or men-eating wolves, for the bordering of them:  and of this\nstuff were they made, by the appointment of the Cabalists of Sanlouand.  As\nfor the rings which his father would have him to wear, to renew the ancient\nmark of nobility, he had on the forefinger of his left hand a carbuncle as\nbig as an ostrich's egg, enchased very daintily in gold of the fineness of a\nTurkey seraph.  Upon the middle finger of the same hand he had a ring made\nof four metals together, of the strangest fashion that ever was seen; so\nthat the steel did not crash against the gold, nor the silver crush the\ncopper.  All this was made by Captain Chappuys, and Alcofribas his good\nagent.  On the medical finger of his right hand he had a ring made\nspire-wise, wherein was set a perfect Balas ruby, a pointed diamond, and\na Physon emerald, of an inestimable value.  For Hans Carvel, the king of\nMelinda's jeweller, esteemed them at the rate of threescore nine millions,\neight hundred ninety-four thousand, and eighteen French crowns of Berry, and\nat so much did the Foucres of Augsburg prize them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe colours and liveries of Gargantua.\n\nGargantua's colours were white and blue, as I have showed you before, by\nwhich his father would give us to understand that his son to him was a\nheavenly joy; for the white did signify gladness, pleasure, delight, and\nrejoicing, and the blue, celestial things.  I know well enough that, in\nreading this, you laugh at the old drinker, and hold this exposition of\ncolours to be very extravagant, and utterly disagreeable to reason, because\nwhite is said to signify faith, and blue constancy.  But without moving,\nvexing, heating, or putting you in a chafe (for the weather is dangerous),\nanswer me, if it please you; for no other compulsory way of arguing will I\nuse towards you, or any else; only now and then I will mention a word or\ntwo of my bottle.  What is it that induceth you, what stirs you up to\nbelieve, or who told you that white signifieth faith, and blue constancy?\nAn old paltry book, say you, sold by the hawking pedlars and balladmongers,\nentitled The Blason of Colours.  Who made it?  Whoever it was, he was wise\nin that he did not set his name to it.  But, besides, I know not what I\nshould rather admire in him, his presumption or his sottishness.  His\npresumption and overweening, for that he should without reason, without\ncause, or without any appearance of truth, have dared to prescribe, by his\nprivate authority, what things should be denotated and signified by the\ncolour:  which is the custom of tyrants, who will have their will to bear\nsway in stead of equity, and not of the wise and learned, who with the\nevidence of reason satisfy their readers.  His sottishness and want of\nspirit, in that he thought that, without any other demonstration or\nsufficient argument, the world would be pleased to make his blockish and\nridiculous impositions the rule of their devices.  In effect, according to\nthe proverb, To a shitten tail fails never ordure, he hath found, it seems,\nsome simple ninny in those rude times of old, when the wearing of high\nround bonnets was in fashion, who gave some trust to his writings,\naccording to which they carved and engraved their apophthegms and mottoes,\ntrapped and caparisoned their mules and sumpter-horses, apparelled their\npages, quartered their breeches, bordered their gloves, fringed the\ncurtains and valances of their beds, painted their ensigns, composed songs,\nand, which is worse, placed many deceitful jugglings and unworthy base\ntricks undiscoveredly amongst the very chastest matrons and most reverend\nsciences.  In the like darkness and mist of ignorance are wrapped up these\nvain-glorious courtiers and name-transposers, who, going about in their\nimpresas to signify esperance (that is, hope), have portrayed a sphere--and\nbirds' pennes for pains--l'ancholie (which is the flower colombine) for\nmelancholy--a waning moon or crescent, to show the increasing or rising of\none's fortune--a bench rotten and broken, to signify bankrupt--non and a\ncorslet for non dur habit (otherwise non durabit, it shall not last), un\nlit sans ciel, that is, a bed without a tester, for un licencie, a\ngraduated person, as bachelor in divinity or utter barrister-at-law; which\nare equivocals so absurd and witless, so barbarous and clownish, that a\nfox's tail should be fastened to the neck-piece of, and a vizard made of a\ncowsherd given to everyone that henceforth should offer, after the\nrestitution of learning, to make use of any such fopperies in France.\n\nBy the same reasons (if reasons I should call them, and not ravings rather,\nand idle triflings about words), might I cause paint a pannier, to signify\nthat I am in pain--a mustard-pot, that my heart tarries much for't--one\npissing upwards for a bishop--the bottom of a pair of breeches for a vessel\nfull of fart-hings--a codpiece for the office of the clerks of the\nsentences, decrees, or judgments, or rather, as the English bears it, for\nthe tail of a codfish--and a dog's turd for the dainty turret wherein lies\nthe love of my sweetheart.  Far otherwise did heretofore the sages of\nEgypt, when they wrote by letters, which they called hieroglyphics, which\nnone understood who were not skilled in the virtue, property, and nature of\nthe things represented by them.  Of which Orus Apollon hath in Greek\ncomposed two books, and Polyphilus, in his Dream of Love, set down more.\nIn France you have a taste of them in the device or impresa of my Lord\nAdmiral, which was carried before that time by Octavian Augustus.  But my\nlittle skiff alongst these unpleasant gulfs and shoals will sail no\nfurther, therefore must I return to the port from whence I came.  Yet do I\nhope one day to write more at large of these things, and to show both by\nphilosophical arguments and authorities, received and approved of by and\nfrom all antiquity, what, and how many colours there are in nature, and\nwhat may be signified by every one of them, if God save the mould of my\ncap, which is my best wine-pot, as my grandam said.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf that which is signified by the colours white and blue.\n\nThe white therefore signifieth joy, solace, and gladness, and that not at\nrandom, but upon just and very good grounds:  which you may perceive to be\ntrue, if laying aside all prejudicate affections, you will but give ear to\nwhat presently I shall expound unto you.\n\nAristotle saith that, supposing two things contrary in their kind, as good\nand evil, virtue and vice, heat and cold, white and black, pleasure and\npain, joy and grief,--and so of others,--if you couple them in such manner\nthat the contrary of one kind may agree in reason with the contrary of the\nother, it must follow by consequence that the other contrary must answer to\nthe remanent opposite to that wherewith it is conferred.  As, for example,\nvirtue and vice are contrary in one kind, so are good and evil.  If one of\nthe contraries of the first kind be consonant to one of those of the\nsecond, as virtue and goodness, for it is clear that virtue is good, so\nshall the other two contraries, which are evil and vice, have the same\nconnection, for vice is evil.\n\nThis logical rule being understood, take these two contraries, joy and\nsadness; then these other two, white and black, for they are physically\ncontrary.  If so be, then, that black do signify grief, by good reason then\nshould white import joy.  Nor is this signification instituted by human\nimposition, but by the universal consent of the world received, which\nphilosophers call Jus Gentium, the Law of Nations, or an uncontrollable\nright of force in all countries whatsoever.  For you know well enough that\nall people, and all languages and nations, except the ancient Syracusans\nand certain Argives, who had cross and thwarting souls, when they mean\noutwardly to give evidence of their sorrow, go in black; and all mourning\nis done with black.  Which general consent is not without some argument and\nreason in nature, the which every man may by himself very suddenly\ncomprehend, without the instruction of any--and this we call the law of\nnature.  By virtue of the same natural instinct we know that by white all\nthe world hath understood joy, gladness, mirth, pleasure, and delight.  In\nformer times the Thracians and Cretans did mark their good, propitious, and\nfortunate days with white stones, and their sad, dismal, and unfortunate\nones with black.  Is not the night mournful, sad, and melancholic?  It is\nblack and dark by the privation of light.  Doth not the light comfort all\nthe world?  And it is more white than anything else.  Which to prove, I\ncould direct you to the book of Laurentius Valla against Bartolus; but an\nevangelical testimony I hope will content you.  Matth. 17 it is said that,\nat the transfiguration of our Lord, Vestimenta ejus facta sunt alba sicut\nlux, his apparel was made white like the light.  By which lightsome\nwhiteness he gave his three apostles to understand the idea and figure of\nthe eternal joys; for by the light are all men comforted, according to the\nword of the old woman, who, although she had never a tooth in her head, was\nwont to say, Bona lux.  And Tobit, chap.5, after he had lost his sight,\nwhen Raphael saluted him, answered, What joy can I have, that do not see\nthe light of Heaven?  In that colour did the angels testify the joy of the\nwhole world at the resurrection of our Saviour, John 20, and at his\nascension, Acts 1.  With the like colour of vesture did St. John the\nEvangelist, Apoc. 4.7, see the faithful clothed in the heavenly and blessed\nJerusalem.\n\nRead the ancient, both Greek and Latin histories, and you shall find that\nthe town of Alba (the first pattern of Rome) was founded and so named by\nreason of a white sow that was seen there.  You shall likewise find in\nthose stories, that when any man, after he had vanquished his enemies, was\nby decree of the senate to enter into Rome triumphantly, he usually rode in\na chariot drawn by white horses:  which in the ovation triumph was also the\ncustom; for by no sign or colour would they so significantly express the\njoy of their coming as by the white.  You shall there also find, how\nPericles, the general of the Athenians, would needs have that part of his\narmy unto whose lot befell the white beans, to spend the whole day in\nmirth, pleasure, and ease, whilst the rest were a-fighting.  A thousand\nother examples and places could I allege to this purpose, but that it is\nnot here where I should do it.\n\nBy understanding hereof, you may resolve one problem, which Alexander\nAphrodiseus hath accounted unanswerable:  why the lion, who with his only\ncry and roaring affrights all beasts, dreads and feareth only a white cock?\nFor, as Proclus saith, Libro de Sacrificio et Magia, it is because the\npresence of the virtue of the sun, which is the organ and promptuary of all\nterrestrial and sidereal light, doth more symbolize and agree with a white\ncock, as well in regard of that colour, as of his property and specifical\nquality, than with a lion.  He saith, furthermore, that devils have been\noften seen in the shape of lions, which at the sight of a white cock have\npresently vanished.  This is the cause why Galli or Gallices (so are the\nFrenchmen called, because they are naturally white as milk, which the\nGreeks call Gala,) do willingly wear in their caps white feathers, for by\nnature they are of a candid disposition, merry, kind, gracious, and\nwell-beloved, and for their cognizance and arms have the whitest flower\nof any, the Flower de luce or Lily.\n\nIf you demand how, by white, nature would have us understand joy and\ngladness, I answer, that the analogy and uniformity is thus.  For, as the\nwhite doth outwardly disperse and scatter the rays of the sight, whereby\nthe optic spirits are manifestly dissolved, according to the opinion of\nAristotle in his problems and perspective treatises; as you may likewise\nperceive by experience, when you pass over mountains covered with snow, how\nyou will complain that you cannot see well; as Xenophon writes to have\nhappened to his men, and as Galen very largely declareth, lib. 10, de usu\npartium:  just so the heart with excessive joy is inwardly dilated, and\nsuffereth a manifest resolution of the vital spirits, which may go so far\non that it may thereby be deprived of its nourishment, and by consequence\nof life itself, by this perichary or extremity of gladness, as Galen saith,\nlib. 12, method, lib. 5, de locis affectis, and lib. 2, de symptomatum\ncausis.  And as it hath come to pass in former times, witness Marcus\nTullius, lib. 1, Quaest. Tuscul., Verrius, Aristotle, Titus Livius, in his\nrelation of the battle of Cannae, Plinius, lib. 7, cap. 32 and 34, A.\nGellius, lib. 3, c. 15, and many other writers,--to Diagoras the Rhodian,\nChilon, Sophocles, Dionysius the tyrant of Sicily, Philippides, Philemon,\nPolycrates, Philistion, M. Juventi, and others who died with joy.  And as\nAvicen speaketh, in 2 canon et lib. de virib. cordis, of the saffron, that\nit doth so rejoice the heart that, if you take of it excessively, it will\nby a superfluous resolution and dilation deprive it altogether of life.\nHere peruse Alex. Aphrodiseus, lib. 1, Probl., cap. 19, and that for a\ncause.  But what?  It seems I am entered further into this point than I\nintended at the first.  Here, therefore, will I strike sail, referring the\nrest to that book of mine which handleth this matter to the full.\nMeanwhile, in a word I will tell you, that blue doth certainly signify\nheaven and heavenly things, by the same very tokens and symbols that white\nsignifieth joy and pleasure.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the youthful age of Gargantua.\n\nGargantua, from three years upwards unto five, was brought up and\ninstructed in all convenient discipline by the commandment of his father;\nand spent that time like the other little children of the country, that is,\nin drinking, eating, and sleeping:  in eating, sleeping, and drinking:  and\nin sleeping, drinking, and eating.  Still he wallowed and rolled up and\ndown himself in the mire and dirt--he blurred and sullied his nose with\nfilth--he blotted and smutched his face with any kind of scurvy stuff--he\ntrod down his shoes in the heel--at the flies he did oftentimes yawn, and\nran very heartily after the butterflies, the empire whereof belonged to his\nfather.  He pissed in his shoes, shit in his shirt, and wiped his nose on\nhis sleeve--he did let his snot and snivel fall in his pottage, and\ndabbled, paddled, and slobbered everywhere--he would drink in his slipper,\nand ordinarily rub his belly against a pannier.  He sharpened his teeth\nwith a top, washed his hands with his broth, and combed his head with a\nbowl.  He would sit down betwixt two stools, and his arse to the ground\n--would cover himself with a wet sack, and drink in eating of his soup.  He\ndid eat his cake sometimes without bread, would bite in laughing, and laugh\nin biting.  Oftentimes did he spit in the basin, and fart for fatness, piss\nagainst the sun, and hide himself in the water for fear of rain.  He would\nstrike out of the cold iron, be often in the dumps, and frig and wriggle\nit.  He would flay the fox, say the ape's paternoster, return to his sheep,\nand turn the hogs to the hay.  He would beat the dogs before the lion, put\nthe plough before the oxen, and claw where it did not itch.  He would pump\none to draw somewhat out of him, by griping all would hold fast nothing,\nand always eat his white bread first.  He shoed the geese, kept a\nself-tickling to make himself laugh, and was very steadable in the kitchen:\nmade a mock at the gods, would cause sing Magnificat at matins, and found\nit very convenient so to do.  He would eat cabbage, and shite beets,--knew\nflies in a dish of milk, and would make them lose their feet.  He would\nscrape paper, blur parchment, then run away as hard as he could.  He would\npull at the kid's leather, or vomit up his dinner, then reckon without his\nhost.  He would beat the bushes without catching the birds, thought the\nmoon was made of green cheese, and that bladders are lanterns.  Out of one\nsack he would take two moultures or fees for grinding; would act the ass's\npart to get some bran, and of his fist would make a mallet.  He took the\ncranes at the first leap, and would have the mail-coats to be made link\nafter link.  He always looked a given horse in the mouth, leaped from the\ncock to the ass, and put one ripe between two green.  By robbing Peter he\npaid Paul, he kept the moon from the wolves, and hoped to catch larks if\never the heavens should fall.  He did make of necessity virtue, of such\nbread such pottage, and cared as little for the peeled as for the shaven.\nEvery morning he did cast up his gorge, and his father's little dogs eat\nout of the dish with him, and he with them.  He would bite their ears, and\nthey would scratch his nose--he would blow in their arses, and they would\nlick his chaps.\n\nBut hearken, good fellows, the spigot ill betake you, and whirl round your\nbrains, if you do not give ear!  This little lecher was always groping his\nnurses and governesses, upside down, arsiversy, topsyturvy, harri\nbourriquet, with a Yacco haick, hyck gio! handling them very rudely in\njumbling and tumbling them to keep them going; for he had already begun to\nexercise the tools, and put his codpiece in practice.  Which codpiece, or\nbraguette, his governesses did every day deck up and adorn with fair\nnosegays, curious rubies, sweet flowers, and fine silken tufts, and very\npleasantly would pass their time in taking you know what between their\nfingers, and dandling it, till it did revive and creep up to the bulk and\nstiffness of a suppository, or street magdaleon, which is a hard rolled-up\nsalve spread upon leather.  Then did they burst out in laughing, when they\nsaw it lift up its ears, as if the sport had liked them.  One of them would\ncall it her little dille, her staff of love, her quillety, her faucetin,\nher dandilolly.  Another, her peen, her jolly kyle, her bableret, her\nmembretoon, her quickset imp:  another again, her branch of coral, her\nfemale adamant, her placket-racket, her Cyprian sceptre, her jewel for\nladies.  And some of the other women would give it these names,--my\nbunguetee, my stopple too, my bush-rusher, my gallant wimble, my pretty\nborer, my coney-burrow-ferret, my little piercer, my augretine, my dangling\nhangers, down right to it, stiff and stout, in and to, my pusher, dresser,\npouting stick, my honey pipe, my pretty pillicock, linky pinky, futilletie,\nmy lusty andouille, and crimson chitterling, my little couille bredouille,\nmy pretty rogue, and so forth.  It belongs to me, said one.  It is mine,\nsaid the other.  What, quoth a third, shall I have no share in it?  By my\nfaith, I will cut it then.  Ha, to cut it, said the other, would hurt him.\nMadam, do you cut little children's things?  Were his cut off, he would be\nthen Monsieur sans queue, the curtailed master.  And that he might play and\nsport himself after the manner of the other little children of the country,\nthey made him a fair weather whirl-jack of the wings of the windmill of\nMyrebalais.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf Gargantua's wooden horses.\n\nAfterwards, that he might be all his lifetime a good rider, they made to\nhim a fair great horse of wood, which he did make leap, curvet, jerk out\nbehind, and skip forward, all at a time:  to pace, trot, rack, gallop,\namble, to play the hobby, the hackney-gelding:  go the gait of the camel,\nand of the wild ass.  He made him also change his colour of hair, as the\nmonks of Coultibo (according to the variety of their holidays) use to do\ntheir clothes, from bay brown, to sorrel, dapple-grey, mouse-dun,\ndeer-colour, roan, cow-colour, gingioline, skewed colour, piebald, and the\ncolour of the savage elk.\n\nHimself of a huge big post made a hunting nag, and another for daily\nservice of the beam of a vinepress:  and of a great oak made up a mule,\nwith a footcloth, for his chamber.  Besides this, he had ten or twelve\nspare horses, and seven horses for post; and all these were lodged in his\nown chamber, close by his bedside.  One day the Lord of Breadinbag\n(Painensac.) came to visit his father in great bravery, and with a gallant\ntrain:  and, at the same time, to see him came likewise the Duke of\nFreemeal (Francrepas.) and the Earl of Wetgullet (Mouillevent.).  The house\ntruly for so many guests at once was somewhat narrow, but especially the\nstables; whereupon the steward and harbinger of the said Lord Breadinbag,\nto know if there were any other empty stable in the house, came to\nGargantua, a little young lad, and secretly asked him where the stables of\nthe great horses were, thinking that children would be ready to tell all.\nThen he led them up along the stairs of the castle, passing by the second\nhall unto a broad great gallery, by which they entered into a large tower,\nand as they were going up at another pair of stairs, said the harbinger to\nthe steward, This child deceives us, for the stables are never on the top\nof the house.  You may be mistaken, said the steward, for I know some\nplaces at Lyons, at the Basmette, at Chaisnon, and elsewhere, which have\ntheir stables at the very tops of the houses:  so it may be that behind the\nhouse there is a way to come to this ascent.  But I will question with him\nfurther.  Then said he to Gargantua, My pretty little boy, whither do you\nlead us?  To the stable, said he, of my great horses.  We are almost come\nto it; we have but these stairs to go up at.  Then leading them alongst\nanother great hall, he brought them into his chamber, and, opening the\ndoor, said unto them, This is the stable you ask for; this is my jennet;\nthis is my gelding; this is my courser, and this is my hackney, and laid on\nthem with a great lever.  I will bestow upon you, said he, this Friesland\nhorse; I had him from Frankfort, yet will I give him you; for he is a\npretty little nag, and will go very well, with a tessel of goshawks, half a\ndozen of spaniels, and a brace of greyhounds:  thus are you king of the\nhares and partridges for all this winter.  By St. John, said they, now we\nare paid, he hath gleeked us to some purpose, bobbed we are now for ever.\nI deny it, said he,--he was not here above three days.  Judge you now,\nwhether they had most cause, either to hide their heads for shame, or to\nlaugh at the jest.  As they were going down again thus amazed, he asked\nthem, Will you have a whimwham (Aubeliere.)?  What is that, said they?  It\nis, said he, five turds to make you a muzzle.  To-day, said the steward,\nthough we happen to be roasted, we shall not be burnt, for we are pretty\nwell quipped and larded, in my opinion.  O my jolly dapper boy, thou hast\ngiven us a gudgeon; I hope to see thee Pope before I die.  I think so, said\nhe, myself; and then shall you be a puppy, and this gentle popinjay a\nperfect papelard, that is, dissembler.  Well, well, said the harbinger.\nBut, said Gargantua, guess how many stitches there are in my mother's\nsmock.  Sixteen, quoth the harbinger.  You do not speak gospel, said\nGargantua, for there is cent before, and cent behind, and you did not\nreckon them ill, considering the two under holes.  When? said the\nharbinger.  Even then, said Gargantua, when they made a shovel of your nose\nto take up a quarter of dirt, and of your throat a funnel, wherewith to put\nit into another vessel, because the bottom of the old one was out.\nCocksbod, said the steward, we have met with a prater.  Farewell, master\ntattler, God keep you, so goodly are the words which you come out with, and\nso fresh in your mouth, that it had need to be salted.\n\nThus going down in great haste, under the arch of the stairs they let fall\nthe great lever, which he had put upon their backs; whereupon Gargantua\nsaid, What a devil! you are, it seems, but bad horsemen, that suffer your\nbilder to fail you when you need him most.  If you were to go from hence to\nCahusac, whether had you rather, ride on a gosling or lead a sow in a\nleash?  I had rather drink, said the harbinger.  With this they entered\ninto the lower hall, where the company was, and relating to them this new\nstory, they made them laugh like a swarm of flies.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua's wonderful understanding became known to his father\nGrangousier, by the invention of a torchecul or wipebreech.\n\nAbout the end of the fifth year, Grangousier returning from the conquest of\nthe Canarians, went by the way to see his son Gargantua.  There was he\nfilled with joy, as such a father might be at the sight of such a child of\nhis:  and whilst he kissed and embraced him, he asked many childish\nquestions of him about divers matters, and drank very freely with him and\nwith his governesses, of whom in great earnest he asked, amongst other\nthings, whether they had been careful to keep him clean and sweet.  To this\nGargantua answered, that he had taken such a course for that himself, that\nin all the country there was not to be found a cleanlier boy than he.  How\nis that? said Grangousier.  I have, answered Gargantua, by a long and\ncurious experience, found out a means to wipe my bum, the most lordly, the\nmost excellent, and the most convenient that ever was seen.  What is that?\nsaid Grangousier, how is it?  I will tell you by-and-by, said Gargantua.\nOnce I did wipe me with a gentle-woman's velvet mask, and found it to be\ngood; for the softness of the silk was very voluptuous and pleasant to my\nfundament.  Another time with one of their hoods, and in like manner that\nwas comfortable.  At another time with a lady's neckerchief, and after that\nI wiped me with some ear-pieces of hers made of crimson satin, but there\nwas such a number of golden spangles in them (turdy round things, a pox\ntake them) that they fetched away all the skin of my tail with a vengeance.\nNow I wish St. Antony's fire burn the bum-gut of the goldsmith that made\nthem, and of her that wore them!  This hurt I cured by wiping myself with a\npage's cap, garnished with a feather after the Switzers' fashion.\n\nAfterwards, in dunging behind a bush, I found a March-cat, and with it I\nwiped my breech, but her claws were so sharp that they scratched and\nexulcerated all my perinee.  Of this I recovered the next morning\nthereafter, by wiping myself with my mother's gloves, of a most excellent\nperfume and scent of the Arabian Benin.  After that I wiped me with sage,\nwith fennel, with anet, with marjoram, with roses, with gourd-leaves, with\nbeets, with colewort, with leaves of the vine-tree, with mallows,\nwool-blade, which is a tail-scarlet, with lettuce, and with spinach leaves.\nAll this did very great good to my leg.  Then with mercury, with parsley,\nwith nettles, with comfrey, but that gave me the bloody flux of Lombardy,\nwhich I healed by wiping me with my braguette.  Then I wiped my tail in the\nsheets, in the coverlet, in the curtains, with a cushion, with arras\nhangings, with a green carpet, with a table-cloth, with a napkin, with a\nhandkerchief, with a combing-cloth; in all which I found more pleasure than\ndo the mangy dogs when you rub them.  Yea, but, said Grangousier, which\ntorchecul did you find to be the best?  I was coming to it, said Gargantua,\nand by-and-by shall you hear the tu autem, and know the whole mystery and\nknot of the matter.  I wiped myself with hay, with straw, with\nthatch-rushes, with flax, with wool, with paper, but,\n\n  Who his foul tail with paper wipes,\n  Shall at his ballocks leave some chips.\n\nWhat, said Grangousier, my little rogue, hast thou been at the pot, that\nthou dost rhyme already?  Yes, yes, my lord the king, answered Gargantua, I\ncan rhyme gallantly, and rhyme till I become hoarse with rheum.  Hark, what\nour privy says to the skiters:\n\n\nShittard,\nSquirtard,\nCrackard,\n   Turdous,\nThy bung\nHath flung\nSome dung\n   On us:\nFilthard,\nCackard,\nStinkard,\n   St. Antony's fire seize on thy toane (bone?),\nIf thy\nDirty\nDounby\n   Thou do not wipe, ere thou be gone.\n\nWill you have any more of it?  Yes, yes, answered Grangousier.  Then, said\nGargantua,\n\nA Roundelay.\n\nIn shitting yes'day I did know\nThe sess I to my arse did owe:\nThe smell was such came from that slunk,\nThat I was with it all bestunk:\nO had but then some brave Signor\nBrought her to me I waited for,\n   In shitting!\n\nI would have cleft her watergap,\nAnd join'd it close to my flipflap,\nWhilst she had with her fingers guarded\nMy foul nockandrow, all bemerded\n   In shitting.\n\nNow say that I can do nothing!  By the Merdi, they are not of my making,\nbut I heard them of this good old grandam, that you see here, and ever\nsince have retained them in the budget of my memory.\n\nLet us return to our purpose, said Grangousier.  What, said Gargantua, to\nskite?  No, said Grangousier, but to wipe our tail.  But, said Gargantua,\nwill not you be content to pay a puncheon of Breton wine, if I do not blank\nand gravel you in this matter, and put you to a non-plus?  Yes, truly, said\nGrangousier.\n\nThere is no need of wiping one's tail, said Gargantua, but when it is foul;\nfoul it cannot be, unless one have been a-skiting; skite then we must\nbefore we wipe our tails.  O my pretty little waggish boy, said\nGrangousier, what an excellent wit thou hast?  I will make thee very\nshortly proceed doctor in the jovial quirks of gay learning, and that, by\nG--, for thou hast more wit than age.  Now, I prithee, go on in this\ntorcheculative, or wipe-bummatory discourse, and by my beard I swear, for\none puncheon, thou shalt have threescore pipes, I mean of the good Breton\nwine, not that which grows in Britain, but in the good country of Verron.\nAfterwards I wiped my bum, said Gargantua, with a kerchief, with a pillow,\nwith a pantoufle, with a pouch, with a pannier, but that was a wicked and\nunpleasant torchecul; then with a hat.  Of hats, note that some are shorn,\nand others shaggy, some velveted, others covered with taffeties, and others\nwith satin.  The best of all these is the shaggy hat, for it makes a very\nneat abstersion of the fecal matter.\n\nAfterwards I wiped my tail with a hen, with a cock, with a pullet, with a\ncalf's skin, with a hare, with a pigeon, with a cormorant, with an\nattorney's bag, with a montero, with a coif, with a falconer's lure.  But,\nto conclude, I say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps,\nbumfodders, tail-napkins, bunghole cleansers, and wipe-breeches, there is\nnone in the world comparable to the neck of a goose, that is well downed,\nif you hold her head betwixt your legs.  And believe me therein upon mine\nhonour, for you will thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful\npleasure, both in regard of the softness of the said down and of the\ntemporate heat of the goose, which is easily communicated to the bum-gut\nand the rest of the inwards, in so far as to come even to the regions of\nthe heart and brains.  And think not that the felicity of the heroes and\ndemigods in the Elysian fields consisteth either in their asphodel,\nambrosia, or nectar, as our old women here used to say; but in this,\naccording to my judgment, that they wipe their tails with the neck of a\ngoose, holding her head betwixt their legs, and such is the opinion of\nMaster John of Scotland, alias Scotus.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua was taught Latin by a Sophister.\n\nThe good man Grangousier having heard this discourse, was ravished with\nadmiration, considering the high reach and marvellous understanding of his\nson Gargantua, and said to his governesses, Philip, king of Macedon, knew\nthe great wit of his son Alexander by his skilful managing of a horse; for\nhis horse Bucephalus was so fierce and unruly that none durst adventure\nto ride him, after that he had given to his riders such devilish falls,\nbreaking the neck of this man, the other man's leg, braining one, and\nputting another out of his jawbone.  This by Alexander being considered,\none day in the hippodrome (which was a place appointed for the breaking and\nmanaging of great horses), he perceived that the fury of the horse\nproceeded merely from the fear he had of his own shadow, whereupon getting\non his back, he run him against the sun, so that the shadow fell behind,\nand by that means tamed the horse and brought him to his hand.  Whereby his\nfather, knowing the divine judgment that was in him, caused him most\ncarefully to be instructed by Aristotle, who at that time was highly\nrenowned above all the philosophers of Greece.  After the same manner I\ntell you, that by this only discourse, which now I have here had before you\nwith my son Gargantua, I know that his understanding doth participate of\nsome divinity, and that, if he be well taught, and have that education\nwhich is fitting, he will attain to a supreme degree of wisdom.  Therefore\nwill I commit him to some learned man, to have him indoctrinated according\nto his capacity, and will spare no cost.  Presently they appointed him a\ngreat sophister-doctor, called Master Tubal Holofernes, who taught him his\nABC so well, that he could say it by heart backwards; and about this he was\nfive years and three months.  Then read he to him Donat, Le Facet,\nTheodolet, and Alanus in parabolis.  About this he was thirteen years, six\nmonths, and two weeks.  But you must remark that in the mean time he did\nlearn to write in Gothic characters, and that he wrote all his books--for\nthe art of printing was not then in use--and did ordinarily carry a great\npen and inkhorn, weighing about seven thousand quintals (that is, 700,000\npound weight), the penner whereof was as big and as long as the great\npillars of Enay, and the horn was hanging to it in great iron chains, it\nbeing of the wideness of a tun of merchant ware.  After that he read unto\nhim the book de modis significandi, with the commentaries of Hurtbise, of\nFasquin, of Tropdieux, of Gualhaut, of John Calf, of Billonio, of\nBerlinguandus, and a rabble of others; and herein he spent more than\neighteen years and eleven months, and was so well versed in it that, to try\nmasteries in school disputes with his condisciples, he would recite it by\nheart backwards, and did sometimes prove on his finger-ends to his mother,\nquod de modis significandi non erat scientia.  Then did he read to him the\ncompost for knowing the age of the moon, the seasons of the year, and tides\nof the sea, on which he spent sixteen years and two months, and that justly\nat the time that his said preceptor died of the French pox, which was in\nthe year one thousand four hundred and twenty.  Afterwards he got an old\ncoughing fellow to teach him, named Master Jobelin Bride, or muzzled dolt,\nwho read unto him Hugutio, Hebrard('s) Grecism, the Doctrinal, the Parts,\nthe Quid est, the Supplementum, Marmotretus, De moribus in mensa servandis,\nSeneca de quatuor virtutibus cardinalibus, Passavantus cum commento, and\nDormi secure for the holidays, and some other of such like mealy stuff, by\nreading whereof he became as wise as any we ever since baked in an oven.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua was put under other schoolmasters.\n\nAt the last his father perceived that indeed he studied hard, and that,\nalthough he spent all his time in it, he did nevertheless profit nothing,\nbut which is worse, grew thereby foolish, simple, doted, and blockish,\nwhereof making a heavy regret to Don Philip of Marays, Viceroy or Depute\nKing of Papeligosse, he found that it were better for him to learn nothing\nat all, than to be taught such-like books, under such schoolmasters;\nbecause their knowledge was nothing but brutishness, and their wisdom but\nblunt foppish toys, serving only to bastardize good and noble spirits, and\nto corrupt all the flower of youth.  That it is so, take, said he, any\nyoung boy of this time who hath only studied two years,--if he have not a\nbetter judgment, a better discourse, and that expressed in better terms\nthan your son, with a completer carriage and civility to all manner of\npersons, account me for ever hereafter a very clounch and bacon-slicer of\nBrene.  This pleased Grangousier very well, and he commanded that it should\nbe done.  At night at supper, the said Des Marays brought in a young page\nof his, of Ville-gouges, called Eudemon, so neat, so trim, so handsome in\nhis apparel, so spruce, with his hair in so good order, and so sweet and\ncomely in his behaviour, that he had the resemblance of a little angel more\nthan of a human creature.  Then he said to Grangousier, Do you see this\nyoung boy?  He is not as yet full twelve years old.  Let us try, if it\nplease you, what difference there is betwixt the knowledge of the doting\nMateologians of old time and the young lads that are now.  The trial\npleased Grangousier, and he commanded the page to begin.  Then Eudemon,\nasking leave of the vice-king his master so to do, with his cap in his\nhand, a clear and open countenance, beautiful and ruddy lips, his eyes\nsteady, and his looks fixed upon Gargantua with a youthful modesty,\nstanding up straight on his feet, began very gracefully to commend him;\nfirst, for his virtue and good manners; secondly, for his knowledge,\nthirdly, for his nobility; fourthly, for his bodily accomplishments; and,\nin the fifth place, most sweetly exhorted him to reverence his father with\nall due observancy, who was so careful to have him well brought up.  In the\nend he prayed him, that he would vouchsafe to admit of him amongst the\nleast of his servants; for other favour at that time desired he none of\nheaven, but that he might do him some grateful and acceptable service.  All\nthis was by him delivered with such proper gestures, such distinct\npronunciation, so pleasant a delivery, in such exquisite fine terms, and so\ngood Latin, that he seemed rather a Gracchus, a Cicero, an Aemilius of the\ntime past, than a youth of this age.  But all the countenance that\nGargantua kept was, that he fell to crying like a cow, and cast down his\nface, hiding it with his cap, nor could they possibly draw one word from\nhim, no more than a fart from a dead ass.  Whereat his father was so\ngrievously vexed that he would have killed Master Jobelin, but the said Des\nMarays withheld him from it by fair persuasions, so that at length he\npacified his wrath.  Then Grangousier commanded he should be paid his\nwages, that they should whittle him up soundly, like a sophister, with good\ndrink, and then give him leave to go to all the devils in hell.  At least,\nsaid he, today shall it not cost his host much if by chance he should die\nas drunk as a Switzer.  Master Jobelin being gone out of the house,\nGrangousier consulted with the Viceroy what schoolmaster they should choose\nfor him, and it was betwixt them resolved that Ponocrates, the tutor of\nEudemon, should have the charge, and that they should go altogether to\nParis, to know what was the study of the young men of France at that time.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua was sent to Paris, and of the huge great mare that he rode\non; how she destroyed the oxflies of the Beauce.\n\nIn the same season Fayoles, the fourth King of Numidia, sent out of the\ncountry of Africa to Grangousier the most hideously great mare that ever\nwas seen, and of the strangest form, for you know well enough how it is\nsaid that Africa always is productive of some new thing.  She was as big as\nsix elephants, and had her feet cloven into fingers, like Julius Caesar's\nhorse, with slouch-hanging ears, like the goats in Languedoc, and a little\nhorn on her buttock.  She was of a burnt sorrel hue, with a little mixture\nof dapple-grey spots, but above all she had a horrible tail; for it was\nlittle more or less than every whit as great as the steeple-pillar of St.\nMark beside Langes:  and squared as that is, with tuffs and ennicroches or\nhair-plaits wrought within one another, no otherwise than as the beards are\nupon the ears of corn.\n\nIf you wonder at this, wonder rather at the tails of the Scythian rams,\nwhich weighed above thirty pounds each; and of the Surian sheep, who need,\nif Tenaud say true, a little cart at their heels to bear up their tail, it\nis so long and heavy.  You female lechers in the plain countries have no\nsuch tails.  And she was brought by sea in three carricks and a brigantine\nunto the harbour of Olone in Thalmondois.  When Grangousier saw her, Here\nis, said he, what is fit to carry my son to Paris.  So now, in the name of\nGod, all will be well.  He will in times coming be a great scholar.  If it\nwere not, my masters, for the beasts, we should live like clerks.  The next\nmorning--after they had drunk, you must understand--they took their\njourney; Gargantua, his pedagogue Ponocrates, and his train, and with them\nEudemon, the young page.  And because the weather was fair and temperate,\nhis father caused to be made for him a pair of dun boots,--Babin calls them\nbuskins.  Thus did they merrily pass their time in travelling on their high\nway, always making good cheer, and were very pleasant till they came a\nlittle above Orleans, in which place there was a forest of five-and-thirty\nleagues long, and seventeen in breadth, or thereabouts.  This forest was\nmost horribly fertile and copious in dorflies, hornets, and wasps, so that\nit was a very purgatory for the poor mares, asses, and horses.  But\nGargantua's mare did avenge herself handsomely of all the outrages therein\ncommitted upon beasts of her kind, and that by a trick whereof they had no\nsuspicion.  For as soon as ever they were entered into the said forest, and\nthat the wasps had given the assault, she drew out and unsheathed her tail,\nand therewith skirmishing, did so sweep them that she overthrew all the\nwood alongst and athwart, here and there, this way and that way, longwise\nand sidewise, over and under, and felled everywhere the wood with as much\nease as a mower doth the grass, in such sort that never since hath there\nbeen there neither wood nor dorflies:  for all the country was thereby\nreduced to a plain champaign field.  Which Gargantua took great pleasure to\nbehold, and said to his company no more but this:  Je trouve beau ce (I\nfind this pretty); whereupon that country hath been ever since that time\ncalled Beauce.  But all the breakfast the mare got that day was but a\nlittle yawning and gaping, in memory whereof the gentlemen of Beauce do as\nyet to this day break their fast with gaping, which they find to be very\ngood, and do spit the better for it.  At last they came to Paris, where\nGargantua refreshed himself two or three days, making very merry with his\nfolks, and inquiring what men of learning there were then in the city, and\nwhat wine they drunk there.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua paid his welcome to the Parisians, and how he took away the\ngreat bells of Our Lady's Church.\n\nSome few days after that they had refreshed themselves, he went to see the\ncity, and was beheld of everybody there with great admiration; for the\npeople of Paris are so sottish, so badot, so foolish and fond by nature,\nthat a juggler, a carrier of indulgences, a sumpter-horse, or mule with\ncymbals or tinkling bells, a blind fiddler in the middle of a cross lane,\nshall draw a greater confluence of people together than an evangelical\npreacher.  And they pressed so hard upon him that he was constrained to\nrest himself upon the towers of Our Lady's Church.  At which place, seeing\nso many about him, he said with a loud voice, I believe that these buzzards\nwill have me to pay them here my welcome hither, and my Proficiat.  It is\nbut good reason.  I will now give them their wine, but it shall be only in\nsport.  Then smiling, he untied his fair braguette, and drawing out his\nmentul into the open air, he so bitterly all-to-bepissed them, that he\ndrowned two hundred and sixty thousand, four hundred and eighteen, besides\nthe women and little children.  Some, nevertheless, of the company escaped\nthis piss-flood by mere speed of foot, who, when they were at the higher\nend of the university, sweating, coughing, spitting, and out of breath,\nthey began to swear and curse, some in good hot earnest, and others in\njest.  Carimari, carimara:  golynoly, golynolo.  By my sweet Sanctess, we\nare washed in sport, a sport truly to laugh at;--in French, Par ris, for\nwhich that city hath been ever since called Paris; whose name formerly was\nLeucotia, as Strabo testifieth, lib. quarto, from the Greek word leukotes,\nwhiteness,--because of the white thighs of the ladies of that place.  And\nforasmuch as, at this imposition of a new name, all the people that were\nthere swore everyone by the Sancts of his parish, the Parisians, which are\npatched up of all nations and all pieces of countries, are by nature both\ngood jurors and good jurists, and somewhat overweening; whereupon Joanninus\nde Barrauco, libro de copiositate reverentiarum, thinks that they are\ncalled Parisians from the Greek word parresia, which signifies boldness and\nliberty in speech.  This done, he considered the great bells, which were in\nthe said towers, and made them sound very harmoniously.  Which whilst he\nwas doing, it came into his mind that they would serve very well for\ntingling tantans and ringing campanels to hang about his mare's neck when\nshe should be sent back to his father, as he intended to do, loaded with\nBrie cheese and fresh herring.  And indeed he forthwith carried them to his\nlodging.  In the meanwhile there came a master beggar of the friars of St.\nAnthony to demand in his canting way the usual benevolence of some hoggish\nstuff, who, that he might be heard afar off, and to make the bacon he was\nin quest of shake in the very chimneys, made account to filch them away\nprivily.  Nevertheless, he left them behind very honestly, not for that\nthey were too hot, but that they were somewhat too heavy for his carriage.\nThis was not he of Bourg, for he was too good a friend of mine.  All the\ncity was risen up in sedition, they being, as you know, upon any slight\noccasion, so ready to uproars and insurrections, that foreign nations\nwonder at the patience of the kings of France, who do not by good justice\nrestrain them from such tumultuous courses, seeing the manifold\ninconveniences which thence arise from day to day.  Would to God I knew the\nshop wherein are forged these divisions and factious combinations, that I\nmight bring them to light in the confraternities of my parish!  Believe for\na truth, that the place wherein the people gathered together, were thus\nsulphured, hopurymated, moiled, and bepissed, was called Nesle, where then\nwas, but now is no more, the oracle of Leucotia.  There was the case\nproposed, and the inconvenience showed of the transporting of the bells.\nAfter they had well ergoted pro and con, they concluded in baralipton, that\nthey should send the oldest and most sufficient of the faculty unto\nGargantua, to signify unto him the great and horrible prejudice they\nsustain by the want of those bells.  And notwithstanding the good reasons\ngiven in by some of the university why this charge was fitter for an orator\nthan a sophister, there was chosen for this purpose our Master Janotus de\nBragmardo.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Janotus de Bragmardo was sent to Gargantua to recover the great bells.\n\nMaster Janotus, with his hair cut round like a dish a la Caesarine, in his\nmost antique accoutrement liripipionated with a graduate's hood, and having\nsufficiently antidoted his stomach with oven-marmalades, that is, bread and\nholy water of the cellar, transported himself to the lodging of Gargantua,\ndriving before him three red-muzzled beadles, and dragging after him five\nor six artless masters, all thoroughly bedaggled with the mire of the\nstreets.  At their entry Ponocrates met them, who was afraid, seeing them\nso disguised, and thought they had been some masquers out of their wits,\nwhich moved him to inquire of one of the said artless masters of the\ncompany what this mummery meant.  It was answered him, that they desired to\nhave their bells restored to them.  As soon as Ponocrates heard that, he\nran in all haste to carry the news unto Gargantua, that he might be ready\nto answer them, and speedily resolve what was to be done.  Gargantua being\nadvertised hereof, called apart his schoolmaster Ponocrates, Philotimus,\nsteward of his house, Gymnastes, his esquire, and Eudemon, and very\nsummarily conferred with them, both of what he should do and what answer he\nshould give.  They were all of opinion that they should bring them unto the\ngoblet-office, which is the buttery, and there make them drink like\nroysters and line their jackets soundly.  And that this cougher might not\nbe puffed up with vain-glory by thinking the bells were restored at his\nrequest, they sent, whilst he was chopining and plying the pot, for the\nmayor of the city, the rector of the faculty, and the vicar of the church,\nunto whom they resolved to deliver the bells before the sophister had\npropounded his commission.  After that, in their hearing, he should\npronounce his gallant oration, which was done; and they being come, the\nsophister was brought in full hall, and began as followeth, in coughing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe oration of Master Janotus de Bragmardo for recovery of the bells.\n\nHem, hem, gud-day, sirs, gud-day.  Et vobis, my masters.  It were but\nreason that you should restore to us our bells; for we have great need of\nthem.  Hem, hem, aihfuhash.  We have oftentimes heretofore refused good\nmoney for them of those of London in Cahors, yea and those of Bourdeaux in\nBrie, who would have bought them for the substantific quality of the\nelementary complexion, which is intronificated in the terrestreity of their\nquidditative nature, to extraneize the blasting mists and whirlwinds upon\nour vines, indeed not ours, but these round about us.  For if we lose the\npiot and liquor of the grape, we lose all, both sense and law.  If you\nrestore them unto us at my request, I shall gain by it six basketfuls of\nsausages and a fine pair of breeches, which will do my legs a great deal of\ngood, or else they will not keep their promise to me.  Ho by gob, Domine, a\npair of breeches is good, et vir sapiens non abhorrebit eam.  Ha, ha, a\npair of breeches is not so easily got; I have experience of it myself.\nConsider, Domine, I have been these eighteen days in matagrabolizing this\nbrave speech.  Reddite quae sunt Caesaris, Caesari, et quae sunt Dei, Deo.\nIbi jacet lepus.  By my faith, Domine, if you will sup with me in cameris,\nby cox body, charitatis, nos faciemus bonum cherubin.  Ego occiditunum\nporcum, et ego habet bonum vino:  but of good wine we cannot make bad\nLatin.  Well, de parte Dei date nobis bellas nostras.  Hold, I give you in\nthe name of the faculty a Sermones de Utino, that utinam you would give us\nour bells.  Vultis etiam pardonos?  Per diem vos habebitis, et nihil\npayabitis.  O, sir, Domine, bellagivaminor nobis; verily, est bonum vobis.\nThey are useful to everybody.  If they fit your mare well, so do they do\nour faculty; quae comparata est jumentis insipientibus, et similis facta\nest eis, Psalmo nescio quo.  Yet did I quote it in my note-book, et est\nunum bonum Achilles, a good defending argument.  Hem, hem, hem, haikhash!\nFor I prove unto you, that you should give me them.  Ego sic argumentor.\nOmnis bella bellabilis in bellerio bellando, bellans, bellativo, bellare\nfacit, bellabiliter bellantes.  Parisius habet bellas.  Ergo gluc, Ha, ha,\nha.  This is spoken to some purpose.  It is in tertio primae, in Darii, or\nelsewhere.  By my soul, I have seen the time that I could play the devil in\narguing, but now I am much failed, and henceforward want nothing but a cup\nof good wine, a good bed, my back to the fire, my belly to the table, and a\ngood deep dish.  Hei, Domine, I beseech you, in nomine Patris, Filii, et\nSpiritus sancti, Amen, to restore unto us our bells:  and God keep you from\nevil, and our Lady from health, qui vivit et regnat per omnia secula\nseculorum, Amen.  Hem, hashchehhawksash, qzrchremhemhash.\n\nVerum enim vero, quandoquidem, dubio procul.  Edepol, quoniam, ita certe,\nmedius fidius; a town without bells is like a blind man without a staff, an\nass without a crupper, and a cow without cymbals.  Therefore be assured,\nuntil you have restored them unto us, we will never leave crying after you,\nlike a blind man that hath lost his staff, braying like an ass without a\ncrupper, and making a noise like a cow without cymbals.  A certain\nlatinisator, dwelling near the hospital, said since, producing the\nauthority of one Taponnus,--I lie, it was one Pontanus the secular poet,\n--who wished those bells had been made of feathers, and the clapper of a\nfoxtail, to the end they might have begot a chronicle in the bowels of his\nbrain, when he was about the composing of his carminiformal lines.  But nac\npetetin petetac, tic, torche lorgne, or rot kipipur kipipot put pantse\nmalf, he was declared an heretic.  We make them as of wax.  And no more\nsaith the deponent.  Valete et plaudite.  Calepinus recensui.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Sophister carried away his cloth, and how he had a suit in law\nagainst the other masters.\n\nThe sophister had no sooner ended, but Ponocrates and Eudemon burst out in\na laughing so heartily, that they had almost split with it, and given up\nthe ghost, in rendering their souls to God:  even just as Crassus did,\nseeing a lubberly ass eat thistles; and as Philemon, who, for seeing an ass\neat those figs which were provided for his own dinner, died with force of\nlaughing.  Together with them Master Janotus fell a-laughing too as fast as\nhe could, in which mood of laughing they continued so long, that their eyes\ndid water by the vehement concussion of the substance of the brain, by\nwhich these lachrymal humidities, being pressed out, glided through the\noptic nerves, and so to the full represented Democritus Heraclitizing and\nHeraclitus Democritizing.\n\nWhen they had done laughing, Gargantua consulted with the prime of his\nretinue what should be done.  There Ponocrates was of opinion that they\nshould make this fair orator drink again; and seeing he had showed them\nmore pastime, and made them laugh more than a natural soul could have done,\nthat they should give him ten baskets full of sausages, mentioned in his\npleasant speech, with a pair of hose, three hundred great billets of\nlogwood, five-and-twenty hogsheads of wine, a good large down-bed, and a\ndeep capacious dish, which he said were necessary for his old age.  All\nthis was done as they did appoint:  only Gargantua, doubting that they\ncould not quickly find out breeches fit for his wearing, because he knew\nnot what fashion would best become the said orator, whether the martingale\nfashion of breeches, wherein is a spunghole with a drawbridge for the more\neasy caguing:  or the fashion of the mariners, for the greater solace and\ncomfort of his kidneys:  or that of the Switzers, which keeps warm the\nbedondaine or belly-tabret:  or round breeches with straight cannions,\nhaving in the seat a piece like a cod's tail, for fear of over-heating his\nreins:--all which considered, he caused to be given him seven ells of white\ncloth for the linings.  The wood was carried by the porters, the masters of\narts carried the sausages and the dishes, and Master Janotus himself would\ncarry the cloth.  One of the said masters, called Jousse Bandouille, showed\nhim that it was not seemly nor decent for one of his condition to do so,\nand that therefore he should deliver it to one of them.  Ha, said Janotus,\nbaudet, baudet, or blockhead, blockhead, thou dost not conclude in modo et\nfigura.  For lo, to this end serve the suppositions and parva logicalia.\nPannus, pro quo supponit?  Confuse, said Bandouille, et distributive.  I do\nnot ask thee, said Janotus, blockhead, quomodo supponit, but pro quo?  It\nis, blockhead, pro tibiis meis, and therefore I will carry it, Egomet,\nsicut suppositum portat appositum.  So did he carry it away very close and\ncovertly, as Patelin the buffoon did his cloth.  The best was, that when\nthis cougher, in a full act or assembly held at the Mathurins, had with\ngreat confidence required his breeches and sausages, and that they were\nflatly denied him, because he had them of Gargantua, according to the\ninformations thereupon made, he showed them that this was gratis, and out\nof his liberality, by which they were not in any sort quit of their\npromises.  Notwithstanding this, it was answered him that he should be\ncontent with reason, without expectation of any other bribe there.  Reason?\nsaid Janotus.  We use none of it here.  Unlucky traitors, you are not worth\nthe hanging.  The earth beareth not more arrant villains than you are.  I\nknow it well enough; halt not before the lame.  I have practised wickedness\nwith you.  By God's rattle, I will inform the king of the enormous abuses\nthat are forged here and carried underhand by you, and let me be a leper,\nif he do not burn you alive like sodomites, traitors, heretics and\nseducers, enemies to God and virtue.\n\nUpon these words they framed articles against him:  he on the other side\nwarned them to appear.  In sum, the process was retained by the court, and\nis there as yet.  Hereupon the magisters made a vow never to decrott\nthemselves in rubbing off the dirt of either their shoes or clothes:\nMaster Janotus with his adherents vowed never to blow or snuff their noses,\nuntil judgment were given by a definitive sentence.\n\nBy these vows do they continue unto this time both dirty and snotty; for\nthe court hath not garbled, sifted, and fully looked into all the pieces as\nyet.  The judgment or decree shall be given out and pronounced at the next\nGreek kalends, that is, never.  As you know that they do more than nature,\nand contrary to their own articles.  The articles of Paris maintain that to\nGod alone belongs infinity, and nature produceth nothing that is immortal;\nfor she putteth an end and period to all things by her engendered,\naccording to the saying, Omnia orta cadunt, &c.  But these thick\nmist-swallowers make the suits in law depending before them both infinite\nand immortal.  In doing whereof, they have given occasion to, and verified\nthe saying of Chilo the Lacedaemonian, consecrated to the oracle at Delphos,\nthat misery is the inseparable companion of law-debates; and that pleaders\nare miserable; for sooner shall they attain to the end of their lives, than\nto the final decision of their pretended rights.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe study of Gargantua, according to the discipline of his schoolmasters\nthe Sophisters.\n\nThe first day being thus spent, and the bells put up again in their own\nplace, the citizens of Paris, in acknowledgment of this courtesy, offered\nto maintain and feed his mare as long as he pleased, which Gargantua took\nin good part, and they sent her to graze in the forest of Biere.  I think\nshe is not there now.  This done, he with all his heart submitted his study\nto the discretion of Ponocrates; who for the beginning appointed that he\nshould do as he was accustomed, to the end he might understand by what\nmeans, in so long time, his old masters had made him so sottish and\nignorant.  He disposed therefore of his time in such fashion, that\nordinarily he did awake betwixt eight and nine o'clock, whether it was day\nor not, for so had his ancient governors ordained, alleging that which\nDavid saith, Vanum est vobis ante lucem surgere.  Then did he tumble and\ntoss, wag his legs, and wallow in the bed some time, the better to stir up\nand rouse his vital spirits, and apparelled himself according to the\nseason:  but willingly he would wear a great long gown of thick frieze,\nfurred with fox-skins.  Afterwards he combed his head with an Almain comb,\nwhich is the four fingers and the thumb.  For his preceptor said that to\ncomb himself otherwise, to wash and make himself neat, was to lose time in\nthis world.  Then he dunged, pissed, spewed, belched, cracked, yawned,\nspitted, coughed, yexed, sneezed and snotted himself like an archdeacon,\nand, to suppress the dew and bad air, went to breakfast, having some good\nfried tripes, fair rashers on the coals, excellent gammons of bacon, store\nof fine minced meat, and a great deal of sippet brewis, made up of the fat\nof the beef-pot, laid upon bread, cheese, and chopped parsley strewed\ntogether.  Ponocrates showed him that he ought not to eat so soon after\nrising out of his bed, unless he had performed some exercise beforehand.\nGargantua answered, What! have not I sufficiently well exercised myself?  I\nhave wallowed and rolled myself six or seven turns in my bed before I rose.\nIs not that enough?  Pope Alexander did so, by the advice of a Jew his\nphysician, and lived till his dying day in despite of his enemies.  My\nfirst masters have used me to it, saying that to breakfast made a good\nmemory, and therefore they drank first.  I am very well after it, and dine\nbut the better.  And Master Tubal, who was the first licenciate at Paris,\ntold me that it was not enough to run apace, but to set forth betimes:  so\ndoth not the total welfare of our humanity depend upon perpetual drinking\nin a ribble rabble, like ducks, but on drinking early in the morning; unde\nversus,\n\n  To rise betimes is no good hour,\n  To drink betimes is better sure.\n\nAfter that he had thoroughly broke his fast, he went to church, and they\ncarried to him, in a great basket, a huge impantoufled or thick-covered\nbreviary, weighing, what in grease, clasps, parchment and cover, little\nmore or less than eleven hundred and six pounds.  There he heard\nsix-and-twenty or thirty masses.  This while, to the same place came his\norison-mutterer impaletocked, or lapped up about the chin like a tufted\nwhoop, and his breath pretty well antidoted with store of the\nvine-tree-syrup.  With him he mumbled all his kiriels and dunsical\nbreborions, which he so curiously thumbed and fingered, that there fell not\nso much as one grain to the ground.  As he went from the church, they\nbrought him, upon a dray drawn with oxen, a confused heap of paternosters\nand aves of St. Claude, every one of them being of the bigness of a\nhat-block; and thus walking through the cloisters, galleries, or garden, he\nsaid more in turning them over than sixteen hermits would have done.  Then\ndid he study some paltry half-hour with his eyes fixed upon his book; but,\nas the comic saith, his mind was in the kitchen.  Pissing then a full\nurinal, he sat down at table; and because he was naturally phlegmatic, he\nbegan his meal with some dozens of gammons, dried neat's tongues, hard roes\nof mullet, called botargos, andouilles or sausages, and such other\nforerunners of wine. In the meanwhile, four of his folks did cast into his\nmouth one after another continually mustard by whole shovelfuls.\nImmediately after that, he drank a horrible draught of white wine for the\nease of his kidneys.  When that was done, he ate according to the season\nmeat agreeable to his appetite, and then left off eating when his belly\nbegan to strout, and was like to crack for fulness.  As for his drinking, he\nhad in that neither end nor rule.  For he was wont to say, That the limits\nand bounds of drinking were, when the cork of the shoes of him that drinketh\nswelleth up half a foot high.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe games of Gargantua.\n\nThen blockishly mumbling with a set on countenance a piece of scurvy grace,\nhe washed his hands in fresh wine, picked his teeth with the foot of a hog,\nand talked jovially with his attendants.  Then the carpet being spread,\nthey brought plenty of cards, many dice, with great store and abundance of\nchequers and chessboards.\n\nThere he played.\nAt flush.                            At love.\nAt primero.                          At the chess.\nAt the beast.                        At Reynard the fox.\nAt the rifle.                        At the squares.\nAt trump.                            At the cows.\nAt the prick and spare not.          At the lottery.\nAt the hundred.                      At the chance or mumchance.\nAt the peeny.                        At three dice or maniest bleaks.\nAt the unfortunate woman.            At the tables.\nAt the fib.                          At nivinivinack.\nAt the pass ten.                     At the lurch.\nAt one-and-thirty.                   At doublets or queen's game.\nAt post and pair, or even and        At the faily.\n  sequence.                          At the French trictrac.\nAt three hundred.                    At the long tables or ferkeering.\nAt the unlucky man.                  At feldown.\nAt the last couple in hell.          At tod's body.\nAt the hock.                         At needs must.\nAt the surly.                        At the dames or draughts.\nAt the lansquenet.                   At bob and mow.\nAt the cuckoo.                       At primus secundus.\nAt puff, or let him speak that       At mark-knife.\n  hath it.                           At the keys.\nAt take nothing and throw out.       At span-counter.\nAt the marriage.                     At even or odd.\nAt the frolic or jackdaw.            At cross or pile.\nAt the opinion.                      At ball and huckle-bones.\nAt who doth the one, doth the        At ivory balls.\n  other.                             At the billiards.\nAt the sequences.                    At bob and hit.\nAt the ivory bundles.                At the owl.\nAt the tarots.                       At the charming of the hare.\nAt losing load him.                  At pull yet a little.\nAt he's gulled and esto.             At trudgepig.\nAt the torture.                      At the magatapies.\nAt the handruff.                     At the horn.\nAt the click.                        At the flowered or Shrovetide ox.\nAt honours.                          At the madge-owlet.\nAt pinch without laughing.           At tilt at weeky.\nAt prickle me tickle me.             At ninepins.\nAt the unshoeing of the ass.         At the cock quintin.\nAt the cocksess.                     At tip and hurl.\nAt hari hohi.                        At the flat bowls.\nAt I set me down.                    At the veer and turn.\nAt earl beardy.                      At rogue and ruffian.\nAt the old mode.                     At bumbatch touch.\nAt draw the spit.                    At the mysterious trough.\nAt put out.                          At the short bowls.\nAt gossip lend me your sack.         At the dapple-grey.\nAt the ramcod ball.                  At cock and crank it.\nAt thrust out the harlot.            At break-pot.\nAt Marseilles figs.                  At my desire.\nAt nicknamry.                        At twirly whirlytrill.\nAt stick and hole.                   At the rush bundles.\nAt boke or him, or flaying the fox.  At the short staff.\nAt the branching it.                 At the whirling gig.\nAt trill madam, or grapple my lady.  At hide and seek, or are you all\nAt the cat selling.                    hid?\nAt blow the coal.                    At the picket.\nAt the re-wedding.                   At the blank.\nAt the quick and dead judge.         At the pilferers.\nAt unoven the iron.                  At the caveson.\nAt the false clown.                  At prison bars.\nAt the flints, or at the nine stones.At have at the nuts.\nAt to the crutch hulch back.         At cherry-pit.\nAt the Sanct is found.               At rub and rice.\nAt hinch, pinch and laugh not.       At whiptop.\nAt the leek.                         At the casting top.\nAt bumdockdousse.                    At the hobgoblins.\nAt the loose gig.                    At the O wonderful.\nAt the hoop.                         At the soily smutchy.\nAt the sow.                          At fast and loose.\nAt belly to belly.                   At scutchbreech.\nAt the dales or straths.             At the broom-besom.\nAt the twigs.                        At St. Cosme, I come to adore\nAt the quoits.                         thee.\nAt I'm for that.                     At the lusty brown boy.\nAt I take you napping.               At greedy glutton.\nAt fair and softly passeth Lent.     At the morris dance.\nAt the forked oak.                   At feeby.\nAt truss.                            At the whole frisk and gambol.\nAt the wolf's tail.                  At battabum, or riding of the\nAt bum to buss, or nose in breech.     wild mare.\nAt Geordie, give me my lance.        At Hind the ploughman.\nAt swaggy, waggy or shoggyshou.      At the good mawkin.\nAt stook and rook, shear and         At the dead beast.\n  threave.                           At climb the ladder, Billy.\nAt the birch.                        At the dying hog.\nAt the muss.                         At the salt doup.\nAt the dilly dilly darling.          At the pretty pigeon.\nAt ox moudy.                         At barley break.\nAt purpose in purpose.               At the bavine.\nAt nine less.                        At the bush leap.\nAt blind-man-buff.                   At crossing.\nAt the fallen bridges.               At bo-peep.\nAt bridled nick.                     At the hardit arsepursy.\nAt the white at butts.               At the harrower's nest.\nAt thwack swinge him.                At forward hey.\nAt apple, pear, plum.                At the fig.\nAt mumgi.                            At gunshot crack.\nAt the toad.                         At mustard peel.\nAt cricket.                          At the gome.\nAt the pounding stick.               At the relapse.\nAt jack and the box.                 At jog breech, or prick him\nAt the queens.                         forward.\nAt the trades.                       At knockpate.\nAt heads and points.                 At the Cornish c(h)ough.\nAt the vine-tree hug.                At the crane-dance.\nAt black be thy fall.                At slash and cut.\nAt ho the distaff.                   At bobbing, or flirt on the\nAt Joan Thomson.                       nose.\nAt the bolting cloth.                At the larks.\nAt the oat's seed.                   At fillipping.\n\nAfter he had thus well played, revelled, past and spent his time, it was\nthought fit to drink a little, and that was eleven glassfuls the man, and,\nimmediately after making good cheer again, he would stretch himself upon a\nfair bench, or a good large bed, and there sleep two or three hours\ntogether, without thinking or speaking any hurt.  After he was awakened he\nwould shake his ears a little.  In the mean time they brought him fresh\nwine.  There he drank better than ever.  Ponocrates showed him that it was\nan ill diet to drink so after sleeping.  It is, answered Gargantua, the\nvery life of the patriarchs and holy fathers; for naturally I sleep salt,\nand my sleep hath been to me in stead of so many gammons of bacon.  Then\nbegan he to study a little, and out came the paternosters or rosary of\nbeads, which the better and more formally to despatch, he got upon an old\nmule, which had served nine kings, and so mumbling with his mouth, nodding\nand doddling his head, would go see a coney ferreted or caught in a gin.\nAt his return he went into the kitchen to know what roast meat was on the\nspit, and what otherwise was to be dressed for supper.  And supped very\nwell, upon my conscience, and commonly did invite some of his neighbours\nthat were good drinkers, with whom carousing and drinking merrily, they\ntold stories of all sorts from the old to the new.  Amongst others he had\nfor domestics the Lords of Fou, of Gourville, of Griniot, and of Marigny.\nAfter supper were brought in upon the place the fair wooden gospels and the\nbooks of the four kings, that is to say, many pairs of tables and cards--or\nthe fair flush, one, two, three--or at all, to make short work; or else\nthey went to see the wenches thereabouts, with little small banquets,\nintermixed with collations and rear-suppers.  Then did he sleep, without\nunbridling, until eight o'clock in the next morning.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua was instructed by Ponocrates, and in such sort disciplinated,\nthat he lost not one hour of the day.\n\nWhen Ponocrates knew Gargantua's vicious manner of living, he resolved to\nbring him up in another kind; but for a while he bore with him, considering\nthat nature cannot endure a sudden change, without great violence.\nTherefore, to begin his work the better, he requested a learned physician\nof that time, called Master Theodorus, seriously to perpend, if it were\npossible, how to bring Gargantua into a better course.  The said physician\npurged him canonically with Anticyrian hellebore, by which medicine he\ncleansed all the alteration and perverse habitude of his brain.  By this\nmeans also Ponocrates made him forget all that he had learned under his\nancient preceptors, as Timotheus did to his disciples, who had been\ninstructed under other musicians.  To do this the better, they brought him\ninto the company of learned men, which were there, in whose imitation he\nhad a great desire and affection to study otherwise, and to improve his\nparts.  Afterwards he put himself into such a road and way of studying,\nthat he lost not any one hour in the day, but employed all his time in\nlearning and honest knowledge.  Gargantua awaked, then, about four o'clock\nin the morning.  Whilst they were in rubbing of him, there was read unto\nhim some chapter of the holy Scripture aloud and clearly, with a\npronunciation fit for the matter, and hereunto was appointed a young page\nborn in Basche, named Anagnostes.  According to the purpose and argument of\nthat lesson, he oftentimes gave himself to worship, adore, pray, and send\nup his supplications to that good God, whose Word did show his majesty and\nmarvellous judgment.  Then went he unto the secret places to make excretion\nof his natural digestions.  There his master repeated what had been read,\nexpounding unto him the most obscure and difficult points.  In returning,\nthey considered the face of the sky, if it was such as they had observed it\nthe night before, and into what signs the sun was entering, as also the\nmoon for that day.  This done, he was apparelled, combed, curled, trimmed,\nand perfumed, during which time they repeated to him the lessons of the day\nbefore.  He himself said them by heart, and upon them would ground some\npractical cases concerning the estate of man, which he would prosecute\nsometimes two or three hours, but ordinarily they ceased as soon as he was\nfully clothed.  Then for three good hours he had a lecture read unto him.\nThis done they went forth, still conferring of the substance of the\nlecture, either unto a field near the university called the Brack, or unto\nthe meadows, where they played at the ball, the long-tennis, and at the\npiletrigone (which is a play wherein we throw a triangular piece of iron at\na ring, to pass it), most gallantly exercising their bodies, as formerly\nthey had done their minds.  All their play was but in liberty, for they\nleft off when they pleased, and that was commonly when they did sweat over\nall their body, or were otherwise weary.  Then were they very well wiped\nand rubbed, shifted their shirts, and, walking soberly, went to see if\ndinner was ready.  Whilst they stayed for that, they did clearly and\neloquently pronounce some sentences that they had retained of the lecture.\nIn the meantime Master Appetite came, and then very orderly sat they down\nat table.  At the beginning of the meal there was read some pleasant\nhistory of the warlike actions of former times, until he had taken a glass\nof wine.  Then, if they thought good, they continued reading, or began to\ndiscourse merrily together; speaking first of the virtue, propriety,\nefficacy, and nature of all that was served in at the table; of bread, of\nwine, of water, of salt, of fleshes, fishes, fruits, herbs, roots, and of\ntheir dressing.  By means whereof he learned in a little time all the\npassages competent for this that were to be found in Pliny, Athenaeus,\nDioscorides, Julius Pollux, Galen, Porphyry, Oppian, Polybius, Heliodore,\nAristotle, Aelian, and others.  Whilst they talked of these things, many\ntimes, to be the more certain, they caused the very books to be brought to\nthe table, and so well and perfectly did he in his memory retain the things\nabove said, that in that time there was not a physician that knew half so\nmuch as he did.  Afterwards they conferred of the lessons read in the\nmorning, and, ending their repast with some conserve or marmalade of\nquinces, he picked his teeth with mastic tooth-pickers, washed his hands\nand eyes with fair fresh water, and gave thanks unto God in some fine\ncantiques, made in praise of the divine bounty and munificence.  This done,\nthey brought in cards, not to play, but to learn a thousand pretty tricks\nand new inventions, which were all grounded upon arithmetic.  By this means\nhe fell in love with that numerical science, and every day after dinner and\nsupper he passed his time in it as pleasantly as he was wont to do at cards\nand dice; so that at last he understood so well both the theory and\npractical part thereof, that Tunstall the Englishman, who had written very\nlargely of that purpose, confessed that verily in comparison of him he had\nno skill at all.  And not only in that, but in the other mathematical\nsciences, as geometry, astronomy, music, &c.  For in waiting on the\nconcoction and attending the digestion of his food, they made a thousand\npretty instruments and geometrical figures, and did in some measure\npractise the astronomical canons.\n\nAfter this they recreated themselves with singing musically, in four or\nfive parts, or upon a set theme or ground at random, as it best pleased\nthem.  In matter of musical instruments, he learned to play upon the lute,\nthe virginals, the harp, the Almain flute with nine holes, the viol, and\nthe sackbut.  This hour thus spent, and digestion finished, he did purge\nhis body of natural excrements, then betook himself to his principal study\nfor three hours together, or more, as well to repeat his matutinal lectures\nas to proceed in the book wherein he was, as also to write handsomely, to\ndraw and form the antique and Roman letters.  This being done, they went\nout of their house, and with them a young gentleman of Touraine, named the\nEsquire Gymnast, who taught him the art of riding.  Changing then his\nclothes, he rode a Naples courser, a Dutch roussin, a Spanish jennet, a\nbarded or trapped steed, then a light fleet horse, unto whom he gave a\nhundred carieres, made him go the high saults, bounding in the air, free\nthe ditch with a skip, leap over a stile or pale, turn short in a ring both\nto the right and left hand.  There he broke not his lance; for it is the\ngreatest foolery in the world to say, I have broken ten lances at tilts or\nin fight.  A carpenter can do even as much.  But it is a glorious and\npraise-worthy action with one lance to break and overthrow ten enemies.\nTherefore, with a sharp, stiff, strong, and well-steeled lance would he\nusually force up a door, pierce a harness, beat down a tree, carry away the\nring, lift up a cuirassier saddle, with the mail-coat and gauntlet.  All\nthis he did in complete arms from head to foot.  As for the prancing\nflourishes and smacking popisms for the better cherishing of the horse,\ncommonly used in riding, none did them better than he.  The cavallerize of\nFerrara was but as an ape compared to him.  He was singularly skilful in\nleaping nimbly from one horse to another without putting foot to ground,\nand these horses were called desultories.  He could likewise from either\nside, with a lance in his hand, leap on horseback without stirrups, and\nrule the horse at his pleasure without a bridle, for such things are useful\nin military engagements.  Another day he exercised the battle-axe, which he\nso dexterously wielded, both in the nimble, strong, and smooth management\nof that weapon, and that in all the feats practicable by it, that he passed\nknight of arms in the field, and at all essays.\n\nThen tossed he the pike, played with the two-handed sword, with the\nbacksword, with the Spanish tuck, the dagger, poniard, armed, unarmed, with\na buckler, with a cloak, with a target.  Then would he hunt the hart, the\nroebuck, the bear, the fallow deer, the wild boar, the hare, the pheasant,\nthe partridge, and the bustard.  He played at the balloon, and made it\nbound in the air, both with fist and foot.  He wrestled, ran, jumped--not\nat three steps and a leap, called the hops, nor at clochepied, called the\nhare's leap, nor yet at the Almains; for, said Gymnast, these jumps are for\nthe wars altogether unprofitable, and of no use--but at one leap he would\nskip over a ditch, spring over a hedge, mount six paces upon a wall, ramp\nand grapple after this fashion up against a window of the full height of a\nlance.  He did swim in deep waters on his belly, on his back, sideways,\nwith all his body, with his feet only, with one hand in the air, wherein he\nheld a book, crossing thus the breadth of the river of Seine without\nwetting it, and dragged along his cloak with his teeth, as did Julius\nCaesar; then with the help of one hand he entered forcibly into a boat,\nfrom whence he cast himself again headlong into the water, sounded the\ndepths, hollowed the rocks, and plunged into the pits and gulfs.  Then\nturned he the boat about, governed it, led it swiftly or slowly with the\nstream and against the stream, stopped it in his course, guided it with one\nhand, and with the other laid hard about him with a huge great oar, hoisted\nthe sail, hied up along the mast by the shrouds, ran upon the edge of the\ndecks, set the compass in order, tackled the bowlines, and steered the\nhelm.  Coming out of the water, he ran furiously up against a hill, and\nwith the same alacrity and swiftness ran down again.  He climbed up at\ntrees like a cat, and leaped from the one to the other like a squirrel.  He\ndid pull down the great boughs and branches like another Milo; then with\ntwo sharp well-steeled daggers and two tried bodkins would he run up by the\nwall to the very top of a house like a rat; then suddenly came down from\nthe top to the bottom, with such an even composition of members that by the\nfall he would catch no harm.\n\nHe did cast the dart, throw the bar, put the stone, practise the javelin,\nthe boar-spear or partisan, and the halbert.  He broke the strongest bows\nin drawing, bended against his breast the greatest crossbows of steel, took\nhis aim by the eye with the hand-gun, and shot well, traversed and planted\nthe cannon, shot at butt-marks, at the papgay from below upwards, or to a\nheight from above downwards, or to a descent; then before him, sideways,\nand behind him, like the Parthians.  They tied a cable-rope to the top of a\nhigh tower, by one end whereof hanging near the ground he wrought himself\nwith his hands to the very top; then upon the same track came down so\nsturdily and firm that you could not on a plain meadow have run with more\nassurance.  They set up a great pole fixed upon two trees.  There would he\nhang by his hands, and with them alone, his feet touching at nothing, would\ngo back and fore along the foresaid rope with so great swiftness that\nhardly could one overtake him with running; and then, to exercise his\nbreast and lungs, he would shout like all the devils in hell.  I heard him\nonce call Eudemon from St. Victor's gate to Montmartre.  Stentor had never\nsuch a voice at the siege of Troy.  Then for the strengthening of his\nnerves or sinews they made him two great sows of lead, each of them\nweighing eight thousand and seven hundred quintals, which they called\nalteres.  Those he took up from the ground, in each hand one, then lifted\nthem up over his head, and held them so without stirring three quarters of\nan hour and more, which was an inimitable force.  He fought at barriers\nwith the stoutest and most vigorous champions; and when it came to the\ncope, he stood so sturdily on his feet that he abandoned himself unto the\nstrongest, in case they could remove him from his place, as Milo was wont\nto do of old.  In whose imitation, likewise, he held a pomegranate in his\nhand, to give it unto him that could take it from him.  The time being thus\nbestowed, and himself rubbed, cleansed, wiped, and refreshed with other\nclothes, he returned fair and softly; and passing through certain meadows,\nor other grassy places, beheld the trees and plants, comparing them with\nwhat is written of them in the books of the ancients, such as Theophrast,\nDioscorides, Marinus, Pliny, Nicander, Macer, and Galen, and carried home\nto the house great handfuls of them, whereof a young page called Rizotomos\nhad charge; together with little mattocks, pickaxes, grubbing-hooks,\ncabbies, pruning-knives, and other instruments requisite for herborizing.\nBeing come to their lodging, whilst supper was making ready, they repeated\ncertain passages of that which hath been read, and sat down to table.  Here\nremark, that his dinner was sober and thrifty, for he did then eat only to\nprevent the gnawings of his stomach, but his supper was copious and large,\nfor he took then as much as was fit to maintain and nourish him; which,\nindeed, is the true diet prescribed by the art of good and sound physic,\nalthough a rabble of loggerheaded physicians, nuzzeled in the brabbling\nshop of sophisters, counsel the contrary.  During that repast was continued\nthe lesson read at dinner as long as they thought good; the rest was spent\nin good discourse, learned and profitable.  After that they had given\nthanks, he set himself to sing vocally, and play upon harmonious\ninstruments, or otherwise passed his time at some pretty sports, made with\ncards or dice, or in practising the feats of legerdemain with cups and\nballs.  There they stayed some nights in frolicking thus, and making\nthemselves merry till it was time to go to bed; and on other nights they\nwould go make visits unto learned men, or to such as had been travellers in\nstrange and remote countries.  When it was full night before they retired\nthemselves, they went unto the most open place of the house to see the face\nof the sky, and there beheld the comets, if any were, as likewise the\nfigures, situations, aspects, oppositions, and conjunctions of both the\nfixed stars and planets.\n\nThen with his master did he briefly recapitulate, after the manner of the\nPythagoreans, that which he had read, seen, learned, done, and understood\nin the whole course of that day.\n\nThen prayed they unto God the Creator, in falling down before him, and\nstrengthening their faith towards him, and glorifying him for his boundless\nbounty; and, giving thanks unto him for the time that was past, they\nrecommended themselves to his divine clemency for the future.  Which being\ndone, they went to bed, and betook themselves to their repose and rest.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua spent his time in rainy weather.\n\nIf it happened that the weather were anything cloudy, foul, and rainy, all\nthe forenoon was employed, as before specified, according to custom, with\nthis difference only, that they had a good clear fire lighted to correct\nthe distempers of the air.  But after dinner, instead of their wonted\nexercitations, they did abide within, and, by way of apotherapy (that is, a\nmaking the body healthful by exercise), did recreate themselves in bottling\nup of hay, in cleaving and sawing of wood, and in threshing sheaves of corn\nat the barn.  Then they studied the art of painting or carving; or brought\ninto use the antique play of tables, as Leonicus hath written of it, and as\nour good friend Lascaris playeth at it.  In playing they examined the\npassages of ancient authors wherein the said play is mentioned or any\nmetaphor drawn from it.  They went likewise to see the drawing of metals,\nor the casting of great ordnance; how the lapidaries did work; as also the\ngoldsmiths and cutters of precious stones.  Nor did they omit to visit the\nalchemists, money-coiners, upholsterers, weavers, velvet-workers,\nwatchmakers, looking-glass framers, printers, organists, and other such\nkind of artificers, and, everywhere giving them somewhat to drink, did\nlearn and consider the industry and invention of the trades.  They went\nalso to hear the public lectures, the solemn commencements, the\nrepetitions, the acclamations, the pleadings of the gentle lawyers, and\nsermons of evangelical preachers.  He went through the halls and places\nappointed for fencing, and there played against the masters themselves at\nall weapons, and showed them by experience that he knew as much in it as,\nyea, more than, they.  And, instead of herborizing, they visited the shops\nof druggists, herbalists, and apothecaries, and diligently considered the\nfruits, roots, leaves, gums, seeds, the grease and ointments of some\nforeign parts, as also how they did adulterate them.  He went to see the\njugglers, tumblers, mountebanks, and quacksalvers, and considered their\ncunning, their shifts, their somersaults and smooth tongue, especially of\nthose of Chauny in Picardy, who are naturally great praters, and brave\ngivers of fibs, in matter of green apes.\n\nAt their return they did eat more soberly at supper than at other times,\nand meats more desiccative and extenuating; to the end that the intemperate\nmoisture of the air, communicated to the body by a necessary confinitive,\nmight by this means be corrected, and that they might not receive any\nprejudice for want of their ordinary bodily exercise.  Thus was Gargantua\ngoverned, and kept on in this course of education, from day to day\nprofiting, as you may understand such a young man of his age may, of a\npregnant judgment, with good discipline well continued.  Which, although at\nthe beginning it seemed difficult, became a little after so sweet, so easy,\nand so delightful, that it seemed rather the recreation of a king than the\nstudy of a scholar.  Nevertheless Ponocrates, to divert him from this\nvehement intension of the spirits, thought fit, once in a month, upon some\nfair and clear day, to go out of the city betimes in the morning, either\ntowards Gentilly, or Boulogne, or to Montrouge, or Charanton bridge, or to\nVanves, or St. Clou, and there spend all the day long in making the\ngreatest cheer that could be devised, sporting, making merry, drinking\nhealths, playing, singing, dancing, tumbling in some fair meadow,\nunnestling of sparrows, taking of quails, and fishing for frogs and crabs.\nBut although that day was passed without books or lecture, yet was it not\nspent without profit; for in the said meadows they usually repeated certain\npleasant verses of Virgil's agriculture, of Hesiod and of Politian's\nhusbandry, would set a-broach some witty Latin epigrams, then immediately\nturned them into roundelays and songs for dancing in the French language.\nIn their feasting they would sometimes separate the water from the wine\nthat was therewith mixed, as Cato teacheth, De re rustica, and Pliny with\nan ivy cup would wash the wine in a basinful of water, then take it out\nagain with a funnel as pure as ever.  They made the water go from one glass\nto another, and contrived a thousand little automatory engines, that is to\nsay, moving of themselves.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow there was great strife and debate raised betwixt the cake-bakers of\nLerne, and those of Gargantua's country, whereupon were waged great wars.\n\nAt that time, which was the season of vintage, in the beginning of harvest,\nwhen the country shepherds were set to keep the vines, and hinder the\nstarlings from eating up the grapes, as some cake-bakers of Lerne happened\nto pass along in the broad highway, driving into the city ten or twelve\nhorses loaded with cakes, the said shepherds courteously entreated them to\ngive them some for their money, as the price then ruled in the market.  For\nhere it is to be remarked, that it is a celestial food to eat for breakfast\nhot fresh cakes with grapes, especially the frail clusters, the great red\ngrapes, the muscadine, the verjuice grape, and the laskard, for those that\nare costive in their belly, because it will make them gush out, and squirt\nthe length of a hunter's staff, like the very tap of a barrel; and\noftentimes, thinking to let a squib, they did all-to-besquatter and\nconskite themselves, whereupon they are commonly called the vintage\nthinkers.  The bun-sellers or cake-makers were in nothing inclinable to\ntheir request; but, which was worse, did injure them most outrageously,\ncalling them prattling gabblers, lickorous gluttons, freckled bittors, mangy\nrascals, shite-a-bed scoundrels, drunken roysters, sly knaves, drowsy\nloiterers, slapsauce fellows, slabberdegullion druggels, lubberly louts,\ncozening foxes, ruffian rogues, paltry customers, sycophant-varlets,\ndrawlatch hoydens, flouting milksops, jeering companions, staring clowns,\nforlorn snakes, ninny lobcocks, scurvy sneaksbies, fondling fops, base\nloons, saucy coxcombs, idle lusks, scoffing braggarts, noddy meacocks,\nblockish grutnols, doddipol-joltheads, jobbernol goosecaps, foolish\nloggerheads, flutch calf-lollies, grouthead gnat-snappers, lob-dotterels,\ngaping changelings, codshead loobies, woodcock slangams, ninny-hammer\nflycatchers, noddypeak simpletons, turdy gut, shitten shepherds, and other\nsuchlike defamatory epithets; saying further, that it was not for them to\neat of these dainty cakes, but might very well content themselves with the\ncoarse unranged bread, or to eat of the great brown household loaf.  To\nwhich provoking words, one amongst them, called Forgier, an honest fellow\nof his person and a notable springal, made answer very calmly thus:  How\nlong is it since you have got horns, that you are become so proud?  Indeed\nformerly you were wont to give us some freely, and will you not now let us\nhave any for our money?  This is not the part of good neighbours, neither\ndo we serve you thus when you come hither to buy our good corn, whereof you\nmake your cakes and buns.  Besides that, we would have given you to the\nbargain some of our grapes, but, by his zounds, you may chance to repent\nit, and possibly have need of us at another time, when we shall use you\nafter the like manner, and therefore remember it.  Then Marquet, a prime\nman in the confraternity of the cake-bakers, said unto him, Yea, sir, thou\nart pretty well crest-risen this morning, thou didst eat yesternight too\nmuch millet and bolymong.  Come hither, sirrah, come hither, I will give\nthee some cakes.  Whereupon Forgier, dreading no harm, in all simplicity\nwent towards him, and drew a sixpence out of his leather satchel, thinking\nthat Marquet would have sold him some of his cakes.  But, instead of cakes,\nhe gave him with his whip such a rude lash overthwart the legs, that the\nmarks of the whipcord knots were apparent in them, then would have fled\naway; but Forgier cried out as loud as he could, O, murder, murder, help,\nhelp, help! and in the meantime threw a great cudgel after him, which he\ncarried under his arm, wherewith he hit him in the coronal joint of his\nhead, upon the crotaphic artery of the right side thereof, so forcibly,\nthat Marquet fell down from his mare more like a dead than living man.\nMeanwhile the farmers and country swains, that were watching their walnuts\nnear to that place, came running with their great poles and long staves,\nand laid such load on these cake-bakers, as if they had been to thresh upon\ngreen rye.  The other shepherds and shepherdesses, hearing the lamentable\nshout of Forgier, came with their slings and slackies following them, and\nthrowing great stones at them, as thick as if it had been hail.  At last\nthey overtook them, and took from them about four or five dozen of their\ncakes.  Nevertheless they paid for them the ordinary price, and gave them\nover and above one hundred eggs and three baskets full of mulberries.  Then\ndid the cake-bakers help to get up to his mare Marquet, who was most\nshrewdly wounded, and forthwith returned to Lerne, changing the resolution\nthey had to go to Pareille, threatening very sharp and boisterously the\ncowherds, shepherds, and farmers of Seville and Sinays.  This done, the\nshepherds and shepherdesses made merry with these cakes and fine grapes,\nand sported themselves together at the sound of the pretty small pipe,\nscoffing and laughing at those vainglorious cake-bakers, who had that day\nmet with a mischief for want of crossing themselves with a good hand in the\nmorning.  Nor did they forget to apply to Forgier's leg some fair great red\nmedicinal grapes, and so handsomely dressed it and bound it up that he was\nquickly cured.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the inhabitants of Lerne, by the commandment of Picrochole their king,\nassaulted the shepherds of Gargantua unexpectedly and on a sudden.\n\nThe cake-bakers, being returned to Lerne, went presently, before they did\neither eat or drink, to the Capitol, and there before their king, called\nPicrochole, the third of that name, made their complaint, showing their\npanniers broken, their caps all crumpled, their coats torn, their cakes\ntaken away, but, above all, Marquet most enormously wounded, saying that\nall that mischief was done by the shepherds and herdsmen of Grangousier,\nnear the broad highway beyond Seville.  Picrochole incontinent grew angry\nand furious; and, without asking any further what, how, why, or wherefore,\ncommanded the ban and arriere ban to be sounded throughout all his country,\nthat all his vassals of what condition soever should, upon pain of the\nhalter, come, in the best arms they could, unto the great place before the\ncastle, at the hour of noon, and, the better to strengthen his design, he\ncaused the drum to be beat about the town.  Himself, whilst his dinner was\nmaking ready, went to see his artillery mounted upon the carriage, to\ndisplay his colours, and set up the great royal standard, and loaded wains\nwith store of ammunition both for the field and the belly, arms and\nvictuals.  At dinner he despatched his commissions, and by his express\nedict my Lord Shagrag was appointed to command the vanguard, wherein were\nnumbered sixteen thousand and fourteen arquebusiers or firelocks, together\nwith thirty thousand and eleven volunteer adventurers.  The great\nTouquedillon, master of the horse, had the charge of the ordnance, wherein\nwere reckoned nine hundred and fourteen brazen pieces, in cannons, double\ncannons, basilisks, serpentines, culverins, bombards or murderers, falcons,\nbases or passevolins, spirols, and other sorts of great guns.  The\nrearguard was committed to the Duke of Scrapegood.  In the main battle was\nthe king and the princes of his kingdom.  Thus being hastily furnished,\nbefore they would set forward, they sent three hundred light horsemen,\nunder the conduct of Captain Swillwind, to discover the country, clear the\navenues, and see whether there was any ambush laid for them.  But, after\nthey had made diligent search, they found all the land round about in peace\nand quiet, without any meeting or convention at all; which Picrochole\nunderstanding, commanded that everyone should march speedily under his\ncolours.  Then immediately in all disorder, without keeping either rank or\nfile, they took the fields one amongst another, wasting, spoiling,\ndestroying, and making havoc of all wherever they went, not sparing poor\nnor rich, privileged or unprivileged places, church nor laity, drove away\noxen and cows, bulls, calves, heifers, wethers, ewes, lambs, goats, kids,\nhens, capons, chickens, geese, ganders, goslings, hogs, swine, pigs, and\nsuch like; beating down the walnuts, plucking the grapes, tearing the\nhedges, shaking the fruit-trees, and committing such incomparable abuses,\nthat the like abomination was never heard of.  Nevertheless, they met with\nnone to resist them, for everyone submitted to their mercy, beseeching them\nthat they might be dealt with courteously in regard that they had always\ncarried themselves as became good and loving neighbours, and that they had\nnever been guilty of any wrong or outrage done upon them, to be thus\nsuddenly surprised, troubled, and disquieted, and that, if they would not\ndesist, God would punish them very shortly.  To which expostulations and\nremonstrances no other answer was made, but that they would teach them to\neat cakes.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow a monk of Seville saved the close of the abbey from being ransacked by\nthe enemy.\n\nSo much they did, and so far they went pillaging and stealing, that at last\nthey came to Seville, where they robbed both men and women, and took all\nthey could catch:  nothing was either too hot or too heavy for them.\nAlthough the plague was there in the most part of all the houses, they\nnevertheless entered everywhere, then plundered and carried away all that\nwas within, and yet for all this not one of them took any hurt, which is a\nmost wonderful case.  For the curates, vicars, preachers, physicians,\nchirurgeons, and apothecaries, who went to visit, to dress, to cure, to\nheal, to preach unto and admonish those that were sick, were all dead of\nthe infection, and these devilish robbers and murderers caught never any\nharm at all.  Whence comes this to pass, my masters?  I beseech you think\nupon it.  The town being thus pillaged, they went unto the abbey with a\nhorrible noise and tumult, but they found it shut and made fast against\nthem.  Whereupon the body of the army marched forward towards a pass or\nford called the Gue de Vede, except seven companies of foot and two hundred\nlancers, who, staying there, broke down the walls of the close, to waste,\nspoil, and make havoc of all the vines and vintage within that place.  The\nmonks (poor devils) knew not in that extremity to which of all their sancts\nthey should vow themselves.  Nevertheless, at all adventures they rang the\nbells ad capitulum capitulantes.  There it was decreed that they should\nmake a fair procession, stuffed with good lectures, prayers, and litanies\ncontra hostium insidias, and jolly responses pro pace.\n\nThere was then in the abbey a claustral monk, called Friar John of the\nfunnels and gobbets, in French des entoumeures, young, gallant, frisk,\nlusty, nimble, quick, active, bold, adventurous, resolute, tall, lean,\nwide-mouthed, long-nosed, a fair despatcher of morning prayers, unbridler\nof masses, and runner over of vigils; and, to conclude summarily in a word,\na right monk, if ever there was any, since the monking world monked a\nmonkery:  for the rest, a clerk even to the teeth in matter of breviary.\nThis monk, hearing the noise that the enemy made within the enclosure of\nthe vineyard, went out to see what they were doing; and perceiving that\nthey were cutting and gathering  the grapes, whereon was grounded the\nfoundation of all their next year's wine, returned unto the choir of the\nchurch where the other monks were, all amazed and astonished like so many\nbell-melters.  Whom when he heard sing, im, nim, pe, ne, ne, ne, ne, nene,\ntum, ne, num, num, ini, i mi, co, o, no, o, o, neno, ne, no, no, no, rum,\nnenum, num:  It is well shit, well sung, said he.  By the virtue of God,\nwhy do not you sing, Panniers, farewell, vintage is done?  The devil snatch\nme, if they be not already within the middle of our close, and cut so well\nboth vines and grapes, that, by Cod's body, there will not be found for\nthese four years to come so much as a gleaning in it.  By the belly of\nSanct James, what shall we poor devils drink the while?  Lord God! da mihi\npotum.  Then said the prior of the convent:  What should this drunken\nfellow do here? let him be carried to prison for troubling the divine\nservice.  Nay, said the monk, the wine service, let us behave ourselves so\nthat it be not troubled; for you yourself, my lord prior, love to drink of\nthe best, and so doth every honest man.  Never yet did a man of worth\ndislike good wine, it is a monastical apophthegm.  But these responses that\nyou chant here, by G--, are not in season.  Wherefore is it, that our\ndevotions were instituted to be short in the time of harvest and vintage,\nand long in the advent, and all the winter?  The late friar, Massepelosse,\nof good memory, a true zealous man, or else I give myself to the devil, of\nour religion, told me, and I remember it well, how the reason was, that in\nthis season we might press and make the wine, and in winter whiff it up.\nHark you, my masters, you that love the wine, Cop's body, follow me; for\nSanct Anthony burn me as freely as a faggot, if they get leave to taste one\ndrop of the liquor that will not now come and fight for relief of the vine.\nHog's belly, the goods of the church!  Ha, no, no.  What the devil, Sanct\nThomas of England was well content to die for them; if I died in the same\ncause, should not I be a sanct likewise?  Yes.  Yet shall not I die there\nfor all this, for it is I that must do it to others and send them\na-packing.\n\nAs he spake this he threw off his great monk's habit, and laid hold upon\nthe staff of the cross, which was made of the heart of a sorbapple-tree, it\nbeing of the length of a lance, round, of a full grip, and a little\npowdered with lilies called flower de luce, the workmanship whereof was\nalmost all defaced and worn out.  Thus went he out in a fair long-skirted\njacket, putting his frock scarfwise athwart his breast, and in this\nequipage, with his staff, shaft or truncheon of the cross, laid on so\nlustily, brisk, and fiercely upon his enemies, who, without any order, or\nensign, or trumpet, or drum, were busied in gathering the grapes of the\nvineyard.  For the cornets, guidons, and ensign-bearers had laid down their\nstandards, banners, and colours by the wall sides:  the drummers had\nknocked out the heads of their drums on one end to fill them with grapes:\nthe trumpeters were loaded with great bundles of bunches and huge knots of\nclusters:  in sum, everyone of them was out of array, and all in disorder.\nHe hurried, therefore, upon them so rudely, without crying gare or beware,\nthat he overthrew them like hogs, tumbled them over like swine, striking\nathwart and alongst, and by one means or other laid so about him, after the\nold fashion of fencing, that to some he beat out their brains, to others he\ncrushed their arms, battered their legs, and bethwacked their sides till\ntheir ribs cracked with it.  To others again he unjointed the spondyles or\nknuckles of the neck, disfigured their chaps, gashed their faces, made\ntheir cheeks hang flapping on their chin, and so swinged and balammed them\nthat they fell down before him like hay before a mower.  To some others he\nspoiled the frame of their kidneys, marred their backs, broke their\nthigh-bones, pashed in their noses, poached out their eyes, cleft their\nmandibles, tore their jaws, dung in their teeth into their throat, shook\nasunder their omoplates or shoulder-blades, sphacelated their shins,\nmortified their shanks, inflamed their ankles, heaved off of the hinges\ntheir ishies, their sciatica or hip-gout, dislocated the joints of their\nknees, squattered into pieces the boughts or pestles of their thighs, and\nso thumped, mauled and belaboured them everywhere, that never was corn so\nthick and threefold threshed upon by ploughmen's flails as were the\npitifully disjointed members of their mangled bodies under the merciless\nbaton of the cross.  If any offered to hide himself amongst the thickest of\nthe vines, he laid him squat as a flounder, bruised the ridge of his back,\nand dashed his reins like a dog.  If any thought by flight to escape, he\nmade his head to fly in pieces by the lamboidal commissure, which is a seam\nin the hinder part of the skull.  If anyone did scramble up into a tree,\nthinking there to be safe, he rent up his perinee, and impaled him in at\nthe fundament.  If any of his old acquaintance happened to cry out, Ha,\nFriar John, my friend Friar John, quarter, quarter, I yield myself to you,\nto you I render myself!  So thou shalt, said he, and must, whether thou\nwouldst or no, and withal render and yield up thy soul to all the devils in\nhell; then suddenly gave them dronos, that is, so many knocks, thumps,\nraps, dints, thwacks, and bangs, as sufficed to warn Pluto of their coming\nand despatch them a-going.  If any was so rash and full of temerity as to\nresist him to his face, then was it he did show the strength of his\nmuscles, for without more ado he did transpierce him, by running him in at\nthe breast, through the mediastine and the heart.  Others, again, he so\nquashed and bebumped, that, with a sound bounce under the hollow of their\nshort ribs, he overturned their stomachs so that they died immediately.  To\nsome, with a smart souse on the epigaster, he would make their midriff\nswag, then, redoubling the blow, gave them such a homepush on the navel\nthat he made their puddings to gush out.  To others through their ballocks\nhe pierced their bumgut, and left not bowel, tripe, nor entrail in their\nbody that had not felt the impetuosity, fierceness, and fury of his\nviolence.  Believe, that it was the most horrible spectacle that ever one\nsaw.  Some cried unto Sanct Barbe, others to St. George.  O the holy Lady\nNytouch, said one, the good Sanctess; O our Lady of Succours, said another,\nhelp, help!  Others cried, Our Lady of Cunaut, of Loretto, of Good Tidings,\non the other side of the water St. Mary Over.  Some vowed a pilgrimage to\nSt. James, and others to the holy handkerchief at Chamberry, which three\nmonths after that burnt so well in the fire that they could not get one\nthread of it saved.  Others sent up their vows to St. Cadouin, others to\nSt. John d'Angely, and to St. Eutropius of Xaintes.  Others again invoked\nSt. Mesmes of Chinon, St. Martin of Candes, St. Clouaud of Sinays, the holy\nrelics of Laurezay, with a thousand other jolly little sancts and santrels.\nSome died without speaking, others spoke without dying; some died in\nspeaking, others spoke in dying.  Others shouted as loud as they could\nConfession, Confession, Confiteor, Miserere, In manus!  So great was the\ncry of the wounded, that the prior of the abbey with all his monks came\nforth, who, when they saw these poor wretches so slain amongst the vines,\nand wounded to death, confessed some of them.  But whilst the priests were\nbusied in confessing them, the little monkies ran all to the place where\nFriar John was, and asked him wherein he would be pleased to require their\nassistance.  To which he answered that they should cut the throats of those\nhe had thrown down upon the ground.  They presently, leaving their outer\nhabits and cowls upon the rails, began to throttle and make an end of those\nwhom he had already crushed.  Can you tell with what instruments they did\nit?  With fair gullies, which are little hulchbacked demi-knives, the iron\ntool whereof is two inches long, and the wooden handle one inch thick, and\nthree inches in length, wherewith the little boys in our country cut ripe\nwalnuts in two while they are yet in the shell, and pick out the kernel,\nand they found them very fit for the expediting of that weasand-slitting\nexploit.  In the meantime Friar John, with his formidable baton of the\ncross, got to the breach which the enemies had made, and there stood to\nsnatch up those that endeavoured to escape.  Some of the monkitos carried\nthe standards, banners, ensigns, guidons, and colours into their cells and\nchambers to make garters of them.  But when those that had been shriven\nwould have gone out at the gap of the said breach, the sturdy monk quashed\nand felled them down with blows, saying, These men have had confession and\nare penitent souls; they have got their absolution and gained the pardons;\nthey go into paradise as straight as a sickle, or as the way is to Faye\n(like Crooked-Lane at Eastcheap).  Thus by his prowess and valour were\ndiscomfited all those of the army that entered into the close of the abbey,\nunto the number of thirteen thousand, six hundred, twenty and two, besides\nthe women and little children, which is always to be understood.  Never did\nMaugis the Hermit bear himself more valiantly with his bourdon or pilgrim's\nstaff against the Saracens, of whom is written in the Acts of the four sons\nof Aymon, than did this monk against his enemies with the staff of the\ncross.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Picrochole stormed and took by assault the rock Clermond, and of\nGrangousier's unwillingness and aversion from the undertaking of war.\n\nWhilst the monk did thus skirmish, as we have said, against those which\nwere entered within the close, Picrochole in great haste passed the ford of\nVede--a very especial pass--with all his soldiers, and set upon the rock\nClermond, where there was made him no resistance at all; and, because it\nwas already night, he resolved to quarter himself and his army in that\ntown, and to refresh himself of his pugnative choler.  In the morning he\nstormed and took the bulwarks and castle, which afterwards he fortified\nwith rampiers, and furnished with all ammunition requisite, intending to\nmake his retreat there, if he should happen to be otherwise worsted; for it\nwas a strong place, both by art and nature, in regard of the stance and\nsituation of it.  But let us leave them there, and return to our good\nGargantua, who is at Paris very assiduous and earnest at the study of good\nletters and athletical exercitations, and to the good old man Grangousier\nhis father, who after supper warmeth his ballocks by a good, clear, great\nfire, and, waiting upon the broiling of some chestnuts, is very serious in\ndrawing scratches on the hearth, with a stick burnt at the one end,\nwherewith they did stir up the fire, telling to his wife and the rest of\nthe family pleasant old stories and tales of former times.\n\nWhilst he was thus employed, one of the shepherds which did keep the vines,\nnamed Pillot, came towards him, and to the full related the enormous abuses\nwhich were committed, and the excessive spoil that was made by Picrochole,\nKing of Lerne, upon his lands and territories, and how he had pillaged,\nwasted, and ransacked all the country, except the enclosure at Seville,\nwhich Friar John des Entoumeures to his great honour had preserved; and\nthat at the same present time the said king was in the rock Clermond, and\nthere, with great industry and circumspection, was strengthening himself\nand his whole army.  Halas, halas, alas! said Grangousier, what is this,\ngood people?  Do I dream, or is it true that they tell me?  Picrochole, my\nancient friend of old time, of my own kindred and alliance, comes he to\ninvade me?  What moves him?  What provokes him?  What sets him on?  What\ndrives him to it?  Who hath given him this counsel?  Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, my\nGod, my Saviour, help me, inspire me, and advise me what I shall do!  I\nprotest, I swear before thee, so be thou favourable to me, if ever I did\nhim or his subjects any damage or displeasure, or committed any the least\nrobbery in his country; but, on the contrary, I have succoured and supplied\nhim with men, money, friendship, and counsel, upon any occasion wherein I\ncould be steadable for the improvement of his good.  That he hath therefore\nat this nick of time so outraged and wronged me, it cannot be but by the\nmalevolent and wicked spirit.  Good God, thou knowest my courage, for\nnothing can be hidden from thee.  If perhaps he be grown mad, and that thou\nhast sent him hither to me for the better recovery and re-establishment of\nhis brain, grant me power and wisdom to bring him to the yoke of thy holy\nwill by good discipline.  Ho, ho, ho, ho, my good people, my friends and my\nfaithful servants, must I hinder you from helping me?  Alas, my old age\nrequired hence-forward nothing else but rest, and all the days of my life I\nhave laboured for nothing so much as peace; but now I must, I see it well,\nload with arms my poor, weary, and feeble shoulders, and take in my\ntrembling hand the lance and horseman's mace, to succour and protect my\nhonest subjects.  Reason will have it so; for by their labour am I\nentertained, and with their sweat am I nourished, I, my children and my\nfamily.  This notwithstanding, I will not undertake war, until I have first\ntried all the ways and means of peace:  that I resolve upon.\n\nThen assembled he his council, and proposed the matter as it was indeed.\nWhereupon it was concluded that they should send some discreet man unto\nPicrochole, to know wherefore he had thus suddenly broken the peace and\ninvaded those lands unto which he had no right nor title.  Furthermore,\nthat they should send for Gargantua, and those under his command, for the\npreservation of the country, and defence thereof now at need.  All this\npleased Grangousier very well, and he commanded that so it should be done.\nPresently therefore he sent the Basque his lackey to fetch Gargantua with\nall diligence, and wrote him as followeth.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe tenour of the letter which Grangousier wrote to his son Gargantua.\n\nThe fervency of thy studies did require that I should not in a long time\nrecall thee from that philosophical rest thou now enjoyest, if the\nconfidence reposed in our friends and ancient confederates had not at this\npresent disappointed the assurance of my old age.  But seeing such is my\nfatal destiny, that I should be now disquieted by those in whom I trusted\nmost, I am forced to call thee back to help the people and goods which by\nthe right of nature belong unto thee.  For even as arms are weak abroad, if\nthere be not counsel at home, so is that study vain and counsel\nunprofitable which in a due and convenient time is not by virtue executed\nand put in effect.  My deliberation is not to provoke, but to appease--not\nto assault, but to defend--not to conquer, but to preserve my faithful\nsubjects and hereditary dominions, into which Picrochole is entered in a\nhostile manner without any ground or cause, and from day to day pursueth\nhis furious enterprise with that height of insolence that is intolerable to\nfreeborn spirits.  I have endeavoured to moderate his tyrannical choler,\noffering him all that which I thought might give him satisfaction; and\noftentimes have I sent lovingly unto him to understand wherein, by whom,\nand how he found himself to be wronged.  But of him could I obtain no other\nanswer but a mere defiance, and that in my lands he did pretend only to the\nright of a civil correspondency and good behaviour, whereby I knew that the\neternal God hath left him to the disposure of his own free will and sensual\nappetite--which cannot choose but be wicked, if by divine grace it be not\ncontinually guided--and to contain him within his duty, and bring him to\nknow himself, hath sent him hither to me by a grievous token.  Therefore,\nmy beloved son, as soon as thou canst, upon sight of these letters, repair\nhither with all diligence, to succour not me so much, which nevertheless by\nnatural piety thou oughtest to do, as thine own people, which by reason\nthou mayest save and preserve.  The exploit shall be done with as little\neffusion of blood as may be.  And, if possible, by means far more\nexpedient, such as military policy, devices, and stratagems of war, we\nshall save all the souls, and send them home as merry as crickets unto\ntheir own houses.  My dearest son, the peace of Jesus Christ our Redeemer\nbe with thee.  Salute from me Ponocrates, Gymnastes, and Eudemon.  The\ntwentieth of September.\nThy Father Grangousier.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Ulric Gallet was sent unto Picrochole.\n\nThe letters being dictated, signed, and sealed, Grangousier ordained that\nUlric Gallet, master of the requests, a very wise and discreet man, of\nwhose prudence and sound judgment he had made trial in several difficult\nand debateful matters, (should) go unto Picrochole, to show what had been\ndecreed amongst them.  At the same hour departed the good man Gallet, and\nhaving passed the ford, asked at the miller that dwelt there in what\ncondition Picrochole was:  who answered him that his soldiers had left him\nneither cock nor hen, that they were retired and shut up into the rock\nClermond, and that he would not advise him to go any further for fear of\nthe scouts, because they were enormously furious.  Which he easily\nbelieved, and therefore lodged that night with the miller.\n\nThe next morning he went with a trumpeter to the gate of the castle, and\nrequired the guards he might be admitted to speak with the king of somewhat\nthat concerned him.  These words being told unto the king, he would by no\nmeans consent that they should open the gate; but, getting upon the top of\nthe bulwark, said unto the ambassador, What is the news, what have you to\nsay?  Then the ambassador began to speak as followeth.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe speech made by Gallet to Picrochole.\n\nThere cannot arise amongst men a juster cause of grief than when they\nreceive hurt and damage where they may justly expect for favour and good\nwill; and not without cause, though without reason, have many, after they\nhad fallen into such a calamitous accident, esteemed this indignity less\nsupportable than the loss of their own lives, in such sort that, if they\nhave not been able by force of arms nor any other means, by reach of wit or\nsubtlety, to stop them in their course and restrain their fury, they have\nfallen into desperation, and utterly deprived themselves of this light.  It\nis therefore no wonder if King Grangousier, my master, be full of high\ndispleasure and much disquieted in mind upon thy outrageous and hostile\ncoming; but truly it would be a marvel if he were not sensible of and moved\nwith the incomparable abuses and injuries perpetrated by thee and thine\nupon those of his country, towards whom there hath been no example of\ninhumanity omitted.  Which in itself is to him so grievous, for the cordial\naffection wherewith he hath always cherished his subjects, that more it\ncannot be to any mortal man; yet in this, above human apprehension, is it\nto him the more grievous that these wrongs and sad offences have been\ncommitted by thee and thine, who, time out of mind, from all antiquity,\nthou and thy predecessors have been in a continual league and amity with\nhim and all his ancestors; which, even until this time, you have as sacred\ntogether inviolably preserved, kept, and entertained, so well, that not he\nand his only, but the very barbarous nations of the Poictevins, Bretons,\nManceaux, and those that dwell beyond the isles of the Canaries, and that\nof Isabella, have thought it as easy to pull down the firmament, and to set\nup the depths above the clouds, as to make a breach in your alliance; and\nhave been so afraid of it in their enterprises that they have never dared\nto provoke, incense, or endamage the one for fear of the other.  Nay, which\nis more, this sacred league hath so filled the world, that there are few\nnations at this day inhabiting throughout all the continent and isles of\nthe ocean, who have not ambitiously aspired to be received into it, upon\nyour own covenants and conditions, holding your joint confederacy in as\nhigh esteem as their own territories and dominions, in such sort, that from\nthe memory of man there hath not been either prince or league so wild and\nproud that durst have offered to invade, I say not your countries, but not\nso much as those of your confederates.  And if, by rash and heady counsel,\nthey have attempted any new design against them, as soon as they heard the\nname and title of your alliance, they have suddenly desisted from their\nenterprises.  What rage and madness, therefore, doth now incite thee, all\nold alliance infringed, all amity trod under foot, and all right violated,\nthus in a hostile manner to invade his country, without having been by him\nor his in anything prejudiced, wronged, or provoked?  Where is faith?\nWhere is law?  Where is reason?  Where is humanity?  Where is the fear of\nGod?  Dost thou think that these atrocious abuses are hidden from the\neternal spirit and the supreme God who is the just rewarder of all our\nundertakings?  If thou so think, thou deceivest thyself; for all things\nshall come to pass as in his incomprehensible judgment he hath appointed.\nIs it thy fatal destiny, or influences of the stars, that would put an end\nto thy so long enjoyed ease and rest?  For that all things have their end\nand period, so as that, when they are come to the superlative point of\ntheir greatest height, they are in a trice tumbled down again, as not being\nable to abide long in that state.  This is the conclusion and end of those\nwho cannot by reason and temperance moderate their fortunes and\nprosperities.  But if it be predestinated that thy happiness and ease must\nnow come to an end, must it needs be by wronging my king,--him by whom thou\nwert established?  If thy house must come to ruin, should it therefore in\nits fall crush the heels of him that set it up?  The matter is so\nunreasonable, and so dissonant from common sense, that hardly can it be\nconceived by human understanding, and altogether incredible unto strangers,\ntill by the certain and undoubted effects thereof it be made apparent that\nnothing is either sacred or holy to those who, having emancipated\nthemselves from God and reason, do merely follow the perverse affections of\ntheir own depraved nature.  If any wrong had been done by us to thy\nsubjects and dominions--if we had favoured thy ill-willers--if we had not\nassisted thee in thy need--if thy name and reputation had been wounded by\nus--or, to speak more truly, if the calumniating spirit, tempting to induce\nthee to evil, had, by false illusions and deceitful fantasies, put into thy\nconceit the impression of a thought that we had done unto thee anything\nunworthy of our ancient correspondence and friendship, thou oughtest first\nto have inquired out the truth, and afterwards by a seasonable warning to\nadmonish us thereof; and we should have so satisfied thee, according to\nthine own heart's desire, that thou shouldst have had occasion to be\ncontented.  But, O eternal God, what is thy enterprise?  Wouldst thou, like\na perfidious tyrant, thus spoil and lay waste my master's kingdom?  Hast\nthou found him so silly and blockish, that he would not--or so destitute of\nmen and money, of counsel and skill in military discipline, that he cannot\nwithstand thy unjust invasion?  March hence presently, and to-morrow, some\ntime of the day, retreat unto thine own country, without doing any kind of\nviolence or disorderly act by the way; and pay withal a thousand besans of\ngold (which, in English money, amounteth to five thousand pounds), for\nreparation of the damages thou hast done in this country.  Half thou shalt\npay to-morrow, and the other half at the ides of May next coming, leaving\nwith us in the mean time, for hostages, the Dukes of Turnbank, Lowbuttock,\nand Smalltrash, together with the Prince of Itches and Viscount of\nSnatchbit (Tournemoule, Bas-de-fesses, Menuail, Gratelles, Morpiaille.).\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Grangousier, to buy peace, caused the cakes to be restored.\n\nWith that the good man Gallet held his peace, but Picrochole to all his\ndiscourse answered nothing but Come and fetch them, come and fetch them,\n--they have ballocks fair and soft,--they will knead and provide some cakes\nfor you.  Then returned he to Grangousier, whom he found upon his knees\nbareheaded, crouching in a little corner of his cabinet, and humbly praying\nunto God that he would vouchsafe to assuage the choler of Picrochole, and\nbring him to the rule of reason without proceeding by force.  When the good\nman came back, he asked him, Ha, my friend, what news do you bring me?\nThere is neither hope nor remedy, said Gallet; the man is quite out of his\nwits, and forsaken of God.  Yea, but, said Grangousier, my friend, what\ncause doth he pretend for his outrages?  He did not show me any cause at\nall, said Gallet, only that in a great anger he spoke some words of cakes.\nI cannot tell if they have done any wrong to his cake-bakers.  I will know,\nsaid Grangousier, the matter thoroughly, before I resolve any more upon\nwhat is to be done.  Then sent he to learn concerning that business, and\nfound by true information that his men had taken violently some cakes from\nPicrochole's people, and that Marquet's head was broken with a slacky or\nshort cudgel; that, nevertheless, all was well paid, and that the said\nMarquet had first hurt Forgier with a stroke of his whip athwart the legs.\nAnd it seemed good to his whole council, that he should defend himself with\nall his might.  Notwithstanding all this, said Grangousier, seeing the\nquestion is but about a few cakes, I will labour to content him; for I am\nvery unwilling to wage war against him.  He inquired then what quantity of\ncakes they had taken away, and understanding that it was but some four or\nfive dozen, he commanded five cartloads of them to be baked that same\nnight; and that there should be one full of cakes made with fine butter,\nfine yolks of eggs, fine saffron, and fine spice, to be bestowed upon\nMarquet, unto whom likewise he directed to be given seven hundred thousand\nand three Philips (that is, at three shillings the piece, one hundred five\nthousand pounds and nine shillings of English money), for reparation of his\nlosses and hindrances, and for satisfaction of the chirurgeon that had\ndressed his wound; and furthermore settled upon him and his for ever in\nfreehold the apple-orchard called La Pomardiere.  For the conveyance and\npassing of all which was sent Gallet, who by the way as they went made them\ngather near the willow-trees great store of boughs, canes, and reeds,\nwherewith all the carriers were enjoined to garnish and deck their carts,\nand each of them to carry one in his hand, as himself likewise did, thereby\nto give all men to understand that they demanded but peace, and that they\ncame to buy it.\n\nBeing come to the gate, they required to speak with Picrochole from\nGrangousier.  Picrochole would not so much as let them in, nor go to speak\nwith them, but sent them word that he was busy, and that they should\ndeliver their mind to Captain Touquedillon, who was then planting a piece\nof ordnance upon the wall.  Then said the good man unto him, My lord, to\nease you of all this labour, and to take away all excuses why you may not\nreturn unto our former alliance, we do here presently restore unto you the\ncakes upon which the quarrel arose.  Five dozen did our people take away:\nthey were well paid for:  we love peace so well that we restore unto you\nfive cartloads, of which this cart shall be for Marquet, who doth most\ncomplain.  Besides, to content him entirely, here are seven hundred\nthousand and three Philips, which I deliver to him, and, for the losses he\nmay pretend to have sustained, I resign for ever the farm of the\nPomardiere, to be possessed in fee-simple by him and his for ever, without\nthe payment of any duty, or acknowledgement of homage, fealty, fine, or\nservice whatsoever, and here is the tenour of the deed.  And, for God's\nsake, let us live henceforward in peace, and withdraw yourselves merrily\ninto your own country from within this place, unto which you have no right\nat all, as yourselves must needs confess, and let us be good friends as\nbefore.  Touquedillon related all this to Picrochole, and more and more\nexasperated his courage, saying to him, These clowns are afraid to some\npurpose.  By G--, Grangousier conskites himself for fear, the poor drinker.\nHe is not skilled in warfare, nor hath he any stomach for it.  He knows\nbetter how to empty the flagons,--that is his art.  I am of opinion that it\nis fit we send back the carts and the money, and, for the rest, that very\nspeedily we fortify ourselves here, then prosecute our fortune.  But what!\nDo they think to have to do with a ninnywhoop, to feed you thus with cakes?\nYou may see what it is.  The good usage and great familiarity which you\nhave had with them heretofore hath made you contemptible in their eyes.\nAnoint a villain, he will prick you:  prick a villain, and he will anoint\nyou (Ungentem pungit, pungentem rusticus ungit.).\n\nSa, sa, sa, said Picrochole, by St. James you have given a true character\nof them.  One thing I will advise you, said Touquedillon.  We are here but\nbadly victualled, and furnished with mouth-harness very slenderly.  If\nGrangousier should come to besiege us, I would go presently, and pluck out\nof all your soldiers' heads and mine own all the teeth, except three to\neach of us, and with them alone we should make an end of our provision but\ntoo soon.  We shall have, said Picrochole, but too much sustenance and\nfeeding-stuff.  Came we hither to eat or to fight?  To fight, indeed, said\nTouquedillon; yet from the paunch comes the dance, and where famine rules\nforce is exiled.  Leave off your prating, said Picrochole, and forthwith\nseize upon what they have brought.  Then took they money and cakes, oxen\nand carts, and sent them away without speaking one word, only that they\nwould come no more so near, for a reason that they would give them the\nmorrow after.  Thus, without doing anything, returned they to Grangousier,\nand related the whole matter unto him, subjoining that there was no hope\nleft to draw them to peace but by sharp and fierce wars.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow some statesmen of Picrochole, by hairbrained counsel, put him in\nextreme danger.\n\nThe carts being unloaded, and the money and cakes secured, there came\nbefore Picrochole the Duke of Smalltrash, the Earl Swashbuckler, and\nCaptain Dirt-tail (Menuail, Spadassin, Merdaille.), who said unto him, Sir,\nthis day we make you the happiest, the most warlike and chivalrous prince\nthat ever was since the death of Alexander of Macedonia.  Be covered, be\ncovered, said Picrochole.  Gramercy, said they, we do but our duty.  The\nmanner is thus.  You shall leave some captain here to have the charge of\nthis garrison, with a party competent for keeping of the place, which,\nbesides its natural strength, is made stronger by the rampiers and\nfortresses of your devising.  Your army you are to divide into two parts,\nas you know very well how to do.  One part thereof shall fall upon\nGrangousier and his forces.  By it shall he be easily at the very first\nshock routed, and then shall you get money by heaps, for the clown hath\nstore of ready coin.  Clown we call him, because a noble and generous\nprince hath never a penny, and that to hoard up treasure is but a clownish\ntrick.  The other part of the army, in the meantime, shall draw towards\nOnys, Xaintonge, Angomois, and Gascony.  Then march to Perigot, Medoc, and\nElanes, taking wherever you come, without resistance, towns, castles, and\nforts; afterwards to Bayonne, St. John de Luc, to Fontarabia, where you\nshall seize upon all the ships, and coasting along Galicia and Portugal,\nshall pillage all the maritime places, even unto Lisbon, where you shall be\nsupplied with all necessaries befitting a conqueror.  By copsody, Spain\nwill yield, for they are but a race of loobies.  Then are you to pass by\nthe Straits of Gibraltar, where you shall erect two pillars more stately\nthan those of Hercules, to the perpetual memory of your name, and the\nnarrow entrance there shall be called the Picrocholinal sea.\n\nHaving passed the Picrocholinal sea, behold, Barbarossa yields himself your\nslave.  I will, said Picrochole, give him fair quarter and spare his life.\nYea, said they, so that he be content to be christened.  And you shall\nconquer the kingdoms of Tunis, of Hippo, Argier, Bomine (Bona), Corone,\nyea, all Barbary.  Furthermore, you shall take into your hands Majorca,\nMinorca, Sardinia, Corsica, with the other islands of the Ligustic and\nBalearian seas.  Going alongst on the left hand, you shall rule all Gallia\nNarbonensis, Provence, the Allobrogians, Genoa, Florence, Lucca, and then\nGod b'w'ye, Rome.  (Our poor Monsieur the Pope dies now for fear.)  By my\nfaith, said Picrochole, I will not then kiss his pantoufle.\n\nItaly being thus taken, behold Naples, Calabria, Apulia, and Sicily, all\nransacked, and Malta too.  I wish the pleasant Knights of the Rhodes\nheretofore would but come to resist you, that we might see their urine.  I\nwould, said Picrochole, very willingly go to Loretto.  No, no, said they,\nthat shall be at our return.  From thence we will sail eastwards, and take\nCandia, Cyprus, Rhodes, and the Cyclade Islands, and set upon (the) Morea.\nIt is ours, by St. Trenian.  The Lord preserve Jerusalem; for the great\nSoldan is not comparable to you in power.  I will then, said he, cause\nSolomon's temple to be built.  No, said they, not yet, have a little\npatience, stay awhile, be never too sudden in your enterprises.  Can you\ntell what Octavian Augustus said?  Festina lente.  It is requisite that you\nfirst have the Lesser Asia, Caria, Lycia, Pamphilia, Cilicia, Lydia,\nPhrygia, Mysia, Bithynia, Carazia, Satalia, Samagaria, Castamena, Luga,\nSavasta, even unto Euphrates.  Shall we see, said Picrochole, Babylon and\nMount Sinai?  There is no need, said they, at this time.  Have we not\nhurried up and down, travelled and toiled enough, in having transfretted\nand passed over the Hircanian sea, marched alongst the two Armenias and the\nthree Arabias?  Ay, by my faith, said he, we have played the fools, and are\nundone.  Ha, poor souls!  What's the matter? said they.  What shall we\nhave, said he, to drink in these deserts?  For Julian Augustus with his\nwhole army died there for thirst, as they say.  We have already, said they,\ngiven order for that.  In the Syriac sea you have nine thousand and\nfourteen great ships laden with the best wines in the world.  They arrived\nat Port Joppa.  There they found two-and-twenty thousand camels and sixteen\nhundred elephants, which you shall have taken at one hunting about\nSigelmes, when you entered into Lybia; and, besides this, you had all the\nMecca caravan.  Did not they furnish you sufficiently with wine?  Yes, but,\nsaid he, we did not drink it fresh.  By the virtue, said they, not of a\nfish, a valiant man, a conqueror, who pretends and aspires to the monarchy\nof the world, cannot always have his ease.  God be thanked that you and\nyour men are come safe and sound unto the banks of the river Tigris.  But,\nsaid he, what doth that part of our army in the meantime which overthrows\nthat unworthy swillpot Grangousier?  They are not idle, said they.  We\nshall meet with them by-and-by.  They shall have won you Brittany,\nNormandy, Flanders, Hainault, Brabant, Artois, Holland, Zealand; they have\npassed the Rhine over the bellies of the Switzers and lansquenets, and a\nparty of these hath subdued Luxembourg, Lorraine, Champagne, and Savoy,\neven to Lyons, in which place they have met with your forces returning from\nthe naval conquests of the Mediterranean sea; and have rallied again in\nBohemia, after they had plundered and sacked Suevia, Wittemberg, Bavaria,\nAustria, Moravia, and Styria.  Then they set fiercely together upon Lubeck,\nNorway, Swedeland, Rie, Denmark, Gitland, Greenland, the Sterlins, even\nunto the frozen sea.  This done, they conquered the Isles of Orkney and\nsubdued Scotland, England, and Ireland.  From thence sailing through the\nsandy sea and by the Sarmates, they have vanquished and overcome Prussia,\nPoland, Lithuania, Russia, Wallachia, Transylvania, Hungary, Bulgaria,\nTurkeyland, and are now at Constantinople.  Come, said Picrochole, let us\ngo join with them quickly, for I will be Emperor of Trebizond also.  Shall\nwe not kill all these dogs, Turks and Mahometans?  What a devil should we\ndo else? said they.  And you shall give their goods and lands to such as\nshall have served you honestly.  Reason, said he, will have it so, that is\nbut just.  I give unto you the Caramania, Suria, and all the Palestine.\nHa, sir, said they, it is out of your goodness; gramercy, we thank you.\nGod grant you may always prosper.  There was there present at that time an\nold gentleman well experienced in the wars, a stern soldier, and who had\nbeen in many great hazards, named Echephron, who, hearing this discourse,\nsaid, I do greatly doubt that all this enterprise will be like the tale or\ninterlude of the pitcher full of milk wherewith a shoemaker made himself\nrich in conceit; but, when the pitcher was broken, he had not whereupon to\ndine.  What do you pretend by these large conquests?  What shall be the end\nof so many labours and crosses?  Thus it shall be, said Picrochole, that\nwhen we are returned we shall sit down, rest, and be merry.  But, said\nEchephron, if by chance you should never come back, for the voyage is long\nand dangerous, were it not better for us to take our rest now, than\nunnecessarily to expose ourselves to so many dangers?  O, said\nSwashbuckler, by G--, here is a good dotard; come, let us go hide ourselves\nin the corner of a chimney, and there spend the whole time of our life\namongst ladies, in threading of pearls, or spinning, like Sardanapalus.  He\nthat nothing ventures hath neither horse nor mule, says Solomon.  He who\nadventureth too much, said Echephron, loseth both horse and mule, answered\nMalchon.  Enough, said Picrochole, go forward.  I fear nothing but that\nthese devilish legions of Grangousier, whilst we are in Mesopotamia, will\ncome on our backs and charge up our rear.  What course shall we then take?\nWhat shall be our remedy?  A very good one, said Dirt-tail; a pretty little\ncommission, which you must send unto the Muscovites, shall bring you into\nthe field in an instant four hundred and fifty thousand choice men of war.\nOh that you would but make me your lieutenant-general, I should for the\nlightest faults of any inflict great punishments.  I fret, I charge, I\nstrike, I take, I kill, I slay, I play the devil.  On, on, said Picrochole,\nmake haste, my lads, and let him that loves me follow me.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua left the city of Paris to succour his country, and how\nGymnast encountered with the enemy.\n\nIn this same very hour Gargantua, who was gone out of Paris as soon as he\nhad read his father's letters, coming upon his great mare, had already\npassed the Nunnery-bridge, himself, Ponocrates, Gymnast, and Eudemon, who\nall three, the better to enable them to go along with him, took\npost-horses.  The rest of his train came after him by even journeys at a\nslower pace, bringing with them all his books and philosophical instruments.\nAs soon as he had alighted at Parille, he was informed by a farmer of\nGouguet how Picrochole had fortified himself within the rock Clermond, and\nhad sent Captain Tripet with a great army to set upon the wood of Vede and\nVaugaudry, and that they had already plundered the whole country, not\nleaving cock nor hen, even as far as to the winepress of Billard.  These\nstrange and almost incredible news of the enormous abuses thus committed\nover all the land, so affrighted Gargantua that he knew not what to say nor\ndo.  But Ponocrates counselled him to go unto the Lord of Vauguyon, who at\nall times had been their friend and confederate, and that by him they should\nbe better advised in their business.  Which they did incontinently, and\nfound him very willing and fully resolved to assist them, and therefore was\nof opinion that they should send some one of his company to scout along and\ndiscover the country, to learn in what condition and posture the enemy was,\nthat they might take counsel, and proceed according to the present occasion.\nGymnast offered himself to go.  Whereupon it was concluded, that for his\nsafety and the better expedition, he should have with him someone that knew\nthe ways, avenues, turnings, windings, and rivers thereabout. Then away went\nhe and Prelingot, the equerry or gentleman of Vauguyon's horse, who scouted\nand espied as narrowly as they could upon all quarters without any fear.  In\nthe meantime Gargantua took a little refreshment, ate somewhat himself, the\nlike did those who were with him, and caused to give to his mare a picotine\nof oats, that is, three score and fourteen quarters and three bushels.\nGymnast and his comrade rode so long, that at last they met with the enemy's\nforces, all scattered and out of order, plundering, stealing, robbing, and\npillaging all they could lay their hands on.  And, as far off as they could\nperceive him, they ran thronging upon the back of one another in all haste\ntowards him, to unload him of his money, and untruss his portmantles.  Then\ncried he out unto them, My masters, I am a poor devil, I desire you to spare\nme.  I have yet one crown left.  Come, we must drink it, for it is aurum\npotabile, and this horse here shall be sold to pay my welcome.  Afterwards\ntake me for one of your own, for never yet was there any man that knew\nbetter how to take, lard, roast, and dress, yea, by G--, to tear asunder and\ndevour a hen, than I that am here:  and for my proficiat I drink to all good\nfellows.  With that he unscrewed his borracho (which was a great Dutch\nleathern bottle), and without putting in his nose drank very honestly.  The\nmaroufle rogues looked upon him, opening their throats a foot wide, and\nputting out their tongues like greyhounds, in hopes to drink after him; but\nCaptain Tripet, in the very nick of that their expectation, came running to\nhim to see who it was.  To him Gymnast offered his bottle, saying, Hold,\ncaptain, drink boldly and spare not; I have been thy taster, it is wine of\nLa Faye Monjau.  What! said Tripet, this fellow gibes and flouts us?  Who\nart thou? said Tripet.  I am, said Gymnast, a poor devil (pauvre diable).\nHa, said Tripet, seeing thou art a poor devil, it is reason that thou\nshouldst be permitted to go whithersoever thou wilt, for all poor devils\npass everywhere without toll or tax.  But it is not the custom of poor\ndevils to be so well mounted; therefore, sir devil, come down, and let me\nhave your horse, and if he do not carry me well, you, master devil, must do\nit:  for I love a life that such a devil as you should carry me away.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gymnast very souply and cunningly killed Captain Tripet and others of\nPicrochole's men.\n\nWhen they heard these words, some amongst them began to be afraid, and\nblessed themselves with both hands, thinking indeed that he had been a\ndevil disguised, insomuch that one of them, named Good John, captain of the\ntrained bands of the country bumpkins, took his psalter out of his\ncodpiece, and cried out aloud, Hagios ho theos.  If thou be of God, speak;\nif thou be of the other spirit, avoid hence, and get thee going.  Yet he\nwent not away.  Which words being heard by all the soldiers that were\nthere, divers of them being a little inwardly terrified, departed from the\nplace.  All this did Gymnast very well remark and consider, and therefore\nmaking as if he would have alighted from off his horse, as he was poising\nhimself on the mounting side, he most nimbly, with his short sword by his\nthigh, shifting his foot in the stirrup, performed the stirrup-leather\nfeat, whereby, after the inclining of his body downwards, he forthwith\nlaunched himself aloft in the air, and placed both his feet together on the\nsaddle, standing upright with his back turned towards the horse's head.\nNow, said he, my case goes backward.  Then suddenly in the same very\nposture wherein he was, he fetched a gambol upon one foot, and, turning to\nthe left hand, failed not to carry his body perfectly round, just into its\nformer stance, without missing one jot.  Ha, said Tripet, I will not do\nthat at this time, and not without cause.  Well, said Gymnast, I have\nfailed, I will undo this leap.  Then with a marvellous strength and\nagility, turning towards the right hand, he fetched another frisking gambol\nas before, which done, he set his right-hand thumb upon the hind-bow of the\nsaddle, raised himself up, and sprung in the air, poising and upholding his\nwhole body upon the muscle and nerve of the said thumb, and so turned and\nwhirled himself about three times.  At the fourth, reversing his body, and\noverturning it upside down, and foreside back, without touching anything,\nhe brought himself betwixt the horse's two ears, springing with all his\nbody into the air, upon the thumb of his left hand, and in that posture,\nturning like a windmill, did most actively do that trick which is called\nthe miller's pass.  After this, clapping his right hand flat upon the\nmiddle of the saddle, he gave himself such a jerking swing that he thereby\nseated himself upon the crupper, after the manner of gentlewomen sitting on\nhorseback.  This done, he easily passed his right leg over the saddle, and\nplaced himself like one that rides in croup.  But, said he, it were better\nfor me to get into the saddle; then putting the thumbs of both hands upon\nthe crupper before him, and thereupon leaning himself, as upon the only\nsupporters of his body, he incontinently turned heels over head in the air,\nand straight found himself betwixt the bow of the saddle in a good\nsettlement.  Then with a somersault springing into the air again, he fell\nto stand with both his feet close together upon the saddle, and there made\nabove a hundred frisks, turns, and demipommads, with his arms held out\nacross, and in so doing cried out aloud, I rage, I rage, devils, I am stark\nmad, devils, I am mad, hold me, devils, hold me, hold, devils, hold, hold!\n\nWhilst he was thus vaulting, the rogues in great astonishment said to one\nanother, By cock's death, he is a goblin or a devil thus disguised.  Ab\nhoste maligno libera nos, Domine, and ran away in a full flight, as if they\nhad been routed, looking now and then behind them, like a dog that carrieth\naway a goose-wing in his mouth.  Then Gymnast, spying his advantage,\nalighted from his horse, drew his sword, and laid on great blows upon the\nthickset and highest crested among them, and overthrew them in great heaps,\nhurt, wounded, and bruised, being resisted by nobody, they thinking he had\nbeen a starved devil, as well in regard of his wonderful feats in vaulting,\nwhich they had seen, as for the talk Tripet had with him, calling him poor\ndevil.  Only Tripet would have traitorously cleft his head with his\nhorseman's sword, or lance-knight falchion; but he was well armed, and felt\nnothing of the blow but the weight of the stroke.  Whereupon, turning\nsuddenly about, he gave Tripet a home-thrust, and upon the back of that,\nwhilst he was about to ward his head from a slash, he ran him in at the\nbreast with a hit, which at once cut his stomach, the fifth gut called the\ncolon, and the half of his liver, wherewith he fell to the ground, and in\nfalling gushed forth above four pottles of pottage, and his soul mingled\nwith the pottage.\n\nThis done, Gymnast withdrew himself, very wisely considering that a case of\ngreat adventure and hazard should not be pursued unto its utmost period,\nand that it becomes all cavaliers modestly to use their good fortune,\nwithout troubling or stretching it too far.  Wherefore, getting to horse,\nhe gave him the spur, taking the right way unto Vauguyon, and Prelinguand\nwith him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua demolished the castle at the ford of Vede, and how they\npassed the ford.\n\nAs soon as he came, he related the estate and condition wherein they had\nfound the enemy, and the stratagem which he alone had used against all\ntheir multitude, affirming that they were but rascally rogues, plunderers,\nthieves, and robbers, ignorant of all military discipline, and that they\nmight boldly set forward unto the field; it being an easy matter to fell\nand strike them down like beasts.  Then Gargantua mounted his great mare,\naccompanied as we have said before, and finding in his way a high and great\ntree, which commonly was called by the name of St. Martin's tree, because\nheretofore St. Martin planted a pilgrim's staff there, which in tract of\ntime grew to that height and greatness, said, This is that which I lacked;\nthis tree shall serve me both for a staff and lance.  With that he pulled\nit up easily, plucked off the boughs, and trimmed it at his pleasure.  In\nthe meantime his mare pissed to ease her belly, but it was in such\nabundance that it did overflow the country seven leagues, and all the piss\nof that urinal flood ran glib away towards the ford of Vede, wherewith the\nwater was so swollen that all the forces the enemy had there were with\ngreat horror drowned, except some who had taken the way on the left hand\ntowards the hills.  Gargantua, being come to the place of the wood of Vede,\nwas informed by Eudemon that there was some remainder of the enemy within\nthe castle, which to know, Gargantua cried out as loud as he was able, Are\nyou there, or are you not there?  If you be there, be there no more; and if\nyou are not there, I have no more to say.  But a ruffian gunner, whose\ncharge was to attend the portcullis over the gate, let fly a cannon-ball at\nhim, and hit him with that shot most furiously on the right temple of his\nhead, yet did him no more hurt than if he had but cast a prune or kernel of\na wine-grape at him.  What is this? said Gargantua; do you throw at us\ngrape-kernels here?  The vintage shall cost you dear; thinking indeed that\nthe bullet had been the kernel of a grape, or raisin-kernel.\n\nThose who were within the castle, being till then busy at the pillage, when\nthey heard this noise ran to the towers and fortresses, from whence they\nshot at him above nine thousand and five-and-twenty falconshot and\narquebusades, aiming all at his head, and so thick did they shoot at him\nthat he cried out, Ponocrates, my friend, these flies here are like to put\nout mine eyes; give me a branch of those willow-trees to drive them away,\nthinking that the bullets and stones shot out of the great ordnance had\nbeen but dunflies.  Ponocrates looked and saw that there were no other\nflies but great shot which they had shot from the castle.  Then was it that\nhe rushed with his great tree against the castle, and with mighty blows\noverthrew both towers and fortresses, and laid all level with the ground,\nby which means all that were within were slain and broken in pieces.  Going\nfrom thence, they came to the bridge at the mill, where they found all the\nford covered with dead bodies, so thick that they had choked up the mill\nand stopped the current of its water, and these were those that were\ndestroyed in the urinal deluge of the mare.  There they were at a stand,\nconsulting how they might pass without hindrance by these dead carcasses.\nBut Gymnast said, If the devils have passed there, I will pass well enough.\nThe devils have passed there, said Eudemon, to carry away the damned souls.\nBy St. Treignan! said Ponocrates, then by necessary consequence he shall\npass there.  Yes, yes, said Gymnastes, or I shall stick in the way.  Then\nsetting spurs to his horse, he passed through freely, his horse not fearing\nnor being anything affrighted at the sight of the dead bodies; for he had\naccustomed him, according to the doctrine of Aelian, not to fear armour,\nnor the carcasses of dead men; and that not by killing men as Diomedes did\nthe Thracians, or as Ulysses did in throwing the corpses of his enemies at\nhis horse's feet, as Homer saith, but by putting a Jack-a-lent amongst his\nhay, and making him go over it ordinarily when he gave him his oats.  The\nother three followed him very close, except Eudemon only, whose horse's\nfore-right or far forefoot sank up to the knee in the paunch of a great fat\nchuff who lay there upon his back drowned, and could not get it out.  There\nwas he pestered, until Gargantua, with the end of his staff, thrust down\nthe rest of the villain's tripes into the water whilst the horse pulled out\nhis foot; and, which is a wonderful thing in hippiatry, the said horse was\nthoroughly cured of a ringbone which he had in that foot by this touch of\nthe burst guts of that great looby.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua, in combing his head, made the great cannon-balls fall out of\nhis hair.\n\nBeing come out of the river of Vede, they came very shortly after to\nGrangousier's castle, who waited for them with great longing.  At their\ncoming they were entertained with many congees, and cherished with\nembraces.  Never was seen a more joyful company, for Supplementum\nSupplementi Chronicorum saith that Gargamelle died there with joy; for my\npart, truly I cannot tell, neither do I care very much for her, nor for\nanybody else.  The truth was, that Gargantua, in shifting his clothes, and\ncombing his head with a comb, which was nine hundred foot long of the\nJewish cane measure, and whereof the teeth were great tusks of elephants,\nwhole and entire, he made fall at every rake above seven balls of bullets,\nat a dozen the ball, that stuck in his hair at the razing of the castle of\nthe wood of Vede.  Which his father Grangousier seeing, thought they had\nbeen lice, and said unto him, What, my dear son, hast thou brought us this\nfar some short-winged hawks of the college of Montague?  I did not mean\nthat thou shouldst reside there.  Then answered Ponocrates, My sovereign\nlord, think not that I have placed him in that lousy college which they\ncall Montague; I had rather have put him amongst the grave-diggers of Sanct\nInnocent, so enormous is the cruelty and villainy that I have known there:\nfor the galley-slaves are far better used amongst the Moors and Tartars,\nthe murderers in the criminal dungeons, yea, the very dogs in your house,\nthan are the poor wretched students in the aforesaid college.  And if I\nwere King of Paris, the devil take me if I would not set it on fire, and\nburn both principal and regents, for suffering this inhumanity to be\nexercised before their eyes.  Then, taking up one of these bullets, he\nsaid, These are cannon-shot, which your son Gargantua hath lately received\nby the treachery of your enemies, as he was passing before the wood of\nVede.\n\nBut they have been so rewarded, that they are all destroyed in the ruin of\nthe castle, as were the Philistines by the policy of Samson, and those whom\nthe tower of Silohim slew, as it is written in the thirteenth of Luke.  My\nopinion is, that we pursue them whilst the luck is on our side; for\noccasion hath all her hair on her forehead; when she is passed, you may not\nrecall her,--she hath no tuft whereby you can lay hold on her, for she is\nbald in the hind-part of her head, and never returneth again.  Truly, said\nGrangousier, it shall not be at this time; for I will make you a feast\nthis night, and bid you welcome.\n\nThis said, they made ready supper, and, of extraordinary besides his daily\nfare, were roasted sixteen oxen, three heifers, two and thirty calves,\nthree score and three fat kids, four score and fifteen wethers, three\nhundred farrow pigs or sheats soused in sweet wine or must, eleven score\npartridges, seven hundred snipes and woodcocks, four hundred Loudun and\nCornwall capons, six thousand pullets, and as many pigeons, six hundred\ncrammed hens, fourteen hundred leverets, or young hares and rabbits, three\nhundred and three buzzards, and one thousand and seven hundred cockerels.\nFor venison, they could not so suddenly come by it, only eleven wild boars,\nwhich the Abbot of Turpenay sent, and eighteen fallow deer which the Lord\nof Gramount bestowed; together with seven score pheasants, which were sent\nby the Lord of Essars; and some dozens of queests, coushats, ringdoves, and\nwoodculvers; river-fowl, teals and awteals, bitterns, courtes, plovers,\nfrancolins, briganders, tyrasons, young lapwings, tame ducks, shovellers,\nwoodlanders, herons, moorhens, criels, storks, canepetiers, oranges,\nflamans, which are phaenicopters, or crimson-winged sea-fowls, terrigoles,\nturkeys, arbens, coots, solan-geese, curlews, termagants, and\nwater-wagtails, with a great deal of cream, curds, and fresh cheese, and\nstore of soup, pottages, and brewis with great variety.  Without doubt there\nwas meat enough, and it was handsomely dressed by Snapsauce, Hotchpot, and\nBrayverjuice, Grangousier's cooks.  Jenkin Trudgeapace and Cleanglass were\nvery careful to fill them drink.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua did eat up six pilgrims in a salad.\n\nThe story requireth that we relate that which happened unto six pilgrims\nwho came from Sebastian near to Nantes, and who for shelter that night,\nbeing afraid of the enemy, had hid themselves in the garden upon the\nchichling peas, among the cabbages and lettuces.  Gargantua finding himself\nsomewhat dry, asked whether they could get any lettuce to make him a salad;\nand hearing that there were the greatest and fairest in the country, for\nthey were as great as plum-trees or as walnut-trees, he would go thither\nhimself, and brought thence in his hand what he thought good, and withal\ncarried away the six pilgrims, who were in so great fear that they did not\ndare to speak nor cough.\n\nWashing them, therefore, first at the fountain, the pilgrims said one to\nanother softly, What shall we do?  We are almost drowned here amongst these\nlettuce, shall we speak?  But if we speak, he will kill us for spies.  And,\nas they were thus deliberating what to do, Gargantua put them with the\nlettuce into a platter of the house, as large as the huge tun of the White\nFriars of the Cistercian order; which done, with oil, vinegar, and salt, he\nate them up, to refresh himself a little before supper, and had already\nswallowed up five of the pilgrims, the sixth being in the platter, totally\nhid under a lettuce, except his bourdon or staff that appeared, and nothing\nelse.  Which Grangousier seeing, said to Gargantua, I think that is the\nhorn of a shell-snail, do not eat it.  Why not? said Gargantua, they are\ngood all this month:  which he no sooner said, but, drawing up the staff,\nand therewith taking up the pilgrim, he ate him very well, then drank a\nterrible draught of excellent white wine.  The pilgrims, thus devoured,\nmade shift to save themselves as well as they could, by withdrawing their\nbodies out of the reach of the grinders of his teeth, but could not escape\nfrom thinking they had been put in the lowest dungeon of a prison.  And\nwhen Gargantua whiffed the great draught, they thought to have been drowned\nin his mouth, and the flood of wine had almost carried them away into the\ngulf of his stomach.  Nevertheless, skipping with their bourdons, as St.\nMichael's palmers use to do, they sheltered themselves from the danger of\nthat inundation under the banks of his teeth.  But one of them by chance,\ngroping or sounding the country with his staff, to try whether they were in\nsafety or no, struck hard against the cleft of a hollow tooth, and hit the\nmandibulary sinew or nerve of the jaw, which put Gargantua to very great\npain, so that he began to cry for the rage that he felt.  To ease himself\ntherefore of his smarting ache, he called for his toothpicker, and rubbing\ntowards a young walnut-tree, where they lay skulking, unnestled you my\ngentlemen pilgrims.\n\nFor he caught one by the legs, another by the scrip, another by the pocket,\nanother by the scarf, another by the band of the breeches, and the poor\nfellow that had hurt him with the bourdon, him he hooked to him by the\ncodpiece, which snatch nevertheless did him a great deal of good, for it\npierced unto him a pocky botch he had in the groin, which grievously\ntormented him ever since they were past Ancenis.  The pilgrims, thus\ndislodged, ran away athwart the plain a pretty fast pace, and the pain\nceased, even just at the time when by Eudemon he was called to supper, for\nall was ready.  I will go then, said he, and piss away my misfortune; which\nhe did do in such a copious measure, that the urine taking away the feet\nfrom the pilgrims, they were carried along with the stream unto the bank of\na tuft of trees.  Upon which, as soon as they had taken footing, and that\nfor their self-preservation they had run a little out of the road, they on\na sudden fell all six, except Fourniller, into a trap that had been made to\ntake wolves by a train, out of which, nevertheless, they escaped by the\nindustry of the said Fourniller, who broke all the snares and ropes.  Being\ngone from thence, they lay all the rest of that night in a lodge near unto\nCoudray, where they were comforted in their miseries by the gracious words\nof one of their company, called Sweer-to-go, who showed them that this\nadventure had been foretold by the prophet David, Psalm.  Quum exsurgerent\nhomines in nos, forte vivos deglutissent nos; when we were eaten in the\nsalad, with salt, oil, and vinegar.  Quum irasceretur furor eorum in nos,\nforsitan aqua absorbuisset nos; when he drank the great draught.  Torrentem\npertransivit anima nostra; when the stream of his water carried us to the\nthicket.  Forsitan pertransisset anima nostra aquam intolerabilem; that is,\nthe water of his urine, the flood whereof, cutting our way, took our feet\nfrom us.  Benedictus Dominus qui non dedit nos in captionem dentibus eorum.\nAnima nostra sicut passer erepta est de laqueo venantium; when we fell in\nthe trap.  Laqueus contritus est, by Fourniller, et nos liberati sumus.\nAdjutorium nostrum, &c.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Monk was feasted by Gargantua, and of the jovial discourse they had\nat supper.\n\nWhen Gargantua was set down at table, after all of them had somewhat stayed\ntheir stomachs by a snatch or two of the first bits eaten heartily,\nGrangousier began to relate the source and cause of the war raised between\nhim and Picrochole; and came to tell how Friar John of the Funnels had\ntriumphed at the defence of the close of the abbey, and extolled him for\nhis valour above Camillus, Scipio, Pompey, Caesar, and Themistocles.  Then\nGargantua desired that he might be presently sent for, to the end that with\nhim they might consult of what was to be done.  Whereupon, by a joint\nconsent, his steward went for him, and brought him along merrily, with his\nstaff of the cross, upon Grangousier's mule.  When he was come, a thousand\nhuggings, a thousand embracements, a thousand good days were given.  Ha,\nFriar John, my friend Friar John, my brave cousin Friar John from the\ndevil!  Let me clip thee, my heart, about the neck; to me an armful.  I\nmust grip thee, my ballock, till thy back crack with it.  Come, my cod, let\nme coll thee till I kill thee.  And Friar John, the gladdest man in the\nworld, never was man made welcomer, never was any more courteously and\ngraciously received than Friar John.  Come, come, said Gargantua, a stool\nhere close by me at this end.  I am content, said the monk, seeing you will\nhave it so.  Some water, page; fill, my boy, fill; it is to refresh my\nliver.  Give me some, child, to gargle my throat withal.  Deposita cappa,\nsaid Gymnast, let us pull off this frock.  Ho, by G--, gentlemen, said the\nmonk, there is a chapter in Statutis Ordinis which opposeth my laying of it\ndown.  Pish! said Gymnast, a fig for your chapter!  This frock breaks both\nyour shoulders, put it off.  My friend, said the monk, let me alone with\nit; for, by G--, I'll drink the better that it is on.  It makes all my body\njocund.  If I should lay it aside, the waggish pages would cut to\nthemselves garters out of it, as I was once served at Coulaines.  And,\nwhich is worse, I shall lose my appetite.  But if in this habit I sit down\nat table, I will drink, by G--, both to thee and to thy horse, and so\ncourage, frolic, God save the company!  I have already supped, yet will I\neat never a whit the less for that; for I have a paved stomach, as hollow\nas a butt of malvoisie or St. Benedictus' boot (butt), and always open like\na lawyer's pouch.  Of all fishes but the tench take the wing of a partridge\nor the thigh of a nun.  Doth not he die like a good fellow that dies with a\nstiff catso?  Our prior loves exceedingly the white of a capon.  In that,\nsaid Gymnast, he doth not resemble the foxes; for of the capons, hens, and\npullets which they carry away they never eat the white.  Why? said the\nmonk.  Because, said Gymnast, they have no cooks to dress them; and, if\nthey be not competently made ready, they remain red and not white; the\nredness of meats being a token that they have not got enough of the fire,\nwhether by boiling, roasting, or otherwise, except the shrimps, lobsters,\ncrabs, and crayfishes, which are cardinalized with boiling.  By God's\nfeast-gazers, said the monk, the porter of our abbey then hath not his head\nwell boiled, for his eyes are as red as a mazer made of an alder-tree.  The\nthigh of this leveret is good for those that have the gout.  To the purpose\nof the truel,--what is the reason that the thighs of a gentlewoman are\nalways fresh and cool?  This problem, said Gargantua, is neither in\nAristotle, in Alexander Aphrodiseus, nor in Plutarch.  There are three\ncauses, said the monk, by which that place is naturally refreshed.  Primo,\nbecause the water runs all along by it.  Secundo, because it is a shady\nplace, obscure and dark, upon which the sun never shines.  And thirdly,\nbecause it is continually flabbelled, blown upon, and aired by the north\nwinds of the hole arstick, the fan of the smock, and flipflap of the\ncodpiece.  And lusty, my lads.  Some bousing liquor, page!  So! crack,\ncrack, crack.  O how good is God, that gives us of this excellent juice!  I\ncall him to witness, if I had been in the time of Jesus Christ, I would\nhave kept him from being taken by the Jews in the garden of Olivet.  And\nthe devil fail me, if I should have failed to cut off the hams of these\ngentlemen apostles who ran away so basely after they had well supped, and\nleft their good master in the lurch.  I hate that man worse than poison\nthat offers to run away when he should fight and lay stoutly about him.  Oh\nthat I were but King of France for fourscore or a hundred years!  By G--, I\nshould whip like curtail-dogs these runaways of Pavia.  A plague take them;\nwhy did they not choose rather to die there than to leave their good prince\nin that pinch and necessity?  Is it not better and more honourable to\nperish in fighting valiantly than to live in disgrace by a cowardly running\naway?  We are like to eat no great store of goslings this year; therefore,\nfriend, reach me some of that roasted pig there.\n\nDiavolo, is there no more must?  No more sweet wine?  Germinavit radix\nJesse.  Je renie ma vie, je meurs de soif; I renounce my life, I rage for\nthirst.  This wine is none of the worst.  What wine drink you at Paris?  I\ngive myself to the devil, if I did not once keep open house at Paris for\nall comers six months together.  Do you know Friar Claude of the high\nkilderkins?  Oh the good fellow that he is!  But I do not know what fly\nhath stung him of late, he is become so hard a student.  For my part, I\nstudy not at all.  In our abbey we never study for fear of the mumps, which\ndisease in horses is called the mourning in the chine.  Our late abbot was\nwont to say that it is a monstrous thing to see a learned monk.  By G--,\nmaster, my friend, Magis magnos clericos non sunt magis magnos sapientes.\nYou never saw so many hares as there are this year.  I could not anywhere\ncome by a goshawk nor tassel of falcon.  My Lord Belloniere promised me a\nlanner, but he wrote to me not long ago that he was become pursy.  The\npartridges will so multiply henceforth, that they will go near to eat up\nour ears.  I take no delight in the stalking-horse, for I catch such cold\nthat I am like to founder myself at that sport.  If I do not run, toil,\ntravel, and trot about, I am not well at ease.  True it is that in leaping\nover the hedges and bushes my frock leaves always some of its wool behind\nit.  I have recovered a dainty greyhound; I give him to the devil, if he\nsuffer a hare to escape him.  A groom was leading him to my Lord\nHuntlittle, and I robbed him of him.  Did I ill?  No, Friar John, said\nGymnast, no, by all the devils that are, no!  So, said the monk, do I\nattest these same devils so long as they last, or rather, virtue (of) G--,\nwhat could that gouty limpard have done with so fine a dog?  By the body of\nG--, he is better pleased when one presents him with a good yoke of oxen.\nHow now, said Ponocrates, you swear, Friar John.  It is only, said the\nmonk, but to grace and adorn my speech.  They are colours of a Ciceronian\nrhetoric.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhy monks are the outcasts of the world; and wherefore some have bigger\nnoses than others.\n\nBy the faith of a Christian, said Eudemon, I do wonderfully dote and enter\nin a great ecstasy when I consider the honesty and good fellowship of this\nmonk, for he makes us here all merry.  How is it, then, that they exclude\nthe monks from all good companies, calling them feast-troublers, marrers of\nmirth, and disturbers of all civil conversation, as the bees drive away the\ndrones from their hives?  Ignavum fucos pecus, said Maro, a praesepibus\narcent.  Hereunto, answered Gargantua, there is nothing so true as that the\nfrock and cowl draw unto itself the opprobries, injuries, and maledictions\nof the world, just as the wind called Cecias attracts the clouds.  The\nperemptory reason is, because they eat the ordure and excrements of the\nworld, that is to say, the sins of the people, and, like dung-chewers and\nexcrementitious eaters, they are cast into the privies and secessive\nplaces, that is, the convents and abbeys, separated from political\nconversation, as the jakes and retreats of a house are.  But if you\nconceive how an ape in a family is always mocked and provokingly incensed,\nyou shall easily apprehend how monks are shunned of all men, both young and\nold.  The ape keeps not the house as a dog doth, he draws not in the plough\nas the ox, he yields neither milk nor wool as the sheep, he carrieth no\nburden as a horse doth.  That which he doth, is only to conskite, spoil,\nand defile all, which is the cause wherefore he hath of all men mocks,\nfrumperies, and bastinadoes.\n\nAfter the same manner a monk--I mean those lither, idle, lazy monks--doth\nnot labour and work, as do the peasant and artificer; doth not ward and\ndefend the country, as doth the man of war; cureth not the sick and\ndiseased, as the physician doth; doth neither preach nor teach, as do the\nevangelical doctors and schoolmasters; doth not import commodities and\nthings necessary for the commonwealth, as the merchant doth.  Therefore is\nit that by and of all men they are hooted at, hated, and abhorred.  Yea,\nbut, said Grangousier, they pray to God for us.  Nothing less, answered\nGargantua.  True it is, that with a tingle tangle jangling of bells they\ntrouble and disquiet all their neighbours about them.  Right, said the\nmonk; a mass, a matin, a vesper well rung, are half said.  They mumble out\ngreat store of legends and psalms, by them not at all understood; they say\nmany paternosters interlarded with Ave-Maries, without thinking upon or\napprehending the meaning of what it is they say, which truly I call mocking\nof God, and not prayers.  But so help them God, as they pray for us, and\nnot for being afraid to lose their victuals, their manchots, and good fat\npottage.  All true Christians, of all estates and conditions, in all places\nand at all times, send up their prayers to God, and the Mediator prayeth\nand intercedeth for them, and God is gracious to them.  Now such a one is\nour good Friar John; therefore every man desireth to have him in his\ncompany.  He is no bigot or hypocrite; he is not torn and divided betwixt\nreality and appearance; no wretch of a rugged and peevish disposition, but\nhonest, jovial, resolute, and a good fellow.  He travels, he labours, he\ndefends the oppressed, comforts the afflicted, helps the needy, and keeps\nthe close of the abbey.  Nay, said the monk, I do a great deal more than\nthat; for whilst we are in despatching our matins and anniversaries in the\nchoir, I make withal some crossbow-strings, polish glass bottles and bolts,\nI twist lines and weave purse nets wherein to catch coneys.  I am never\nidle.  But now, hither come, some drink, some drink here!  Bring the fruit.\nThese chestnuts are of the wood of Estrox, and with good new wine are able\nto make you a fine cracker and composer of bum-sonnets.  You are not as\nyet, it seems, well moistened in this house with the sweet wine and must.\nBy G--, I drink to all men freely, and at all fords, like a proctor or\npromoter's horse.  Friar John, said Gymnast, take away the snot that hangs\nat your nose.  Ha, ha, said the monk, am not I in danger of drowning,\nseeing I am in water even to the nose?  No, no, Quare?  Quia, though some\nwater come out from thence, there never goes in any; for it is well\nantidoted with pot-proof armour and syrup of the vine-leaf.\n\nOh, my friend, he that hath winter-boots made of such leather may boldly\nfish for oysters, for they will never take water.  What is the cause, said\nGargantua, that Friar John hath such a fair nose?  Because, said\nGrangousier, that God would have it so, who frameth us in such form and for\nsuch end as is most agreeable with his divine will, even as a potter\nfashioneth his vessels.  Because, said Ponocrates, he came with the first\nto the fair of noses, and therefore made choice of the fairest and the\ngreatest.  Pish, said the monk, that is not the reason of it, but,\naccording to the true monastical philosophy, it is because my nurse had\nsoft teats, by virtue whereof, whilst she gave me suck, my nose did sink in\nas in so much butter.  The hard breasts of nurses make children\nshort-nosed.  But hey, gay, Ad formam nasi cognoscitur ad te levavi.  I\nnever eat any confections, page, whilst I am at the bibbery.  Item, bring\nme rather some toasts.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Monk made Gargantua sleep, and of his hours and breviaries.\n\nSupper being ended, they consulted of the business in hand, and concluded\nthat about midnight they should fall unawares upon the enemy, to know what\nmanner of watch and ward they kept, and that in the meanwhile they should\ntake a little rest the better to refresh themselves.  But Gargantua could\nnot sleep by any means, on which side soever he turned himself.  Whereupon\nthe monk said to him, I never sleep soundly but when I am at sermon or\nprayers.  Let us therefore begin, you and I, the seven penitential psalms,\nto try whether you shall not quickly fall asleep.  The conceit pleased\nGargantua very well, and, beginning the first of these psalms, as soon as\nthey came to the words Beati quorum they fell asleep, both the one and the\nother.  But the monk, for his being formerly accustomed to the hour of\nclaustral matins, failed not to awake a little before midnight, and, being\nup himself, awaked all the rest, in singing aloud, and with a full clear\nvoice, the song:\n\n  Awake, O Reinian, ho, awake!\n    Awake, O Reinian, ho!\n  Get up, you no more sleep must take;\n    Get up, for we must go.\n\nWhen they were all roused and up, he said, My masters, it is a usual\nsaying, that we begin matins with coughing and supper with drinking.  Let\nus now, in doing clean contrarily, begin our matins with drinking, and at\nnight before supper we shall cough as hard as we can.  What, said\nGargantua, to drink so soon after sleep?  This is not to live according to\nthe diet and prescript rule of the physicians, for you ought first to scour\nand cleanse your stomach of all its superfluities and excrements.  Oh, well\nphysicked, said the monk; a hundred devils leap into my body, if there be\nnot more old drunkards than old physicians!  I have made this paction and\ncovenant with my appetite, that it always lieth down and goes to bed with\nmyself, for to that I every day give very good order; then the next morning\nit also riseth with me and gets up when I am awake.  Mind you your charges,\ngentlemen, or tend your cures as much as you will.  I will get me to my\ndrawer; in terms of falconry, my tiring.  What drawer or tiring do you\nmean? said Gargantua.  My breviary, said the monk, for just as the\nfalconers, before they feed their hawks, do make them draw at a hen's leg\nto purge their brains of phlegm and sharpen them to a good appetite, so, by\ntaking this merry little breviary in the morning, I scour all my lungs and\nam presently ready to drink.\n\nAfter what manner, said Gargantua, do you say these fair hours and prayers\nof yours?  After the manner of Whipfield (Fessecamp, and corruptly Fecan.),\nsaid the monk, by three psalms and three lessons, or nothing at all, he\nthat will.  I never tie myself to hours, prayers, and sacraments; for they\nare made for the man and not the man for them.  Therefore is it that I make\nmy prayers in fashion of stirrup-leathers; I shorten or lengthen them when\nI think good.  Brevis oratio penetrat caelos et longa potatio evacuat\nscyphos.  Where is that written?  By my faith, said Ponocrates, I cannot\ntell, my pillicock, but thou art more worth than gold.  Therein, said the\nmonk, I am like you; but, venite, apotemus.  Then made they ready store of\ncarbonadoes, or rashers on the coals, and good fat soups, or brewis with\nsippets; and the monk drank what he pleased.  Some kept him company, and\nthe rest did forbear, for their stomachs were not as yet opened.\nAfterwards every man began to arm and befit himself for the field. And they\narmed the monk against his will; for he desired no other armour for back\nand breast but his frock, nor any other weapon in his hand but the staff of\nthe cross.  Yet at their pleasure was he completely armed cap-a-pie, and\nmounted upon one of the best horses in the kingdom, with a good slashing\nshable by his side, together with Gargantua, Ponocrates, Gymnast, Eudemon,\nand five-and-twenty more of the most resolute and adventurous of\nGrangousier's house, all armed at proof with their lances in their hands,\nmounted like St. George, and everyone of them having an arquebusier behind\nhim.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Monk encouraged his fellow-champions, and how he hanged upon a\ntree.\n\nThus went out those valiant champions on their adventure, in full\nresolution to know what enterprise they should undertake, and what to take\nheed of and look well to in the day of the great and horrible battle.  And\nthe monk encouraged them, saying, My children, do not fear nor doubt, I\nwill conduct you safely.  God and Sanct Benedict be with us!  If I had\nstrength answerable to my courage, by's death, I would plume them for you\nlike ducks.  I fear nothing but the great ordnance; yet I know of a charm\nby way of prayer, which the subsexton of our abbey taught me, that will\npreserve a man from the violence of guns and all manner of fire-weapons and\nengines; but it will do me no good, because I do not believe it.\nNevertheless, I hope my staff of the cross shall this day play devilish\npranks amongst them.  By G--, whoever of our party shall offer to play the\nduck, and shrink when blows are a-dealing, I give myself to the devil, if I\ndo not make a monk of him in my stead, and hamper him within my frock,\nwhich is a sovereign cure against cowardice.  Did you never hear of my Lord\nMeurles his greyhound, which was not worth a straw in the fields?  He put a\nfrock about his neck:  by the body of G--, there was neither hare nor fox\nthat could escape him, and, which is more, he lined all the bitches in the\ncountry, though before that he was feeble-reined and ex frigidis et\nmaleficiatis.\n\nThe monk uttering these words in choler, as he passed under a walnut-tree,\nin his way towards the causey, he broached the vizor of his helmet on the\nstump of a great branch of the said tree.  Nevertheless, he set his spurs\nso fiercely to the horse, who was full of mettle and quick on the spur,\nthat he bounded forwards, and the monk going about to ungrapple his vizor,\nlet go his hold of the bridle, and so hanged by his hand upon the bough,\nwhilst his horse stole away from under him.  By this means was the monk\nleft hanging on the walnut-tree, and crying for help, murder, murder,\nswearing also that he was betrayed.  Eudemon perceived him first, and\ncalling Gargantua said, Sir, come and see Absalom hanging.  Gargantua,\nbeing come, considered the countenance of the monk, and in what posture he\nhanged; wherefore he said to Eudemon, You were mistaken in comparing him to\nAbsalom; for Absalom hung by his hair, but this shaveling monk hangeth by\nthe ears.  Help me, said the monk, in the devil's name; is this a time for\nyou to prate?  You seem to me to be like the decretalist preachers, who say\nthat whosoever shall see his neighbour in the danger of death, ought, upon\npain of trisulk excommunication, rather choose to admonish him to make his\nconfession to a priest, and put his conscience in the state of peace, than\notherwise to help and relieve him.\n\nAnd therefore when I shall see them fallen into a river, and ready to be\ndrowned, I shall make them a fair long sermon de contemptu mundi, et fuga\nseculi; and when they are stark dead, shall then go to their aid and\nsuccour in fishing after them.  Be quiet, said Gymnast, and stir not, my\nminion.  I am now coming to unhang thee and to set thee at freedom, for\nthou art a pretty little gentle monachus.  Monachus in claustro non valet\nova duo; sed quando est extra, bene valet triginta.  I have seen above five\nhundred hanged, but I never saw any have a better countenance in his\ndangling and pendilatory swagging.  Truly, if I had so good a one, I would\nwillingly hang thus all my lifetime.  What, said the monk, have you almost\ndone preaching?  Help me, in the name of God, seeing you will not in the\nname of the other spirit, or, by the habit which I wear, you shall repent\nit, tempore et loco praelibatis.\n\nThen Gymnast alighted from his horse, and, climbing up the walnut-tree,\nlifted up the monk with one hand by the gussets of his armour under the\narmpits, and with the other undid his vizor from the stump of the broken\nbranch; which done, he let him fall to the ground and himself after.  As\nsoon as the monk was down, he put off all his armour, and threw away one\npiece after another about the field, and, taking to him again his staff of\nthe cross, remounted up to his horse, which Eudemon had caught in his\nrunning away.  Then went they on merrily, riding along on the highway.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the scouts and fore-party of Picrochole were met with by Gargantua, and\nhow the Monk slew Captain Drawforth (Tirevant.), and then was taken\nprisoner by his enemies.\n\nPicrochole, at the relation of those who had escaped out of the broil and\ndefeat wherein Tripet was untriped, grew very angry that the devils should\nhave so run upon his men, and held all that night a counsel of war, at\nwhich Rashcalf and Touchfaucet (Hastiveau, Touquedillon.), concluded his\npower to be such that he was able to defeat all the devils of hell if they\nshould come to jostle with his forces.  This Picrochole did not fully\nbelieve, though he doubted not much of it.  Therefore sent he under the\ncommand and conduct of the Count Drawforth, for discovering of the country,\nthe number of sixteen hundred horsemen, all well mounted upon light horses\nfor skirmish and thoroughly besprinkled with holy water; and everyone for\ntheir field-mark or cognizance had the sign of a star in his scarf, to\nserve at all adventures in case they should happen to encounter with\ndevils, that by the virtue, as well of that Gregorian water as of the stars\nwhich they wore, they might make them disappear and evanish.\n\nIn this equipage they made an excursion upon the country till they came\nnear to the Vauguyon, which is the valley of Guyon, and to the spital, but\ncould never find anybody to speak unto; whereupon they returned a little\nback, and took occasion to pass above the aforesaid hospital to try what\nintelligence they could come by in those parts.  In which resolution riding\non, and by chance in a pastoral lodge or shepherd's cottage near to Coudray\nhitting upon the five pilgrims, they carried them way-bound and manacled,\nas if they had been spies, for all the exclamations, adjurations, and\nrequests that they could make.  Being come down from thence towards\nSeville, they were heard by Gargantua, who said then unto those that were\nwith him, Comrades and fellow-soldiers, we have here met with an encounter,\nand they are ten times in number more than we.  Shall we charge them or no?\nWhat a devil, said the monk, shall we do else?  Do you esteem men by their\nnumber rather than by their valour and prowess?  With this he cried out,\nCharge, devils, charge!  Which when the enemies heard, they thought\ncertainly that they had been very devils, and therefore even then began all\nof them to run away as hard as they could drive, Drawforth only excepted,\nwho immediately settled his lance on its rest, and therewith hit the monk\nwith all his force on the very middle of his breast, but, coming against\nhis horrific frock, the point of the iron being with the blow either broke\noff or blunted, it was in matter of execution as if you had struck against\nan anvil with a little wax-candle.\n\nThen did the monk with his staff of the cross give him such a sturdy thump\nand whirret betwixt his neck and shoulders, upon the acromion bone, that he\nmade him lose both sense and motion and fall down stone dead at his horse's\nfeet; and, seeing the sign of the star which he wore scarfwise, he said\nunto Gargantua, These men are but priests, which is but the beginning of a\nmonk; by St. John, I am a perfect monk, I will kill them to you like flies.\nThen ran he after them at a swift and full gallop till he overtook the\nrear, and felled them down like tree-leaves, striking athwart and alongst\nand every way.  Gymnast presently asked Gargantua if they should pursue\nthem.  To whom Gargantua answered, By no means; for, according to right\nmilitary discipline, you must never drive your enemy unto despair, for that\nsuch a strait doth multiply his force and increase his courage, which was\nbefore broken and cast down; neither is there any better help or outrage of\nrelief for men that are amazed, out of heart, toiled, and spent, than to\nhope for no favour at all.  How many victories have been taken out of the\nhands of the victors by the vanquished, when they would not rest satisfied\nwith reason, but attempt to put all to the sword, and totally to destroy\ntheir enemies, without leaving so much as one to carry home news of the\ndefeat of his fellows.  Open, therefore, unto your enemies all the gates\nand ways, and make to them a bridge of silver rather than fail, that you\nmay be rid of them.  Yea, but, said Gymnast, they have the monk.  Have they\nthe monk? said Gargantua.  Upon mine honour, then, it will prove to their\ncost.  But to prevent all dangers, let us not yet retreat, but halt here\nquietly as in an ambush; for I think I do already understand the policy and\njudgment of our enemies.  They are truly more directed by chance and mere\nfortune than by good advice and counsel.  In the meanwhile, whilst these\nmade a stop under the walnut-trees, the monk pursued on the chase, charging\nall he overtook, and giving quarter to none, until he met with a trooper\nwho carried behind him one of the poor pilgrims, and there would have\nrifled him.  The pilgrim, in hope of relief at the sight of the monk, cried\nout, Ha, my lord prior, my good friend, my lord prior, save me, I beseech\nyou, save me!  Which words being heard by those that rode in the van, they\ninstantly faced about, and seeing there was nobody but the monk that made\nthis great havoc and slaughter among them, they loaded him with blows as\nthick as they use to do an ass with wood.  But of all this he felt nothing,\nespecially when they struck upon his frock, his skin was so hard.  Then\nthey committed him to two of the marshal's men to keep, and, looking about,\nsaw nobody coming against them, whereupon they thought that Gargantua and\nhis party were fled.  Then was it that they rode as hard as they could\ntowards the walnut-trees to meet with them, and left the monk there all\nalone, with his two foresaid men to guard him.  Gargantua heard the noise\nand neighing of the horses, and said to his men, Comrades, I hear the track\nand beating of the enemy's horse-feet, and withal perceive that some of\nthem come in a troop and full body against us.  Let us rally and close\nhere, then set forward in order, and by this means we shall be able to\nreceive their charge to their loss and our honour.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Monk rid himself of his keepers, and how Picrochole's forlorn hope\nwas defeated.\n\nThe monk, seeing them break off thus without order, conjectured that they\nwere to set upon Gargantua and those that were with him, and was\nwonderfully grieved that he could not succour them.  Then considered he the\ncountenance of the two keepers in whose custody he was, who would have\nwillingly run after the troops to get some booty and plunder, and were\nalways looking towards the valley unto which they were going.  Farther, he\nsyllogized, saying, These men are but badly skilled in matters of war, for\nthey have not required my parole, neither have they taken my sword from me.\nSuddenly hereafter he drew his brackmard or horseman's sword, wherewith he\ngave the keeper which held him on the right side such a sound slash that he\ncut clean through the jugulary veins and the sphagitid or transparent\narteries of the neck, with the fore-part of the throat called the\ngargareon, even unto the two adenes, which are throat kernels; and,\nredoubling the blow, he opened the spinal marrow betwixt the second and\nthird vertebrae.  There fell down that keeper stark dead to the ground.\nThen the monk, reining his horse to the left, ran upon the other, who,\nseeing his fellow dead, and the monk to have the advantage of him, cried\nwith a loud voice, Ha, my lord prior, quarter; I yield, my lord prior,\nquarter; quarter, my good friend, my lord prior.  And the monk cried\nlikewise, My lord posterior, my friend, my lord posterior, you shall have\nit upon your posteriorums.  Ha, said the keeper, my lord prior, my minion,\nmy gentle lord prior, I pray God make you an abbot.  By the habit, said the\nmonk, which I wear, I will here make you a cardinal.  What! do you use to\npay ransoms to religious men?  You shall therefore have by-and-by a red hat\nof my giving.  And the fellow cried, Ha, my lord prior, my lord prior, my\nlord abbot that shall be, my lord cardinal, my lord all!  Ha, ha, hes, no,\nmy lord prior, my good little lord the prior, I yield, render and deliver\nmyself up to you.  And I deliver thee, said the monk, to all the devils in\nhell.  Then at one stroke he cut off his head, cutting his scalp upon the\ntemple-bones, and lifting up in the upper part of the skull the two\ntriangulary bones called sincipital, or the two bones bregmatis, together\nwith the sagittal commissure or dartlike seam which distinguisheth the\nright side of the head from the left, as also a great part of the coronal\nor forehead bone, by which terrible blow likewise he cut the two meninges\nor films which enwrap the brain, and made a deep wound in the brain's two\nposterior ventricles, and the cranium or skull abode hanging upon his\nshoulders by the skin of the pericranium behind, in form of a doctor's\nbonnet, black without and red within.  Thus fell he down also to the ground\nstark dead.\n\nAnd presently the monk gave his horse the spur, and kept the way that the\nenemy held, who had met with Gargantua and his companions in the broad\nhighway, and were so diminished of their number for the enormous slaughter\nthat Gargantua had made with his great tree amongst them, as also Gymnast,\nPonocrates, Eudemon, and the rest, that they began to retreat disorderly\nand in great haste, as men altogether affrighted and troubled in both sense\nand understanding, and as if they had seen the very proper species and form\nof death before their eyes; or rather, as when you see an ass with a brizze\nor gadbee under his tail, or fly that stings him, run hither and thither\nwithout keeping any path or way, throwing down his load to the ground,\nbreaking his bridle and reins, and taking no breath nor rest, and no man\ncan tell what ails him, for they see not anything touch him.  So fled these\npeople destitute of wit, without knowing any cause of flying, only pursued\nby a panic terror which in their minds they had conceived.  The monk,\nperceiving that their whole intent was to betake themselves to their heels,\nalighted from his horse and got upon a big large rock which was in the way,\nand with his great brackmard sword laid such load upon those runaways, and\nwith main strength fetching a compass with his arm without feigning or\nsparing, slew and overthrew so many that his sword broke in two pieces.\nThen thought he within himself that he had slain and killed sufficiently,\nand that the rest should escape to carry news.  Therefore he took up a\nbattle-axe of those that lay there dead, and got upon the rock again,\npassing his time to see the enemy thus flying and to tumble himself amongst\nthe dead bodies, only that he suffered none to carry pike, sword, lance,\nnor gun with him, and those who carried the pilgrims bound he made to\nalight, and gave their horses unto the said pilgrims, keeping them there\nwith him under the hedge, and also Touchfaucet, who was then his prisoner.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Monk carried along with him the Pilgrims, and of the good words\nthat Grangousier gave them.\n\nThis skirmish being ended, Gargantua retreated with his men, excepting the\nmonk, and about the dawning of the day they came unto Grangousier, who in\nhis bed was praying unto God for their safety and victory.  And seeing them\nall safe and sound, he embraced them lovingly, and asked what was become of\nthe monk.  Gargantua answered him that without doubt the enemies had the\nmonk.  Then have they mischief and ill luck, said Grangousier; which was\nvery true.  Therefore is it a common proverb to this day, to give a man the\nmonk, or, as in French, lui bailler le moine, when they would express the\ndoing unto one a mischief.  Then commanded he a good breakfast to be\nprovided for their refreshment.  When all was ready, they called Gargantua,\nbut he was so aggrieved that the monk was not to be heard of that he would\nneither eat nor drink.  In the meanwhile the monk comes, and from the gate\nof the outer court cries out aloud, Fresh wine, fresh wine, Gymnast my\nfriend!  Gymnast went out and saw that it was Friar John, who brought along\nwith him five pilgrims and Touchfaucet prisoners; whereupon Gargantua\nlikewise went forth to meet him, and all of them made him the best welcome\nthat possibly they could, and brought him before Grangousier, who asked him\nof all his adventures.  The monk told him all, both how he was taken, how\nhe rid himself of his keepers, of the slaughter he had made by the way, and\nhow he had rescued the pilgrims and brought along with him Captain\nTouchfaucet.  Then did they altogether fall to banqueting most merrily.  In\nthe meantime Grangousier asked the pilgrims what countrymen they were,\nwhence they came, and whither they went.  Sweer-to-go in the name of the\nrest answered, My sovereign lord, I am of Saint Genou in Berry, this man is\nof Palvau, this other is of Onzay, this of Argy, this of St. Nazarand, and\nthis man of Villebrenin.  We come from Saint Sebastian near Nantes, and are\nnow returning, as we best may, by easy journeys.  Yea, but, said\nGrangousier, what went you to do at Saint Sebastian?  We went, said\nSweer-to-go, to offer up unto that sanct our vows against the plague.  Ah,\npoor men! said Grangousier, do you think that the plague comes from Saint\nSebastian?  Yes, truly, answered Sweer-to-go, our preachers tell us so\nindeed.  But is it so, said Grangousier, do the false prophets teach you\nsuch abuses?  Do they thus blaspheme the sancts and holy men of God, as to\nmake them like unto the devils, who do nothing but hurt unto mankind,--as\nHomer writeth, that the plague was sent into the camp of the Greeks by\nApollo, and as the poets feign a great rabble of Vejoves and mischievous\ngods.  So did a certain cafard or dissembling religionary preach at Sinay,\nthat Saint Anthony sent the fire into men's legs, that Saint Eutropius made\nmen hydropic, Saint Clidas, fools, and that Saint Genou made them goutish.\nBut I punished him so exemplarily, though he called me heretic for it, that\nsince that time no such hypocritical rogue durst set his foot within my\nterritories.  And truly I wonder that your king should suffer them in their\nsermons to publish such scandalous doctrine in his dominions; for they\ndeserve to be chastised with greater severity than those who, by magical\nart, or any other device, have brought the pestilence into a country.  The\npest killeth but the bodies, but such abominable imposters empoison our\nvery souls.  As he spake these words, in came the monk very resolute, and\nasked them, Whence are you, you poor wretches?  Of Saint Genou, said they.\nAnd how, said the monk, does the Abbot Gulligut, the good drinker,--and the\nmonks, what cheer make they?  By G-- body, they'll have a fling at your\nwives, and breast them to some purpose, whilst you are upon your roaming\nrant and gadding pilgrimage.  Hin, hen, said Sweer-to-go, I am not afraid\nof mine, for he that shall see her by day will never break his neck to come\nto her in the night-time.  Yea, marry, said the monk, now you have hit it.\nLet her be as ugly as ever was Proserpina, she will once, by the Lord G--,\nbe overturned, and get her skin-coat shaken, if there dwell any monks near\nto her; for a good carpenter will make use of any kind of timber.  Let me\nbe peppered with the pox, if you find not all your wives with child at your\nreturn; for the very shadow of the steeple of an abbey is fruitful.  It is,\nsaid Gargantua, like the water of Nilus in Egypt, if you believe Strabo and\nPliny, Lib. 7, cap. 3.  What virtue will there be then, said the monk, in\ntheir bullets of concupiscence, their habits and their bodies?\n\nThen, said Grangousier, go your ways, poor men, in the name of God the\nCreator, to whom I pray to guide you perpetually, and henceforward be not\nso ready to undertake these idle and unprofitable journeys.  Look to your\nfamilies, labour every man in his vocation, instruct your children, and\nlive as the good apostle St. Paul directeth you; in doing whereof, God, his\nangels and sancts, will guard and protect you, and no evil or plague at any\ntime shall befall you.  Then Gargantua led them into the hall to take their\nrefection; but the pilgrims did nothing but sigh, and said to Gargantua, O\nhow happy is that land which hath such a man for their lord!  We have been\nmore edified and instructed by the talk which he had with us, than by all\nthe sermons that ever were preached in our town.  This is, said Gargantua,\nthat which Plato saith, Lib. 5 de Republ., that those commonwealths are\nhappy, whose rulers philosophate, and whose philosophers rule.  Then caused\nhe their wallets to be filled with victuals and their bottles with wine,\nand gave unto each of them a horse to ease them upon the way, together with\nsome pence to live by.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Grangousier did very kindly entertain Touchfaucet his prisoner.\n\nTouchfaucet was presented unto Grangousier, and by him examined upon the\nenterprise and attempt of Picrochole, what it was he could pretend to, or\naim at, by the rustling stir and tumultuary coil of this his sudden\ninvasion.  Whereunto he answered, that his end and purpose was to conquer\nall the country, if he could, for the injury done to his cake-bakers.  It\nis too great an undertaking, said Grangousier; and, as the proverb is, He\nthat grips too much, holds fast but little.  The time is not now as\nformerly, to conquer the kingdoms of our neighbour princes, and to build up\nour own greatness upon the loss of our nearest Christian Brother.  This\nimitation of the ancient Herculeses, Alexanders, Hannibals, Scipios,\nCaesars, and other such heroes, is quite contrary to the profession of the\ngospel of Christ, by which we are commanded to preserve, keep, rule, and\ngovern every man his own country and lands, and not in a hostile manner to\ninvade others; and that which heretofore the Barbars and Saracens called\nprowess and valour, we do now call robbing, thievery, and wickedness.  It\nwould have been more commendable in him to have contained himself within\nthe bounds of his own territories, royally governing them, than to insult\nand domineer in mine, pillaging and plundering everywhere like a most\nunmerciful enemy; for, by ruling his own with discretion, he might have\nincreased his greatness, but by robbing me he cannot escape destruction.\nGo your ways in the name of God, prosecute good enterprises, show your king\nwhat is amiss, and never counsel him with regard unto your own particular\nprofit, for the public loss will swallow up the private benefit.  As for\nyour ransom, I do freely remit it to you, and will that your arms and horse\nbe restored to you; so should good neighbours do, and ancient friends,\nseeing this our difference is not properly war.  As Plato, Lib. 5 de\nRepub., would not have it called war, but sedition, when the Greeks took up\narms against one another, and that therefore, when such combustions should\narise amongst them, his advice was to behave themselves in the managing of\nthem with all discretion and modesty.  Although you call it war, it is but\nsuperficial; it entereth not into the closet and inmost cabinet of our\nhearts.  For neither of us hath been wronged in his honour, nor is there\nany question betwixt us in the main, but only how to redress, by the bye,\nsome petty faults committed by our men,--I mean, both yours and ours,\nwhich, although you knew, you ought to let pass; for these quarrelsome\npersons deserve rather to be contemned than mentioned, especially seeing I\noffered them satisfaction according to the wrong.  God shall be the just\njudge of our variances, whom I beseech by death rather to take me out of\nthis life, and to permit my goods to perish and be destroyed before mine\neyes, than that by me or mine he should in any sort be wronged.  These\nwords uttered, he called the monk, and before them all thus spoke unto him,\nFriar John, my good friend, it is you that took prisoner the Captain\nTouchfaucet here present?  Sir, said the monk, seeing himself is here, and\nthat he is of the years of discretion, I had rather you should know it by\nhis confession than by any words of mine.  Then said Touchfaucet, My\nsovereign lord it is he indeed that took me, and I do therefore most freely\nyield myself his prisoner.  Have you put him to any ransom? said\nGrangousier to the monk.  No, said the monk, of that I take no care.  How\nmuch would you have for having taken him?  Nothing, nothing, said the monk;\nI am not swayed by that, nor do I regard it.  Then Grangousier commanded\nthat, in presence of Touchfaucet, should be delivered to the monk for\ntaking him the sum of three score and two thousand saluts (in English\nmoney, fifteen thousand and five hundred pounds), which was done, whilst\nthey made a collation or little banquet to the said Touchfaucet, of whom\nGrangousier asked if he would stay with him, or if he loved rather to\nreturn to his king.  Touchfaucet answered that he was content to take\nwhatever course he would advise him to.  Then, said Grangousier, return\nunto your king, and God be with you.\n\nThen he gave him an excellent sword of a Vienne blade, with a golden\nscabbard wrought with vine-branch-like flourishes, of fair goldsmith's\nwork, and a collar or neck-chain of gold, weighing seven hundred and two\nthousand marks (at eight ounces each), garnished with precious stones of\nthe finest sort, esteemed at a hundred and sixty thousand ducats, and ten\nthousand crowns more, as an honourable donative, by way of present.\n\nAfter this talk Touchfaucet got to his horse, and Gargantua for his safety\nallowed him the guard of thirty men-at-arms and six score archers to attend\nhim, under the conduct of Gymnast, to bring him even unto the gate of the\nrock Clermond, if there were need.  As soon as he was gone, the monk\nrestored unto Grangousier the three score and two thousand saluts which he\nhad received, saying, Sir, it is not as yet the time for you to give such\ngifts; stay till this war be at an end, for none can tell what accidents\nmay occur, and war begun without good provision of money beforehand for\ngoing through with it, is but as a breathing of strength, and blast that\nwill quickly pass away.  Coin is the sinews of war.  Well then, said\nGrangousier, at the end I will content you by some honest recompense, as\nalso all those who shall do me good service.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Grangousier sent for his legions, and how Touchfaucet slew Rashcalf,\nand was afterwards executed by the command of Picrochole.\n\nAbout this same time those of Besse, of the Old Market, of St. James'\nBourg, of the Draggage, of Parille, of the Rivers, of the rocks St. Pol, of\nthe Vaubreton, of Pautille, of the Brehemont, of Clainbridge, of Cravant,\nof Grammont, of the town at the Badgerholes, of Huymes, of Segre, of Husse,\nof St. Lovant, of Panzoust, of the Coldraux, of Verron, of Coulaines, of\nChose, of Varenes, of Bourgueil, of the Bouchard Island, of the Croullay,\nof Narsay, of Cande, of Montsoreau, and other bordering places, sent\nambassadors unto Grangousier, to tell him that they were advised of the\ngreat wrongs which Picrochole had done him, and, in regard of their ancient\nconfederacy, offered him what assistance they could afford, both in men,\nmoney, victuals, and ammunition, and other necessaries for war.  The money\nwhich by the joint agreement of them all was sent unto him, amounted to six\nscore and fourteen millions, two crowns and a half of pure gold.  The\nforces wherewith they did assist him did consist in fifteen thousand\ncuirassiers, two-and-thirty thousand light horsemen, four score and nine\nthousand dragoons, and a hundred-and-forty thousand volunteer adventurers.\nThese had with them eleven thousand and two hundred cannons, double\ncannons, long pieces of artillery called basilisks, and smaller sized ones\nknown by the name of spirols, besides the mortar-pieces and grenadoes.  Of\npioneers they had seven-and-forty thousand, all victualled and paid for six\nmonths and four days of advance.  Which offer Gargantua did not altogether\nrefuse, nor wholly accept of; but, giving them hearty thanks, said that he\nwould compose and order the war by such a device, that there should not be\nfound great need to put so many honest men to trouble in the managing of\nit; and therefore was content at that time to give order only for bringing\nalong the legions which he maintained in his ordinary garrison towns of the\nDeviniere, of Chavigny, of Gravot, and of the Quinquenais, amounting to the\nnumber of two thousand cuirassiers, three score and six thousand\nfoot-soldiers, six-and-twenty thousand dragoons, attended by two hundred\npieces of great ordnance, two-and-twenty thousand pioneers, and six thousand\nlight horsemen, all drawn up in troops, so well befitted and accommodated\nwith their commissaries, sutlers, farriers, harness-makers, and other such\nlike necessary members in a military camp, so fully instructed in the art of\nwarfare, so perfectly knowing and following their colours, so ready to hear\nand obey their captains, so nimble to run, so strong at their charging, so\nprudent in their adventures, and every day so well disciplined, that they\nseemed rather to be a concert of organ-pipes, or mutual concord of the\nwheels of a clock, than an infantry and cavalry, or army of soldiers.\n\nTouchfaucet immediately after his return presented himself before\nPicrochole, and related unto him at large all that he had done and seen,\nand at last endeavoured to persuade him with strong and forcible arguments\nto capitulate and make an agreement with Grangousier, whom he found to be\nthe honestest man in the world; saying further, that it was neither right\nnor reason thus to trouble his neighbours, of whom they had never received\nanything but good.  And in regard of the main point, that they should never\nbe able to go through stitch with that war, but to their great damage and\nmischief; for the forces of Picrochole were not so considerable but that\nGrangousier could easily overthrow them.\n\nHe had not well done speaking when Rashcalf said out aloud, Unhappy is that\nprince which is by such men served, who are so easily corrupted, as I know\nTouchfaucet is.  For I see his courage so changed that he had willingly\njoined with our enemies to fight against us and betray us, if they would\nhave received him; but as virtue is of all, both friends and foes, praised\nand esteemed, so is wickedness soon known and suspected, and although it\nhappen the enemies to make use thereof for their profit, yet have they\nalways the wicked and the traitors in abomination.\n\nTouchfaucet being at these words very impatient, drew out his sword, and\ntherewith ran Rashcalf through the body, a little under the nipple of his\nleft side, whereof he died presently, and pulling back his sword out of his\nbody said boldly, So let him perish that shall a faithful servant blame.\nPicrochole incontinently grew furious, and seeing Touchfaucet's new sword\nand his scabbard so richly diapered with flourishes of most excellent\nworkmanship, said, Did they give thee this weapon so feloniously therewith\nto kill before my face my so good friend Rashcalf?  Then immediately\ncommanded he his guard to hew him in pieces, which was instantly done, and\nthat so cruelly that the chamber was all dyed with blood.  Afterwards he\nappointed the corpse of Rashcalf to be honourably buried, and that of\nTouchfaucet to be cast over the walls into the ditch.\n\nThe news of these excessive violences were quickly spread through all the\narmy; whereupon many began to murmur against Picrochole, in so far that\nPinchpenny said to him, My sovereign lord, I know not what the issue of\nthis enterprise will be.  I see your men much dejected, and not well\nresolved in their minds, by considering that we are here very ill provided\nof victual, and that our number is already much diminished by three or four\nsallies.  Furthermore, great supplies and recruits come daily in to your\nenemies; but we so moulder away that, if we be once besieged, I do not see\nhow we can escape a total destruction.  Tush, pish, said Picrochole, you\nare like the Melun eels, you cry before they come to you.  Let them come,\nlet them come, if they dare.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua set upon Picrochole within the rock Clermond, and utterly\ndefeated the army of the said Picrochole.\n\nGargantua had the charge of the whole army, and his father Grangousier\nstayed in his castle, who, encouraging them with good words, promised great\nrewards unto those that should do any notable service.  Having thus set\nforward, as soon as they had gained the pass at the ford of Vede, with\nboats and bridges speedily made they passed over in a trice.  Then\nconsidering the situation of the town, which was on a high and advantageous\nplace, Gargantua thought fit to call his council, and pass that night in\ndeliberation upon what was to be done.  But Gymnast said unto him, My\nsovereign lord, such is the nature and complexion of the French, that they\nare worth nothing but at the first push.  Then are they more fierce than\ndevils.  But if they linger a little and be wearied with delays, they'll\nprove more faint and remiss than women.  My opinion is, therefore, that now\npresently, after your men have taken breath and some small refection, you\ngive order for a resolute assault, and that we storm them instantly.  His\nadvice was found very good, and for effectuating thereof he brought forth\nhis army into the plain field, and placed the reserves on the skirt or\nrising of a little hill.  The monk took along with him six companies of\nfoot and two hundred horsemen well armed, and with great diligence crossed\nthe marsh, and valiantly got upon the top of the green hillock even unto\nthe highway which leads to Loudun.  Whilst the assault was thus begun,\nPicrochole's men could not tell well what was best, to issue out and\nreceive the assailants, or keep within the town and not to stir.  Himself\nin the mean time, without deliberation, sallied forth in a rage with the\ncavalry of his guard, who were forthwith received and royally entertained\nwith great cannon-shot that fell upon them like hail from the high grounds\non which the artillery was planted.  Whereupon the Gargantuists betook\nthemselves unto the valleys, to give the ordnance leave to play and range\nwith the larger scope.\n\nThose of the town defended themselves as well as they could, but their shot\npassed over us without doing us any hurt at all.  Some of Picrochole's men\nthat had escaped our artillery set most fiercely upon our soldiers, but\nprevailed little; for they were all let in betwixt the files, and there\nknocked down to the ground, which their fellow-soldiers seeing, they would\nhave retreated, but the monk having seized upon the pass by the which they\nwere to return, they ran away and fled in all the disorder and confusion\nthat could be imagined.\n\nSome would have pursued after them and followed the chase, but the monk\nwithheld them, apprehending that in their pursuit the pursuers might lose\ntheir ranks, and so give occasion to the besieged to sally out of the town\nupon them.  Then staying there some space and none coming against him, he\nsent the Duke Phrontist to advise Gargantua to advance towards the hill\nupon the left hand, to hinder Picrochole's retreat at that gate; which\nGargantua did with all expedition, and sent thither four brigades under the\nconduct of Sebast, which had no sooner reached the top of the hill, but\nthey met Picrochole in the teeth, and those that were with him scattered.\n\nThen charged they upon them stoutly, yet were they much endamaged by those\nthat were upon the walls, who galled them with all manner of shot, both\nfrom the great ordnance, small guns, and bows.  Which Gargantua perceiving,\nhe went with a strong party to their relief, and with his artillery began\nto thunder so terribly upon that canton of the wall, and so long, that all\nthe strength within the town, to maintain and fill up the breach, was drawn\nthither.  The monk seeing that quarter which he kept besieged void of men\nand competent guards, and in a manner altogether naked and abandoned, did\nmost magnanimously on a sudden lead up his men towards the fort, and never\nleft it till he had got up upon it, knowing that such as come to the\nreserve in a conflict bring with them always more fear and terror than\nthose that deal about them with they hands in the fight.\n\nNevertheless, he gave no alarm till all his soldiers had got within the\nwall, except the two hundred horsemen, whom he left without to secure his\nentry.  Then did he give a most horrible shout, so did all these who were\nwith him, and immediately thereafter, without resistance, putting to the\nedge of the sword the guard that was at that gate, they opened it to the\nhorsemen, with whom most furiously they altogether ran towards the east\ngate, where all the hurlyburly was, and coming close upon them in the rear\noverthrew all their forces.\n\nThe besieged, seeing that the Gargantuists had won the town upon them, and\nthat they were like to be secure in no corner of it, submitted themselves\nunto the mercy of the monk, and asked for quarter, which the monk very\nnobly granted to them, yet made them lay down their arms; then, shutting\nthem up within churches, gave order to seize upon all the staves of the\ncrosses, and placed men at the doors to keep them from coming forth.  Then\nopening that east gate, he issued out to succour and assist Gargantua.  But\nPicrochole, thinking it had been some relief coming to him from the town,\nadventured more forwardly than before, and was upon the giving of a most\ndesperate home-charge, when Gargantua cried out, Ha, Friar John, my friend\nFriar John, you are come in a good hour.  Which unexpected accident so\naffrighted Picrochole and his men, that, giving all for lost, they betook\nthemselves to their heels, and fled on all hands.  Gargantua chased them\ntill they came near to Vaugaudry, killing and slaying all the way, and then\nsounded the retreat.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Picrochole in his flight fell into great misfortunes, and what\nGargantua did after the battle.\n\nPicrochole thus in despair fled towards the Bouchard Island, and in the way\nto Riviere his horse stumbled and fell down, whereat he on a sudden was so\nincensed, that he with his sword without more ado killed him in his choler;\nthen, not finding any that would remount him, he was about to have taken an\nass at the mill that was thereby; but the miller's men did so baste his\nbones and so soundly bethwack him that they made him both black and blue\nwith strokes; then stripping him of all his clothes, gave him a scurvy old\ncanvas jacket wherewith to cover his nakedness.  Thus went along this poor\ncholeric wretch, who, passing the water at Port-Huaulx, and relating his\nmisadventurous disasters, was foretold by an old Lourpidon hag that his\nkingdom should be restored to him at the coming of the Cocklicranes, which\nshe called Coquecigrues.  What is become of him since we cannot certainly\ntell, yet was I told that he is now a porter at Lyons, as testy and pettish\nin humour as ever he was before, and would be always with great lamentation\ninquiring at all strangers of the coming of the Cocklicranes, expecting\nassuredly, according to the old woman's prophecy, that at their coming he\nshall be re-established in his kingdom.  The first thing Gargantua did\nafter his return into the town was to call the muster-roll of his men,\nwhich when he had done, he found that there were very few either killed or\nwounded, only some few foot of Captain Tolmere's company, and Ponocrates,\nwho was shot with a musket-ball through the doublet.  Then he caused them\nall at and in their several posts and divisions to take a little\nrefreshment, which was very plenteously provided for them in the best drink\nand victuals that could be had for money, and gave order to the treasurers\nand commissaries of the army to pay for and defray that repast, and that\nthere should be no outrage at all nor abuse committed in the town, seeing\nit was his own.  And furthermore commanded, that immediately after the\nsoldiers had done with eating and drinking for that time sufficiently and\nto their own hearts' desire, a gathering should be beaten for bringing them\naltogether, to be drawn up on the piazza before the castle, there to\nreceive six months' pay completely.  All which was done.  After this, by\nhis direction, were brought before him in the said place all those that\nremained of Picrochole's party, unto whom, in the presence of the princes,\nnobles, and officers of his court and army, he spoke as followeth.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGargantua's speech to the vanquished.\n\nOur forefathers and ancestors of all times have been of this nature and\ndisposition, that, upon the winning of a battle, they have chosen rather,\nfor a sign and memorial of their triumphs and victories, to erect trophies\nand monuments in the hearts of the vanquished by clemency than by\narchitecture in the lands which they had conquered.  For they did hold in\ngreater estimation the lively remembrance of men purchased by liberality\nthan the dumb inscription of arches, pillars, and pyramids, subject to the\ninjury of storms and tempests, and to the envy of everyone.  You may very\nwell remember of the courtesy which by them was used towards the Bretons in\nthe battle of St. Aubin of Cormier and at the demolishing of Partenay.  You\nhave heard, and hearing admire, their gentle comportment towards those at\nthe barriers (the barbarians) of Spaniola, who had plundered, wasted, and\nransacked the maritime borders of Olone and Thalmondois.  All this\nhemisphere of the world was filled with the praises and congratulations\nwhich yourselves and your fathers made, when Alpharbal, King of Canarre,\nnot satisfied with his own fortunes, did most furiously invade the land of\nOnyx, and with cruel piracies molest all the Armoric Islands and confine\nregions of Britany.  Yet was he in a set naval fight justly taken and\nvanquished by my father, whom God preserve and protect.  But what?  Whereas\nother kings and emperors, yea, those who entitle themselves Catholics,\nwould have dealt roughly with him, kept him a close prisoner, and put him\nto an extreme high ransom, he entreated him very courteously, lodged him\nkindly with himself in his own palace, and out of his incredible mildness\nand gentle disposition sent him back with a safe conduct, laden with gifts,\nladen with favours, laden with all offices of friendship.  What fell out\nupon it?  Being returned into his country, he called a parliament, where\nall the princes and states of his kingdom being assembled, he showed them\nthe humanity which he had found in us, and therefore wished them to take\nsuch course by way of compensation therein as that the whole world might be\nedified by the example, as well of their honest graciousness to us as of\nour gracious honesty towards them.  The result hereof was, that it was\nvoted and decreed by an unanimous consent, that they should offer up\nentirely their lands, dominions, and kingdoms, to be disposed of by us\naccording to our pleasure.\n\nAlpharbal in his own person presently returned with nine thousand and\nthirty-eight great ships of burden, bringing with him the treasures, not\nonly of his house and royal lineage, but almost of all the country besides.\nFor he embarking himself, to set sail with a west-north-east wind, everyone\nin heaps did cast into the ship gold, silver, rings, jewels, spices, drugs,\nand aromatical perfumes, parrots, pelicans, monkeys, civet-cats,\nblack-spotted weasels, porcupines, &c.  He was accounted no good mother's\nson that did not cast in all the rare and precious things he had.\n\nBeing safely arrived, he came to my said father, and would have kissed his\nfeet.  That action was found too submissively low, and therefore was not\npermitted, but in exchange he was most cordially embraced.  He offered his\npresents; they were not received, because they were too excessive:  he\nyielded himself voluntarily a servant and vassal, and was content his whole\nposterity should be liable to the same bondage; this was not accepted of,\nbecause it seemed not equitable:  he surrendered, by virtue of the decree\nof his great parliamentary council, his whole countries and kingdoms to\nhim, offering the deed and conveyance, signed, sealed, and ratified by all\nthose that were concerned in it; this was altogether refused, and the\nparchments cast into the fire.  In end, this free goodwill and simple\nmeaning of the Canarians wrought such tenderness in my father's heart that\nhe could not abstain from shedding tears, and wept most profusely; then, by\nchoice words very congruously adapted, strove in what he could to diminish\nthe estimation of the good offices which he had done them, saying, that any\ncourtesy he had conferred upon them was not worth a rush, and what favour\nsoever he had showed them he was bound to do it.  But so much the more did\nAlpharbal augment the repute thereof.  What was the issue?  Whereas for his\nransom, in the greatest extremity of rigour and most tyrannical dealing,\ncould not have been exacted above twenty times a hundred thousand crowns,\nand his eldest sons detained as hostages till that sum had been paid, they\nmade themselves perpetual tributaries, and obliged to give us every year\ntwo millions of gold at four-and-twenty carats fine.  The first year we\nreceived the whole sum of two millions; the second year of their own accord\nthey paid freely to us three-and-twenty hundred thousand crowns; the third\nyear, six-and-twenty hundred thousand; the fourth year, three millions, and\ndo so increase it always out of their own goodwill that we shall be\nconstrained to forbid them to bring us any more.  This is the nature of\ngratitude and true thankfulness.  For time, which gnaws and diminisheth all\nthings else, augments and increaseth benefits; because a noble action of\nliberality, done to a man of reason, doth grow continually by his generous\nthinking of it and remembering it.\n\nBeing unwilling therefore any way to degenerate from the hereditary\nmildness and clemency of my parents, I do now forgive you, deliver you from\nall fines and imprisonments, fully release you, set you at liberty, and\nevery way make you as frank and free as ever you were before.  Moreover, at\nyour going out of the gate, you shall have every one of you three months'\npay to bring you home into your houses and families, and shall have a safe\nconvoy of six hundred cuirassiers and eight thousand foot under the conduct\nof Alexander, esquire of my body, that the clubmen of the country may not\ndo you any injury.  God be with you!  I am sorry from my heart that\nPicrochole is not here; for I would have given him to understand that this\nwar was undertaken against my will and without any hope to increase either\nmy goods or renown.  But seeing he is lost, and that no man can tell where\nnor how he went away, it is my will that his kingdom remain entire to his\nson; who, because he is too young, he not being yet full five years old,\nshall be brought up and instructed by the ancient princes and learned men\nof the kingdom.  And because a realm thus desolate may easily come to ruin,\nif the covetousness and avarice of those who by their places are obliged to\nadminister justice in it be not curbed and restrained, I ordain and will\nhave it so, that Ponocrates be overseer and superintendent above all his\ngovernors, with whatever power and authority is requisite thereto, and that\nhe be continually with the child until he find him able and capable to rule\nand govern by himself.\n\nNow I must tell you, that you are to understand how a too feeble and\ndissolute facility in pardoning evildoers giveth them occasion to commit\nwickedness afterwards more readily, upon this pernicious confidence of\nreceiving favour.  I consider that Moses, the meekest man that was in his\ntime upon the earth, did severely punish the mutinous and seditious people\nof Israel.  I consider likewise that Julius Caesar, who was so gracious an\nemperor that Cicero said of him that his fortune had nothing more excellent\nthan that he could, and his virtue nothing better than that he would always\nsave and pardon every man--he, notwithstanding all this, did in certain\nplaces most rigorously punish the authors of rebellion.  After the example\nof these good men, it is my will and pleasure that you deliver over unto me\nbefore you depart hence, first, that fine fellow Marquet, who was the prime\ncause, origin, and groundwork of this war by his vain presumption and\noverweening; secondly, his fellow cake-bakers, who were neglective in\nchecking and reprehending his idle hairbrained humour in the instant time;\nand lastly, all the councillors, captains, officers, and domestics of\nPicrochole, who had been incendiaries or fomenters of the war by provoking,\npraising, or counselling him to come out of his limits thus to trouble us.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the victorious Gargantuists were recompensed after the battle.\n\nWhen Gargantua had finished his speech, the seditious men whom he required\nwere delivered up unto him, except Swashbuckler, Dirt-tail, and Smalltrash,\nwho ran away six hours before the battle--one of them as far as to\nLainiel-neck at one course, another to the valley of Vire, and the third\neven unto Logroine, without looking back or taking breath by the way--and\ntwo of the cake-bakers who were slain in the fight.  Gargantua did them no\nother hurt but that he appointed them to pull at the presses of his\nprinting-house which he had newly set up.  Then those who died there he\ncaused to be honourably buried in Black-soile valley and Burn-hag field, and\ngave order that the wounded should be dressed and had care of in his great\nhospital or nosocome.  After this, considering the great prejudice done to\nthe town and its inhabitants, he reimbursed their charges and repaired all\nthe losses that by their confession upon oath could appear they had\nsustained; and, for their better defence and security in times coming\nagainst all sudden uproars and invasions, commanded a strong citadel to be\nbuilt there with a competent garrison to maintain it.  At his departure he\ndid very graciously thank all the soldiers of the brigades that had been at\nthis overthrow, and sent them back to their winter-quarters in their several\nstations and garrisons; the decumane legion only excepted, whom in the field\non that day he saw do some great exploit, and their captains also, whom he\nbrought along with himself unto Grangousier.\n\nAt the sight and coming of them, the good man was so joyful, that it is not\npossible fully to describe it.  He made them a feast the most magnificent,\nplentiful, and delicious that ever was seen since the time of the king\nAhasuerus.  At the taking up of the table he distributed amongst them his\nwhole cupboard of plate, which weighed eight hundred thousand and fourteen\nbezants (Each bezant is worth five pounds English money.) of gold, in great\nantique vessels, huge pots, large basins, big tasses, cups, goblets,\ncandlesticks, comfit-boxes, and other such plate, all of pure massy gold,\nbesides the precious stones, enamelling, and workmanship, which by all\nmen's estimation was more worth than the matter of the gold.  Then unto\nevery one of them out of his coffers caused he to be given the sum of\ntwelve hundred thousand crowns ready money.  And, further, he gave to each\nof them for ever and in perpetuity, unless he should happen to decease\nwithout heirs, such castles and neighbouring lands of his as were most\ncommodious for them.  To Ponocrates he gave the rock Clermond; to Gymnast,\nthe Coudray; to Eudemon, Montpensier; Rivau, to Tolmere, to Ithibolle,\nMontsoreau; to Acamas, Cande; Varenes, to Chironacte; Gravot, to Sebast;\nQuinquenais, to Alexander; Legre, to Sophrone, and so of his other places.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua caused to be built for the Monk the Abbey of Theleme.\n\nThere was left only the monk to provide for, whom Gargantua would have made\nAbbot of Seville, but he refused it.  He would have given him the Abbey of\nBourgueil, or of Sanct Florent, which was better, or both, if it pleased\nhim; but the monk gave him a very peremptory answer, that he would never\ntake upon him the charge nor government of monks.  For how shall I be able,\nsaid he, to rule over others, that have not full power and command of\nmyself?  If you think I have done you, or may hereafter do any acceptable\nservice, give me leave to found an abbey after my own mind and fancy.  The\nmotion pleased Gargantua very well, who thereupon offered him all the\ncountry of Theleme by the river of Loire till within two leagues of the\ngreat forest of Port-Huaulx.  The monk then requested Gargantua to\ninstitute his religious order contrary to all others.  First, then, said\nGargantua, you must not build a wall about your convent, for all other\nabbeys are strongly walled and mured about.  See, said the monk, and not\nwithout cause (seeing wall and mur signify but one and the same thing);\nwhere there is mur before and mur behind, there is store of murmur, envy,\nand mutual conspiracy.  Moreover, seeing there are certain convents in the\nworld whereof the custom is, if any woman come in, I mean chaste and honest\nwomen, they immediately sweep the ground which they have trod upon;\ntherefore was it ordained, that if any man or woman entered into religious\norders should by chance come within this new abbey, all the rooms should be\nthoroughly washed and cleansed through which they had passed.  And because\nin all other monasteries and nunneries all is compassed, limited, and\nregulated by hours, it was decreed that in this new structure there should\nbe neither clock nor dial, but that according to the opportunities and\nincident occasions all their hours should be disposed of; for, said\nGargantua, the greatest loss of time that I know is to count the hours.\nWhat good comes of it?  Nor can there be any greater dotage in the world\nthan for one to guide and direct his courses by the sound of a bell, and\nnot by his own judgment and discretion.\n\nItem, Because at that time they put no women into nunneries but such as\nwere either purblind, blinkards, lame, crooked, ill-favoured, misshapen,\nfools, senseless, spoiled, or corrupt; nor encloistered any men but those\nthat were either sickly, subject to defluxions, ill-bred louts, simple\nsots, or peevish trouble-houses.  But to the purpose, said the monk.  A\nwoman that is neither fair nor good, to what use serves she?  To make a nun\nof, said Gargantua.  Yea, said the monk, and to make shirts and smocks.\nTherefore was it ordained that into this religious order should be admitted\nno women that were not fair, well-featured, and of a sweet disposition; nor\nmen that were not comely, personable, and well conditioned.\n\nItem, Because in the convents of women men come not but underhand, privily,\nand by stealth, it was therefore enacted that in this house there shall be\nno women in case there be not men, nor men in case there be not women.\n\nItem, Because both men and women that are received into religious orders\nafter the expiring of their noviciate or probation year were constrained\nand forced perpetually to stay there all the days of their life, it was\ntherefore ordered that all whatever, men or women, admitted within this\nabbey, should have full leave to depart with peace and contentment\nwhensoever it should seem good to them so to do.\n\nItem, for that the religious men and women did ordinarily make three vows,\nto wit, those of chastity, poverty, and obedience, it was therefore\nconstituted and appointed that in this convent they might be honourably\nmarried, that they might be rich, and live at liberty.  In regard of the\nlegitimate time of the persons to be initiated, and years under and above\nwhich they were not capable of reception, the women were to be admitted\nfrom ten till fifteen, and the men from twelve till eighteen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the abbey of the Thelemites was built and endowed.\n\nFor the fabric and furniture of the abbey Gargantua caused to be delivered\nout in ready money seven-and-twenty hundred thousand, eight hundred and\none-and-thirty of those golden rams of Berry which have a sheep stamped on\nthe one side and a flowered cross on the other; and for every year, until\nthe whole work were completed, he allotted threescore nine thousand crowns\nof the sun, and as many of the seven stars, to be charged all upon the\nreceipt of the custom.  For the foundation and maintenance thereof for\never, he settled a perpetual fee-farm-rent of three-and-twenty hundred,\nthree score and nine thousand, five hundred and fourteen rose nobles,\nexempted from all homage, fealty, service, or burden whatsoever, and\npayable every year at the gate of the abbey; and of this by letters patent\npassed a very good grant.  The architecture was in a figure hexagonal, and\nin such a fashion that in every one of the six corners there was built a\ngreat round tower of threescore foot in diameter, and were all of a like\nform and bigness.  Upon the north side ran along the river of Loire, on the\nbank whereof was situated the tower called Arctic.  Going towards the east,\nthere was another called Calaer,--the next following Anatole,--the next\nMesembrine,--the next Hesperia, and the last Criere.  Every tower was\ndistant from other the space of three hundred and twelve paces.  The whole\nedifice was everywhere six storeys high, reckoning the cellars underground\nfor one.  The second was arched after the fashion of a basket-handle; the\nrest were ceiled with pure wainscot, flourished with Flanders fretwork, in\nthe form of the foot of a lamp, and covered above with fine slates, with an\nendorsement of lead, carrying the antique figures of little puppets and\nanimals of all sorts, notably well suited to one another, and gilt,\ntogether with the gutters, which, jutting without the walls from betwixt\nthe crossbars in a diagonal figure, painted with gold and azure, reached to\nthe very ground, where they ended into great conduit-pipes, which carried\nall away unto the river from under the house.\n\nThis same building was a hundred times more sumptuous and magnificent than\never was Bonnivet, Chambourg, or Chantilly; for there were in it nine\nthousand, three hundred and two-and-thirty chambers, every one whereof had\na withdrawing-room, a handsome closet, a wardrobe, an oratory, and neat\npassage, leading into a great and spacious hall.  Between every tower in\nthe midst of the said body of building there was a pair of winding, such as\nwe now call lantern stairs, whereof the steps were part of porphyry, which\nis a dark red marble spotted with white, part of Numidian stone, which is a\nkind of yellowishly-streaked marble upon various colours, and part of\nserpentine marble, with light spots on a dark green ground, each of those\nsteps being two-and-twenty foot in length and three fingers thick, and the\njust number of twelve betwixt every rest, or, as we now term it,\nlanding-place.  In every resting-place were two fair antique arches where\nthe light came in:  and by those they went into a cabinet, made even with\nand of the breadth of the said winding, and the reascending above the roofs\nof the house ended conically in a pavilion.  By that vise or winding they\nentered on every side into a great hall, and from the halls into the\nchambers. From the Arctic tower unto the Criere were the fair great\nlibraries in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, French, Italian, and Spanish,\nrespectively distributed in their several cantons, according to the\ndiversity of these languages.  In the midst there was a wonderful scalier or\nwinding-stair, the entry whereof was without the house, in a vault or arch\nsix fathom broad.  It was made in such symmetry and largeness that six\nmen-at-arms with their lances in their rests might together in a breast ride\nall up to the very top of all the palace.  From the tower Anatole to the\nMesembrine were fair spacious galleries, all coloured over and painted with\nthe ancient prowesses, histories, and descriptions of the world.  In the\nmidst thereof there was likewise such another ascent and gate as we said\nthere was on the river-side.  Upon that gate was written in great antique\nletters that which followeth.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe inscription set upon the great gate of Theleme.\n\nHere enter not vile bigots, hypocrites,\nExternally devoted apes, base snites,\nPuffed-up, wry-necked beasts, worse than the Huns,\nOr Ostrogoths, forerunners of baboons:\nCursed snakes, dissembled varlets, seeming sancts,\nSlipshod caffards, beggars pretending wants,\nFat chuffcats, smell-feast knockers, doltish gulls,\nOut-strouting cluster-fists, contentious bulls,\nFomenters of divisions and debates,\nElsewhere, not here, make sale of your deceits.\n\n  Your filthy trumperies\n  Stuffed with pernicious lies\n    (Not worth a bubble),\n    Would do but trouble\n  Our earthly paradise,\n  Your filthy trumperies.\n\nHere enter not attorneys, barristers,\nNor bridle-champing law-practitioners:\nClerks, commissaries, scribes, nor pharisees,\nWilful disturbers of the people's ease:\nJudges, destroyers, with an unjust breath,\nOf honest men, like dogs, even unto death.\nYour salary is at the gibbet-foot:\nGo drink there! for we do not here fly out\nOn those excessive courses, which may draw\nA waiting on your courts by suits in law.\n\n  Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling\n  Hence are exiled, and jangling.\n    Here we are very\n    Frolic and merry,\n  And free from all entangling,\n  Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling.\n\nHere enter not base pinching usurers,\nPelf-lickers, everlasting gatherers,\nGold-graspers, coin-gripers, gulpers of mists,\nNiggish deformed sots, who, though your chests\nVast sums of money should to you afford,\nWould ne'ertheless add more unto that hoard,\nAnd yet not be content,--you clunchfist dastards,\nInsatiable fiends, and Pluto's bastards,\nGreedy devourers, chichy sneakbill rogues,\nHell-mastiffs gnaw your bones, you ravenous dogs.\n\n  You beastly-looking fellows,\n  Reason doth plainly tell us\n    That we should not\n    To you allot\n  Room here, but at the gallows,\n  You beastly-looking fellows.\n\nHere enter not fond makers of demurs\nIn love adventures, peevish, jealous curs,\nSad pensive dotards, raisers of garboils,\nHags, goblins, ghosts, firebrands of household broils,\nNor drunkards, liars, cowards, cheaters, clowns,\nThieves, cannibals, faces o'ercast with frowns,\nNor lazy slugs, envious, covetous,\nNor blockish, cruel, nor too credulous,--\nHere mangy, pocky folks shall have no place,\nNo ugly lusks, nor persons of disgrace.\n\n  Grace, honour, praise, delight,\n  Here sojourn day and night.\n    Sound bodies lined\n    With a good mind,\n  Do here pursue with might\n  Grace, honour, praise, delight.\n\nHere enter you, and welcome from our hearts,\nAll noble sparks, endowed with gallant parts.\nThis is the glorious place, which bravely shall\nAfford wherewith to entertain you all.\nWere you a thousand, here you shall not want\nFor anything; for what you'll ask we'll grant.\nStay here, you lively, jovial, handsome, brisk,\nGay, witty, frolic, cheerful, merry, frisk,\nSpruce, jocund, courteous, furtherers of trades,\nAnd, in a word, all worthy gentle blades.\n\n  Blades of heroic breasts\n  Shall taste here of the feasts,\n    Both privily\n    And civilly\n  Of the celestial guests,\n  Blades of heroic breasts.\n\nHere enter you, pure, honest, faithful, true\nExpounders of the Scriptures old and new.\nWhose glosses do not blind our reason, but\nMake it to see the clearer, and who shut\nIts passages from hatred, avarice,\nPride, factions, covenants, and all sort of vice.\nCome, settle here a charitable faith,\nWhich neighbourly affection nourisheth.\nAnd whose light chaseth all corrupters hence,\nOf the blest word, from the aforesaid sense.\n\n  The holy sacred Word,\n  May it always afford\n    T' us all in common,\n    Both man and woman,\n  A spiritual shield and sword,\n  The holy sacred Word.\n\nHere enter you all ladies of high birth,\nDelicious, stately, charming, full of mirth,\nIngenious, lovely, miniard, proper, fair,\nMagnetic, graceful, splendid, pleasant, rare,\nObliging, sprightly, virtuous, young, solacious,\nKind, neat, quick, feat, bright, compt, ripe, choice, dear, precious.\nAlluring, courtly, comely, fine, complete,\nWise, personable, ravishing, and sweet,\nCome joys enjoy.  The Lord celestial\nHath given enough wherewith to please us all.\n\n  Gold give us, God forgive us,\n  And from all woes relieve us;\n    That we the treasure\n    May reap of pleasure,\n  And shun whate'er is grievous,\n  Gold give us, God forgive us.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhat manner of dwelling the Thelemites had.\n\nIn the middle of the lower court there was a stately fountain of fair\nalabaster.  Upon the top thereof stood the three Graces, with their\ncornucopias, or horns of abundance, and did jet out the water at their\nbreasts, mouth, ears, eyes, and other open passages of the body.  The\ninside of the buildings in this lower court stood upon great pillars of\nchalcedony stone and porphyry marble made archways after a goodly antique\nfashion.  Within those were spacious galleries, long and large, adorned\nwith curious pictures, the horns of bucks and unicorns:  with rhinoceroses,\nwater-horses called hippopotames, the teeth and tusks of elephants, and\nother things well worth the beholding.  The lodging of the ladies, for so\nwe may call those gallant women, took up all from the tower Arctic unto the\ngate Mesembrine.  The men possessed the rest.  Before the said lodging of\nthe ladies, that they might have their recreation, between the two first\ntowers, on the outside, were placed the tiltyard, the barriers or lists for\ntournaments, the hippodrome or riding-court, the theatre or public\nplayhouse, and natatory or place to swim in, with most admirable baths in\nthree stages, situated above one another, well furnished with all necessary\naccommodation, and store of myrtle-water.  By the river-side was the fair\ngarden of pleasure, and in the midst of that the glorious labyrinth.\nBetween the two other towers were the courts for the tennis and the\nballoon.  Towards the tower Criere stood the orchard full of all\nfruit-trees, set and ranged in a quincuncial order.  At the end of that was\nthe great park, abounding with all sort of venison.  Betwixt the third\ncouple of towers were the butts and marks for shooting with a snapwork gun,\nan ordinary bow for common archery, or with a crossbow.  The office-houses\nwere without the tower Hesperia, of one storey high.  The stables were\nbeyond the offices, and before them stood the falconry, managed by\nostrich-keepers and falconers very expert in the art, and it was yearly\nsupplied and furnished by the Candians, Venetians, Sarmates, now called\nMuscoviters, with all sorts of most excellent hawks, eagles, gerfalcons,\ngoshawks, sacres, lanners, falcons, sparrowhawks, marlins, and other kinds\nof them, so gentle and perfectly well manned, that, flying of themselves\nsometimes from the castle for their own disport, they would not fail to\ncatch whatever they encountered.  The venery, where the beagles and hounds\nwere kept, was a little farther off, drawing towards the park.\n\nAll the halls, chambers, and closets or cabinets were richly hung with\ntapestry and hangings of divers sorts, according to the variety of the\nseasons of the year.  All the pavements and floors were covered with green\ncloth.  The beds were all embroidered.  In every back-chamber or\nwithdrawing-room there was a looking-glass of pure crystal set in a frame\nof fine gold, garnished all about with pearls, and was of such greatness\nthat it would represent to the full the whole lineaments and proportion of\nthe person that stood before it.  At the going out of the halls which\nbelong to the ladies' lodgings were the perfumers and trimmers through\nwhose hands the gallants passed when they were to visit the ladies.  Those\nsweet artificers did every morning furnish the ladies' chambers with the\nspirit of roses, orange-flower-water, and angelica; and to each of them\ngave a little precious casket vapouring forth the most odoriferous\nexhalations of the choicest aromatical scents.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the men and women of the religious order of Theleme were apparelled.\n\nThe ladies at the foundation of this order were apparelled after their own\npleasure and liking; but, since that of their own accord and free will they\nhave reformed themselves, their accoutrement is in manner as followeth.\nThey wore stockings of scarlet crimson, or ingrained purple dye, which\nreached just three inches above the knee, having a list beautified with\nexquisite embroideries and rare incisions of the cutter's art.  Their\ngarters were of the colour of their bracelets, and circled the knee a\nlittle both over and under.  Their shoes, pumps, and slippers were either\nof red, violet, or crimson-velvet, pinked and jagged like lobster waddles.\n\nNext to their smock they put on the pretty kirtle or vasquin of pure silk\ncamlet:  above that went the taffety or tabby farthingale, of white, red,\ntawny, grey, or of any other colour.  Above this taffety petticoat they had\nanother of cloth of tissue or brocade, embroidered with fine gold and\ninterlaced with needlework, or as they thought good, and according to the\ntemperature and disposition of the weather had their upper coats of satin,\ndamask, or velvet, and those either orange, tawny, green, ash-coloured,\nblue, yellow, bright red, crimson, or white, and so forth; or had them of\ncloth of gold, cloth of silver, or some other choice stuff, enriched with\npurl, or embroidered according to the dignity of the festival days and\ntimes wherein they wore them.\n\nTheir gowns, being still correspondent to the season, were either of cloth\nof gold frizzled with a silver-raised work; of red satin, covered with gold\npurl; of tabby, or taffety, white, blue, black, tawny, &c., of silk serge,\nsilk camlet, velvet, cloth of silver, silver tissue, cloth of gold, gold\nwire, figured velvet, or figured satin tinselled and overcast with golden\nthreads, in divers variously purfled draughts.\n\nIn the summer some days instead of gowns they wore light handsome mantles,\nmade either of the stuff of the aforesaid attire, or like Moresco rugs, of\nviolet velvet frizzled, with a raised work of gold upon silver purl, or\nwith a knotted cord-work of gold embroidery, everywhere garnished with\nlittle Indian pearls.  They always carried a fair panache, or plume of\nfeathers, of the colour of their muff, bravely adorned and tricked out with\nglistering spangles of gold.  In the winter time they had their taffety\ngowns of all colours, as above-named, and those lined with the rich\nfurrings of hind-wolves, or speckled lynxes, black-spotted weasels, martlet\nskins of Calabria, sables, and other costly furs of an inestimable value.\nTheir beads, rings, bracelets, collars, carcanets, and neck-chains were all\nof precious stones, such as carbuncles, rubies, baleus, diamonds,\nsapphires, emeralds, turquoises, garnets, agates, beryls, and excellent\nmargarites.  Their head-dressing also varied with the season of the year,\naccording to which they decked themselves.  In winter it was of the French\nfashion; in the spring, of the Spanish; in summer, of the fashion of\nTuscany, except only upon the holy days and Sundays, at which times they\nwere accoutred in the French mode, because they accounted it more\nhonourable and better befitting the garb of a matronal pudicity.\n\nThe men were apparelled after their fashion.  Their stockings were of\ntamine or of cloth serge, of white, black, scarlet, or some other ingrained\ncolour.  Their breeches were of velvet, of the same colour with their\nstockings, or very near, embroidered and cut according to their fancy.\nTheir doublet was of cloth of gold, of cloth of silver, of velvet, satin,\ndamask, taffeties, &c., of the same colours, cut, embroidered, and suitably\ntrimmed up in perfection.  The points were of silk of the same colours; the\ntags were of gold well enamelled.  Their coats and jerkins were of cloth of\ngold, cloth of silver, gold, tissue or velvet embroidered, as they thought\nfit.  Their gowns were every whit as costly as those of the ladies.  Their\ngirdles were of silks, of the colour of their doublets.  Every one had a\ngallant sword by his side, the hilt and handle whereof were gilt, and the\nscabbard of velvet, of the colour of his breeches, with a chape of gold,\nand pure goldsmith's work.  The dagger was of the same.  Their caps or\nbonnets were of black velvet, adorned with jewels and buttons of gold.\nUpon that they wore a white plume, most prettily and minion-like parted by\nso many rows of gold spangles, at the end whereof hung dangling in a more\nsparkling resplendency fair rubies, emeralds, diamonds, &c., but there was\nsuch a sympathy betwixt the gallants and the ladies, that every day they\nwere apparelled in the same livery.  And that they might not miss, there\nwere certain gentlemen appointed to tell the youths every morning what\nvestments the ladies would on that day wear:  for all was done according to\nthe pleasure of the ladies.  In these so handsome clothes, and habiliments\nso rich, think not that either one or other of either sex did waste any\ntime at all; for the masters of the wardrobes had all their raiments and\napparel so ready for every morning, and the chamber-ladies so well skilled,\nthat in a trice they would be dressed and completely in their clothes from\nhead to foot.  And to have those accoutrements with the more conveniency,\nthere was about the wood of Theleme a row of houses of the extent of half a\nleague, very neat and cleanly, wherein dwelt the goldsmiths, lapidaries,\njewellers, embroiderers, tailors, gold-drawers, velvet-weavers,\ntapestry-makers and upholsterers, who wrought there every one in his own\ntrade, and all for the aforesaid jolly friars and nuns of the new stamp.\nThey were furnished with matter and stuff from the hands of the Lord\nNausiclete, who every year brought them seven ships from the Perlas and\nCannibal Islands, laden with ingots of gold, with raw silk, with pearls and\nprecious stones. And if any margarites, called unions, began to grow old and\nlose somewhat of their natural whiteness and lustre, those with their art\nthey did renew by tendering them to eat to some pretty cocks, as they use to\ngive casting unto hawks.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Thelemites were governed, and of their manner of living.\n\nAll their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules, but according to\ntheir own free will and pleasure.  They rose out of their beds when they\nthought good; they did eat, drink, labour, sleep, when they had a mind to\nit and were disposed for it.  None did awake them, none did offer to\nconstrain them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing; for so had\nGargantua established it.  In all their rule and strictest tie of their\norder there was but this one clause to be observed,\n\nDo What Thou Wilt;\n\nbecause men that are free, well-born, well-bred, and conversant in honest\ncompanies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them unto\nvirtuous actions, and withdraws them from vice, which is called honour.\nThose same men, when by base subjection and constraint they are brought\nunder and kept down, turn aside from that noble disposition by which they\nformerly were inclined to virtue, to shake off and break that bond of\nservitude wherein they are so tyrannously enslaved; for it is agreeable\nwith the nature of man to long after things forbidden and to desire what is\ndenied us.\n\nBy this liberty they entered into a very laudable emulation to do all of\nthem what they saw did please one.  If any of the gallants or ladies should\nsay, Let us drink, they would all drink.  If any one of them said, Let us\nplay, they all played.  If one said, Let us go a-walking into the fields\nthey went all.  If it were to go a-hawking or a-hunting, the ladies mounted\nupon dainty well-paced nags, seated in a stately palfrey saddle, carried on\ntheir lovely fists, miniardly begloved every one of them, either a\nsparrowhawk or a laneret or a marlin, and the young gallants carried the\nother kinds of hawks.  So nobly were they taught, that there was neither he\nnor she amongst them but could read, write, sing, play upon several musical\ninstruments, speak five or six several languages, and compose in them all\nvery quaintly, both in verse and prose.  Never were seen so valiant\nknights, so noble and worthy, so dexterous and skilful both on foot and\na-horse-back, more brisk and lively, more nimble and quick, or better\nhandling all manner of weapons than were there.  Never were seen ladies so\nproper and handsome, so miniard and dainty, less froward, or more ready\nwith their hand and with their needle in every honest and free action\nbelonging to that sex, than were there.  For this reason, when the time\ncame that any man of the said abbey, either at the request of his parents,\nor for some other cause, had a mind to go out of it, he carried along with\nhim one of the ladies, namely, her whom he had before that chosen for his\nmistress, and (they) were married together.  And if they had formerly in\nTheleme lived in good devotion and amity, they did continue therein and\nincrease it to a greater height in their state of matrimony; and did\nentertain that mutual love till the very last day of their life, in no less\nvigour and fervency than at the very day of their wedding.  Here must not I\nforget to set down unto you a riddle which was found under the ground as\nthey were laying the foundation of the abbey, engraven in a copper plate,\nand it was thus as followeth.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA prophetical Riddle.\n\nPoor mortals, who wait for a happy day,\nCheer up your hearts, and hear what I shall say:\nIf it be lawful firmly to believe\nThat the celestial bodies can us give\nWisdom to judge of things that are not yet;\nOr if from heaven such wisdom we may get\nAs may with confidence make us discourse\nOf years to come, their destiny and course;\nI to my hearers give to understand\nThat this next winter, though it be at hand,\nYea and before, there shall appear a race\nOf men who, loth to sit still in one place,\nShall boldly go before all people's eyes,\nSuborning men of divers qualities\nTo draw them unto covenants and sides,\nIn such a manner that, whate'er betides,\nThey'll move you, if you give them ear, no doubt,\nWith both your friends and kindred to fall out.\nThey'll make a vassal to gain-stand his lord,\nAnd children their own parents; in a word,\nAll reverence shall then be banished,\nNo true respect to other shall be had.\nThey'll say that every man should have his turn,\nBoth in his going forth and his return;\nAnd hereupon there shall arise such woes,\nSuch jarrings, and confused to's and fro's,\nThat never were in history such coils\nSet down as yet, such tumults and garboils.\nThen shall you many gallant men see by\nValour stirr'd up, and youthful fervency,\nWho, trusting too much in their hopeful time,\nLive but a while, and perish in their prime.\nNeither shall any, who this course shall run,\nLeave off the race which he hath once begun,\nTill they the heavens with noise by their contention\nHave fill'd, and with their steps the earth's dimension.\nThen those shall have no less authority,\nThat have no faith, than those that will not lie;\nFor all shall be governed by a rude,\nBase, ignorant, and foolish multitude;\nThe veriest lout of all shall be their judge,\nO horrible and dangerous deluge!\nDeluge I call it, and that for good reason,\nFor this shall be omitted in no season;\nNor shall the earth of this foul stir be free,\nTill suddenly you in great store shall see\nThe waters issue out, with whose streams the\nMost moderate of all shall moistened be,\nAnd justly too; because they did not spare\nThe flocks of beasts that innocentest are,\nBut did their sinews and their bowels take,\nNot to the gods a sacrifice to make,\nBut usually to serve themselves for sport:\nAnd now consider, I do you exhort,\nIn such commotions so continual,\nWhat rest can take the globe terrestrial?\nMost happy then are they, that can it hold,\nAnd use it carefully as precious gold,\nBy keeping it in gaol, whence it shall have\nNo help but him who being to it gave.\nAnd to increase his mournful accident,\nThe sun, before it set in th' occident,\nShall cease to dart upon it any light,\nMore than in an eclipse, or in the night,--\nSo that at once its favour shall be gone,\nAnd liberty with it be left alone.\nAnd yet, before it come to ruin thus,\nIts quaking shall be as impetuous\nAs Aetna's was when Titan's sons lay under,\nAnd yield, when lost, a fearful sound like thunder.\nInarime did not more quickly move,\nWhen Typheus did the vast huge hills remove,\nAnd for despite into the sea them threw.\n  Thus shall it then be lost by ways not few,\nAnd changed suddenly, when those that have it\nTo other men that after come shall leave it.\nThen shall it be high time to cease from this\nSo long, so great, so tedious exercise;\nFor the great waters told you now by me,\nWill make each think where his retreat shall be;\nAnd yet, before that they be clean disperst,\nYou may behold in th' air, where nought was erst,\nThe burning heat of a great flame to rise,\nLick up the water, and the enterprise.\n  It resteth after those things to declare,\nThat those shall sit content who chosen are,\nWith all good things, and with celestial man (ne,)\nAnd richly recompensed every man:\nThe others at the last all stripp'd shall be,\nThat after this great work all men may see,\nHow each shall have his due.  This is their lot;\nO he is worthy praise that shrinketh not!\n\nNo sooner was this enigmatical monument read over, but Gargantua, fetching\na very deep sigh, said unto those that stood by, It is not now only, I\nperceive, that people called to the faith of the gospel, and convinced with\nthe certainty of evangelical truths, are persecuted.  But happy is that man\nthat shall not be scandalized, but shall always continue to the end in\naiming at that mark which God by his dear Son hath set before us, without\nbeing distracted or diverted by his carnal affections and depraved nature.\n\nThe monk then said, What do you think in your conscience is meant and\nsignified by this riddle?  What? said Gargantua,--the progress and carrying\non of the divine truth.  By St. Goderan, said the monk, that is not my\nexposition.  It is the style of the prophet Merlin.  Make upon it as many\ngrave allegories and glosses as you will, and dote upon it you and the rest\nof the world as long as you please; for my part, I can conceive no other\nmeaning in it but a description of a set at tennis in dark and obscure\nterms.  The suborners of men are the makers of matches, which are commonly\nfriends.  After the two chases are made, he that was in the upper end of\nthe tennis-court goeth out, and the other cometh in.  They believe the\nfirst that saith the ball was over or under the line.  The waters are the\nheats that the players take till they sweat again.  The cords of the\nrackets are made of the guts of sheep or goats.  The globe terrestrial is\nthe tennis-ball.  After playing, when the game is done, they refresh\nthemselves before a clear fire, and change their shirts; and very willingly\nthey make all good cheer, but most merrily those that have gained.  And so,\nfarewell!\n\n\n\nEnd book 1\n\n\nTHE SECOND BOOK.\n\n\n\nFor the Reader.\n\nThe Reader here may be pleased to take notice that the copy of verses by\nthe title of 'Rablophila', premised to the first book of this translation,\nbeing but a kind of mock poem, in imitation of somewhat lately published\n(as to any indifferent observer will easily appear, by the false quantities\nin the Latin, the abusive strain of the English, and extravagant\nsubscription to both), and as such, by a friend of the translator's, at the\ndesire of some frolic gentlemen of his acquaintance, more for a trial of\nskill than prejudicacy to any, composed in his jollity to please their\nfancies, was only ordained to be prefixed to a dozen of books, and no more,\nthereby to save the labour of transcribing so many as were requisite for\nsatisfying the curiosity of a company of just that number; and that,\ntherefore, the charging of the whole impression with it is merely to be\nimputed to the negligence of the pressmen, who, receiving it about the\nlatter end of the night, were so eager before the next morning to afford\ncomplete books, that, as they began, they went on, without animadverting\nwhat was recommended to their discretion.  This is hoped will suffice to\nassure the ingenuous Reader that in no treatise of the translator's,\nwhether original or translatitious, shall willingly be offered the meanest\nrub to the reputation of any worthy gentleman, and that, however providence\ndispose of him, no misfortune shall be able to induce his mind to any\ncomplacency in the disparagement of another.\n\nAgain.\n\nThe Pentateuch of Rabelais mentioned in the title-page of the first book of\nthis translation being written originally in the French tongue (as it\ncomprehendeth some of its brusquest dialects), with so much ingeniosity and\nwit, that more impressions have been sold thereof in that language than of\nany other book that hath been set forth at any time within these fifteen\nhundred years; so difficult nevertheless to be turned into any other speech\nthat many prime spirits in most of the nations of Europe, since the year\n1573, which was fourscore years ago, after having attempted it, were\nconstrained with no small regret to give it over as a thing impossible to\nbe done, is now in its translation thus far advanced, and the remainder\nfaithfully undertaken with the same hand to be rendered into English by a\nperson of quality, who (though his lands be sequestered, his house\ngarrisoned, his other goods sold, and himself detained a prisoner of war at\nLondon, for his having been at Worcester fight) hath, at the most earnest\nentreaty of some of his especial friends well acquainted with his\ninclination to the performance of conducible singularities, promised,\nbesides his version of these two already published, very speedily to offer\nup unto this Isle of Britain the virginity of the translation of the other\nthree most admirable books of the aforesaid author; provided that by the\nplurality of judicious and understanding men it be not declared he hath\nalready proceeded too far, or that the continuation of the rigour whereby\nhe is dispossessed of all his both real and personal estate, by pressing\ntoo hard upon him, be not an impediment thereto, and to other more eminent\nundertakings of his, as hath been oftentimes very fully mentioned by the\nsaid translator in several original treatises of his own penning, lately by\nhim so numerously dispersed that there is scarce any, who being skilful in\nthe English idiom, or curious of any new ingenious invention, hath not\neither read them or heard of them.\n\n\n\nMr. Hugh Salel to Rabelais.\n\nIf profit mixed with pleasure may suffice\nT' extol an author's worth above the skies,\nThou certainly for both must praised be:\nI know it; for thy judgment hath in the\nContexture of this book set down such high\nContentments, mingled with utility,\nThat (as I think) I see Democritus\nLaughing at men as things ridiculous.\n    Insist in thy design; for, though we prove\n    Ungrate on earth, thy merit is above.\n\n\n\n\n\nMost illustrious and thrice valorous champions, gentlemen and others, who\nwillingly apply your minds to the entertainment of pretty conceits and\nhonest harmless knacks of wit; you have not long ago seen, read, and\nunderstood the great and inestimable Chronicle of the huge and mighty giant\nGargantua, and, like upright faithfullists, have firmly believed all to be\ntrue that is contained in them, and have very often passed your time with\nthem amongst honourable ladies and gentlewomen, telling them fair long\nstories, when you were out of all other talk, for which you are worthy of\ngreat praise and sempiternal memory.  And I do heartily wish that every man\nwould lay aside his own business, meddle no more with his profession nor\ntrade, and throw all affairs concerning himself behind his back, to attend\nthis wholly, without distracting or troubling his mind with anything else,\nuntil he have learned them without book; that if by chance the art of\nprinting should cease, or in case that in time to come all books should\nperish, every man might truly teach them unto his children, and deliver\nthem over to his successors and survivors from hand to hand as a religious\ncabal; for there is in it more profit than a rabble of great pocky\nloggerheads are able to discern, who surely understand far less in these\nlittle merriments than the fool Raclet did in the Institutions of\nJustinian.\n\nI have known great and mighty lords, and of those not a few, who, going\na-deer-hunting, or a-hawking after wild ducks, when the chase had not\nencountered with the blinks that were cast in her way to retard her course,\nor that the hawk did but plain and smoothly fly without moving her wings,\nperceiving the prey by force of flight to have gained bounds of her, have\nbeen much chafed and vexed, as you understand well enough; but the comfort\nunto which they had refuge, and that they might not take cold, was to\nrelate the inestimable deeds of the said Gargantua.  There are others in\nthe world--these are no flimflam stories, nor tales of a tub--who, being\nmuch troubled with the toothache, after they had spent their goods upon\nphysicians without receiving at all any ease of their pain, have found no\nmore ready remedy than to put the said Chronicles betwixt two pieces of\nlinen cloth made somewhat hot, and so apply them to the place that\nsmarteth, sinapizing them with a little powder of projection, otherwise\ncalled doribus.\n\nBut what shall I say of those poor men that are plagued with the pox and\nthe gout?  O how often have we seen them, even immediately after they were\nanointed and thoroughly greased, till their faces did glister like the\nkeyhole of a powdering tub, their teeth dance like the jacks of a pair of\nlittle organs or virginals when they are played upon, and that they foamed\nfrom their very throats like a boar which the mongrel mastiff-hounds have\ndriven in and overthrown amongst the toils,--what did they then?  All their\nconsolation was to have some page of the said jolly book read unto them.\nAnd we have seen those who have given themselves to a hundred puncheons of\nold devils, in case that they did not feel a manifest ease and assuagement\nof pain at the hearing of the said book read, even when they were kept in a\npurgatory of torment; no more nor less than women in travail use to find\ntheir sorrow abated when the life of St. Margaret is read unto them.  Is\nthis nothing?  Find me a book in any language, in any faculty or science\nwhatsoever, that hath such virtues, properties, and prerogatives, and I\nwill be content to pay you a quart of tripes.  No, my masters, no; it is\npeerless, incomparable, and not to be matched; and this am I resolved for\never to maintain even unto the fire exclusive.  And those that will\npertinaciously hold the contrary opinion, let them be accounted abusers,\npredestinators, impostors, and seducers of the people.  It is very true\nthat there are found in some gallant and stately books, worthy of high\nestimation, certain occult and hid properties; in the number of which are\nreckoned Whippot, Orlando Furioso, Robert the Devil, Fierabras, William\nwithout Fear, Huon of Bordeaux, Monteville, and Matabrune: but they are not\ncomparable to that which we speak of, and the world hath well known by\ninfallible experience the great emolument and utility which it hath\nreceived by this Gargantuine Chronicle, for the printers have sold more of\nthem in two months' time than there will be bought of Bibles in nine years.\n\nI therefore, your humble slave, being very willing to increase your solace\nand recreation yet a little more, do offer you for a present another book\nof the same stamp, only that it is a little more reasonable and worthy of\ncredit than the other was.  For think not, unless you wilfully will err\nagainst your knowledge, that I speak of it as the Jews do of the Law.  I\nwas not born under such a planet, neither did it ever befall me to lie, or\naffirm a thing for true that was not.  I speak of it like a lusty frolic\nonocrotary (Onocratal is a bird not much unlike a swan, which sings like an\nass's braying.), I should say crotenotary (Crotenotaire or notaire crotte,\ncroquenotaire or notaire croque are but allusions in derision of\nprotonotaire, which signifieth a pregnotary.) of the martyrized lovers, and\ncroquenotary of love.  Quod vidimus, testamur.  It is of the horrible and\ndreadful feats and prowesses of Pantagruel, whose menial servant I have\nbeen ever since I was a page, till this hour that by his leave I am\npermitted to visit my cow-country, and to know if any of my kindred there\nbe alive.\n\nAnd therefore, to make an end of this Prologue, even as I give myself to a\nhundred panniersful of fair devils, body and soul, tripes and guts, in case\nthat I lie so much as one single word in this whole history; after the like\nmanner, St. Anthony's fire burn you, Mahoom's disease whirl you, the\nsquinance with a stitch in your side and the wolf in your stomach truss\nyou, the bloody flux seize upon you, the cursed sharp inflammations of\nwild-fire, as slender and thin as cow's hair strengthened with quicksilver,\nenter into your fundament, and, like those of Sodom and Gomorrah, may you\nfall into sulphur, fire, and bottomless pits, in case you do not firmly\nbelieve all that I shall relate unto you in this present Chronicle.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the original and antiquity of the great Pantagruel.\n\nIt will not be an idle nor unprofitable thing, seeing we are at leisure, to\nput you in mind of the fountain and original source whence is derived unto\nus the good Pantagruel.  For I see that all good historiographers have thus\nhandled their chronicles, not only the Arabians, Barbarians, and Latins,\nbut also the gentle Greeks, who were eternal drinkers.  You must therefore\nremark that at the beginning of the world--I speak of a long time; it is\nabove forty quarantains, or forty times forty nights, according to the\nsupputation of the ancient Druids--a little after that Abel was killed by\nhis brother Cain, the earth, imbrued with the blood of the just, was one\nyear so exceeding fertile in all those fruits which it usually produceth to\nus, and especially in medlars, that ever since throughout all ages it hath\nbeen called the year of the great medlars; for three of them did fill a\nbushel.  In it the kalends were found by the Grecian almanacks.  There was\nthat year nothing of the month of March in the time of Lent, and the middle\nof August was in May.  In the month of October, as I take it, or at least\nSeptember, that I may not err, for I will carefully take heed of that, was\nthe week so famous in the annals, which they call the week of the three\nThursdays; for it had three of them by means of their irregular leap-years,\ncalled Bissextiles, occasioned by the sun's having tripped and stumbled a\nlittle towards the left hand, like a debtor afraid of sergeants, coming\nright upon him to arrest him:  and the moon varied from her course above\nfive fathom, and there was manifestly seen the motion of trepidation in the\nfirmament of the fixed stars, called Aplanes, so that the middle Pleiade,\nleaving her fellows, declined towards the equinoctial, and the star named\nSpica left the constellation of the Virgin to withdraw herself towards the\nBalance, known by the name of Libra, which are cases very terrible, and\nmatters so hard and difficult that astrologians cannot set their teeth in\nthem; and indeed their teeth had been pretty long if they could have\nreached thither.\n\nHowever, account you it for a truth that everybody then did most heartily\neat of these medlars, for they were fair to the eye and in taste delicious.\nBut even as Noah, that holy man, to whom we are so much beholding, bound,\nand obliged, for that he planted to us the vine, from whence we have that\nnectarian, delicious, precious, heavenly, joyful, and deific liquor which\nthey call the piot or tiplage, was deceived in the drinking of it, for he\nwas ignorant of the great virtue and power thereof; so likewise the men and\nwomen of that time did delight much in the eating of that fair great fruit,\nbut divers and very different accidents did ensue thereupon; for there fell\nupon them all in their bodies a most terrible swelling, but not upon all in\nthe same place, for some were swollen in the belly, and their belly\nstrouted out big like a great tun, of whom it is written, Ventrem\nomnipotentem, who were all very honest men, and merry blades.  And of this\nrace came St. Fatgulch and Shrove Tuesday (Pansart, Mardigras.).  Others\ndid swell at the shoulders, who in that place were so crump and knobby that\nthey were therefore called Montifers, which is as much to say as\nHill-carriers, of whom you see some yet in the world, of divers sexes and\ndegrees.  Of this race came Aesop, some of whose excellent words and deeds\nyou have in writing.  Some other puffs did swell in length by the member\nwhich they call the labourer of nature, in such sort that it grew\nmarvellous long, fat, great, lusty, stirring, and crest-risen, in the\nantique fashion, so that they made use of it as of a girdle, winding it\nfive or six times about their waist:  but if it happened the foresaid\nmember to be in good case, spooming with a full sail bunt fair before the\nwind, then to have seen those strouting champions, you would have taken\nthem for men that had their lances settled on their rest to run at the ring\nor tilting whintam (quintain).  Of these, believe me, the race is utterly\nlost and quite extinct, as the women say; for they do lament continually\nthat there are none extant now of those great, &c.  You know the rest of\nthe song.  Others did grow in matter of ballocks so enormously that three\nof them would well fill a sack able to contain five quarters of wheat.\nFrom them are descended the ballocks of Lorraine, which never dwell in\ncodpieces, but fall down to the bottom of the breeches.  Others grew in the\nlegs, and to see them you would have said they had been cranes, or the\nreddish-long-billed-storklike-scrank-legged sea-fowls called flamans, or\nelse men walking upon stilts or scatches.  The little grammar-school boys,\nknown by the name of Grimos, called those leg-grown slangams Jambus, in\nallusion to the French word jambe, which signifieth a leg.  In others,\ntheir nose did grow so, that it seemed to be the beak of a limbeck, in\nevery part thereof most variously diapered with the twinkling sparkles of\ncrimson blisters budding forth, and purpled with pimples all enamelled with\nthickset wheals of a sanguine colour, bordered with gules; and such have\nyou seen the Canon or Prebend Panzoult, and Woodenfoot, the physician of\nAngiers.  Of which race there were few that looked the ptisane, but all of\nthem were perfect lovers of the pure Septembral juice.  Naso and Ovid had\ntheir extraction from thence, and all those of whom it is written, Ne\nreminiscaris.  Others grew in ears, which they had so big that out of one\nwould have been stuff enough got to make a doublet, a pair of breeches, and\na jacket, whilst with the other they might have covered themselves as with\na Spanish cloak:  and they say that in Bourbonnois this race remaineth yet.\nOthers grew in length of body, and of those came the Giants, and of them\nPantagruel.\n\nAnd the first was Chalbroth,\nWho begat Sarabroth,\nWho begat Faribroth,\nWho begat Hurtali, that was a brave eater of pottage, and reigned\n  in the time of the flood;\nWho begat Nembroth,\nWho begat Atlas, that with his shoulders kept the sky from falling;\nWho begat Goliah,\nWho begat Erix, that invented the hocus pocus plays of legerdemain;\nWho begat Titius,\nWho begat Eryon,\nWho begat Polyphemus,\nWho begat Cacus,\nWho begat Etion, the first man that ever had the pox, for not drinking\n  fresh in summer, as Bartachin witnesseth;\nWho begat Enceladus,\nWho begat Ceus,\nWho begat Tiphaeus,\nWho begat Alaeus,\nWho begat Othus,\nWho begat Aegeon,\nWho begat Briareus, that had a hundred hands;\nWho begat Porphyrio,\nWho begat Adamastor,\nWho begat Anteus,\nWho begat Agatho,\nWho begat Porus, against whom fought Alexander the Great;\nWho begat Aranthas,\nWho begat Gabbara, that was the first inventor of the drinking of\n  healths;\nWho begat Goliah of Secondille,\nWho begat Offot, that was terribly well nosed for drinking at the\n  barrel-head;\nWho begat Artachaeus,\nWho begat Oromedon,\nWho begat Gemmagog, the first inventor of Poulan shoes, which are\n  open on the foot and tied over the instep with a lachet;\nWho begat Sisyphus,\nWho begat the Titans, of whom Hercules was born;\nWho begat Enay, the most skilful man that ever was in matter of\n  taking the little worms (called cirons) out of the hands;\nWho begat Fierabras, that was vanquished by Oliver, peer of France\n  and Roland's comrade;\nWho begat Morgan, the first in the world that played at dice with\n  spectacles;\nWho begat Fracassus, of whom Merlin Coccaius hath written, and of\n  him was born Ferragus,\nWho begat Hapmouche, the first that ever invented the drying of\n  neat's tongues in the chimney; for, before that, people salted\n  them as they do now gammons of bacon;\nWho begat Bolivorax,\nWho begat Longis,\nWho begat Gayoffo, whose ballocks were of poplar, and his pr... of\n  the service or sorb-apple-tree;\nWho begat Maschefain,\nWho begat Bruslefer,\nWho begat Angoulevent,\nWho begat Galehaut, the inventor of flagons;\nWho begat Mirelangaut,\nWho begat Gallaffre,\nWho begat Falourdin,\nWho begat Roboast,\nWho begat Sortibrant of Conimbres,\nWho begat Brushant of Mommiere,\nWho begat Bruyer that was overcome by Ogier the Dane, peer of\n  France;\nWho begat Mabrun,\nWho begat Foutasnon,\nWho begat Haquelebac,\nWho begat Vitdegrain,\nWho begat Grangousier,\nWho begat Gargantua,\nWho begat the noble Pantagruel, my master.\n\nI know that, reading this passage, you will make a doubt within yourselves,\nand that grounded upon very good reason, which is this--how it is possible\nthat this relation can be true, seeing at the time of the flood all the\nworld was destroyed, except Noah and seven persons more with him in the\nark, into whose number Hurtali is not admitted.  Doubtless the demand is\nwell made and very apparent, but the answer shall satisfy you, or my wit is\nnot rightly caulked.  And because I was not at that time to tell you\nanything of my own fancy, I will bring unto you the authority of the\nMassorets, good honest fellows, true ballockeering blades and exact\nHebraical bagpipers, who affirm that verily the said Hurtali was not within\nthe ark of Noah, neither could he get in, for he was too big, but he sat\nastride upon it, with one leg on the one side and another on the other, as\nlittle children use to do upon their wooden horses; or as the great bull of\nBerne, which was killed at Marinian, did ride for his hackney the great\nmurdering piece called the canon-pevier, a pretty beast of a fair and\npleasant amble without all question.\n\nIn that posture, he, after God, saved the said ark from danger, for with\nhis legs he gave it the brangle that was needful, and with his foot turned\nit whither he pleased, as a ship answereth her rudder.  Those that were\nwithin sent him up victuals in abundance by a chimney, as people very\nthankfully acknowledging the good that he did them.  And sometimes they did\ntalk together as Icaromenippus did to Jupiter, according to the report of\nLucian.  Have you understood all this well?  Drink then one good draught\nwithout water, for if you believe it not,--no truly do I not, quoth she.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the nativity of the most dread and redoubted Pantagruel.\n\nGargantua at the age of four hundred fourscore forty and four years begat\nhis son Pantagruel, upon his wife named Badebec, daughter to the king of\nthe Amaurots in Utopia, who died in childbirth; for he was so wonderfully\ngreat and lumpish that he could not possibly come forth into the light of\nthe world without thus suffocating his mother.  But that we may fully\nunderstand the cause and reason of the name of Pantagruel which at his\nbaptism was given him, you are to remark that in that year there was so\ngreat drought over all the country of Africa that there passed thirty and\nsix months, three weeks, four days, thirteen hours and a little more\nwithout rain, but with a heat so vehement that the whole earth was parched\nand withered by it.  Neither was it more scorched and dried up with heat in\nthe days of Elijah than it was at that time; for there was not a tree to be\nseen that had either leaf or bloom upon it.  The grass was without verdure\nor greenness, the rivers were drained, the fountains dried up, the poor\nfishes, abandoned and forsaken by their proper element, wandering and\ncrying upon the ground most horribly.  The birds did fall down from the air\nfor want of moisture and dew wherewith to refresh them.  The wolves, foxes,\nharts, wild boars, fallow deer, hares, coneys, weasels, brocks, badgers,\nand other such beasts, were found dead in the fields with their mouths\nopen.  In respect of men, there was the pity, you should have seen them lay\nout their tongues like hares that have been run six hours.  Many did throw\nthemselves into the wells.  Others entered within a cow's belly to be in\nthe shade; those Homer calls Alibants.  All the country was idle, and could\ndo no virtue.  It was a most lamentable case to have seen the labour of\nmortals in defending themselves from the vehemency of this horrific\ndrought; for they had work enough to do to save the holy water in the\nchurches from being wasted; but there was such order taken by the counsel\nof my lords the cardinals and of our holy Father, that none did dare to\ntake above one lick.  Yet when anyone came into the church, you should have\nseen above twenty poor thirsty fellows hang upon him that was the\ndistributor of the water, and that with a wide open throat, gaping for some\nlittle drop, like the rich glutton in Luke, that might fall by, lest\nanything should be lost.  O how happy was he in that year who had a cool\ncellar under ground, well plenished with fresh wine!\n\nThe philosopher reports, in moving the question, Wherefore it is that the\nsea-water is salt, that at the time when Phoebus gave the government of his\nresplendent chariot to his son Phaeton, the said Phaeton, unskilful in the\nart, and not knowing how to keep the ecliptic line betwixt the two tropics\nof the latitude of the sun's course, strayed out of his way, and came so\nnear the earth that he dried up all the countries that were under it,\nburning a great part of the heavens which the philosophers call Via lactea,\nand the huffsnuffs St. James's way; although the most coped, lofty, and\nhigh-crested poets affirm that to be the place where Juno's milk fell when\nshe gave suck to Hercules.  The earth at that time was so excessively\nheated that it fell into an enormous sweat, yea, such a one as made it\nsweat out the sea, which is therefore salt, because all sweat is salt; and\nthis you cannot but confess to be true if you will taste of your own, or of\nthose that have the pox, when they are put into sweating, it is all one to\nme.\n\nJust such another case fell out this same year:  for on a certain Friday,\nwhen the whole people were bent upon their devotions, and had made goodly\nprocessions, with store of litanies, and fair preachings, and beseechings\nof God Almighty to look down with his eye of mercy upon their miserable and\ndisconsolate condition, there was even then visibly seen issue out of the\nground great drops of water, such as fall from a puff-bagged man in a top\nsweat, and the poor hoidens began to rejoice as if it had been a thing very\nprofitable unto them; for some said that there was not one drop of moisture\nin the air whence they might have any rain, and that the earth did supply\nthe default of that.  Other learned men said that it was a shower of the\nantipodes, as Seneca saith in his fourth book Quaestionum naturalium,\nspeaking of the source and spring of Nilus.  But they were deceived, for,\nthe procession being ended, when everyone went about to gather of this dew,\nand to drink of it with full bowls, they found that it was nothing but\npickle and the very brine of salt, more brackish in taste than the saltest\nwater of the sea.  And because in that very day Pantagruel was born, his\nfather gave him that name; for Panta in Greek is as much to say as all, and\nGruel in the Hagarene language doth signify thirsty, inferring hereby that\nat his birth the whole world was a-dry and thirsty, as likewise foreseeing\nthat he would be some day supreme lord and sovereign of the thirsty\nEthrappels, which was shown to him at that very same hour by a more evident\nsign.  For when his mother Badebec was in the bringing of him forth, and\nthat the midwives did wait to receive him, there came first out of her\nbelly three score and eight tregeneers, that is, salt-sellers, every one of\nthem leading in a halter a mule heavy laden with salt; after whom issued\nforth nine dromedaries, with great loads of gammons of bacon and dried\nneat's tongues on their backs.  Then followed seven camels loaded with\nlinks and chitterlings, hogs' puddings, and sausages.  After them came out\nfive great wains, full of leeks, garlic, onions, and chibots, drawn with\nfive-and-thirty strong cart-horses, which was six for every one, besides\nthe thiller.  At the sight hereof the said midwives were much amazed, yet\nsome of them said, Lo, here is good provision, and indeed we need it; for\nwe drink but lazily, as if our tongues walked on crutches, and not lustily\nlike Lansman Dutches.  Truly this is a good sign; there is nothing here but\nwhat is fit for us; these are the spurs of wine, that set it a-going.  As\nthey were tattling thus together after their own manner of chat, behold!\nout comes Pantagruel all hairy like a bear, whereupon one of them, inspired\nwith a prophetical spirit, said, This will be a terrible fellow; he is born\nwith all his hair; he is undoubtedly to do wonderful things, and if he live\nhe shall have age.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the grief wherewith Gargantua was moved at the decease of his wife\nBadebec.\n\nWhen Pantagruel was born, there was none more astonished and perplexed than\nwas his father Gargantua; for of the one side seeing his wife Badebec dead,\nand on the other side his son Pantagruel born, so fair and so great, he\nknew not what to say nor what to do.  And the doubt that troubled his brain\nwas to know whether he should cry for the death of his wife or laugh for\nthe joy of his son.  He was hinc inde choked with sophistical arguments,\nfor he framed them very well in modo et figura, but he could not resolve\nthem, remaining pestered and entangled by this means, like a mouse caught\nin a trap or kite snared in a gin.  Shall I weep? said he.  Yes, for why?\nMy so good wife is dead, who was the most this, the most that, that ever\nwas in the world.  Never shall I see her, never shall I recover such\nanother; it is unto me an inestimable loss!  O my good God, what had I done\nthat thou shouldest thus punish me?  Why didst thou not take me away before\nher, seeing for me to live without her is but to languish?  Ah, Badebec,\nBadebec, my minion, my dear heart, my sugar, my sweeting, my honey, my\nlittle c-- (yet it had in circumference full six acres, three rods, five\npoles, four yards, two foot, one inch and a half of good woodland measure),\nmy tender peggy, my codpiece darling, my bob and hit, my slipshoe-lovey,\nnever shall I see thee!  Ah, poor Pantagruel, thou hast lost thy good\nmother, thy sweet nurse, thy well-beloved lady!  O false death, how\ninjurious and despiteful hast thou been to me!  How malicious and\noutrageous have I found thee in taking her from me, my well-beloved wife,\nto whom immortality did of right belong!\n\nWith these words he did cry like a cow, but on a sudden fell a-laughing\nlike a calf, when Pantagruel came into his mind.  Ha, my little son, said\nhe, my childilolly, fedlifondy, dandlichucky, my ballocky, my pretty rogue!\nO how jolly thou art, and how much am I bound to my gracious God, that hath\nbeen pleased to bestow on me a son so fair, so spriteful, so lively, so\nsmiling, so pleasant, and so gentle!  Ho, ho, ho, ho, how glad I am!  Let\nus drink, ho, and put away melancholy!  Bring of the best, rinse the\nglasses, lay the cloth, drive out these dogs, blow this fire, light\ncandles, shut that door there, cut this bread in sippets for brewis, send\naway these poor folks in giving them what they ask, hold my gown.  I will\nstrip myself into my doublet (en cuerpo), to make the gossips merry, and\nkeep them company.\n\nAs he spake this, he heard the litanies and the mementos of the priests\nthat carried his wife to be buried, upon which he left the good purpose he\nwas in, and was suddenly ravished another way, saying, Lord God! must I\nagain contrist myself?  This grieves me.  I am no longer young, I grow old,\nthe weather is dangerous; I may perhaps take an ague, then shall I be\nfoiled, if not quite undone.  By the faith of a gentleman, it were better\nto cry less, and drink more.  My wife is dead, well, by G--! (da jurandi) I\nshall not raise her again by my crying:  she is well, she is in paradise at\nleast, if she be no higher:  she prayeth to God for us, she is happy, she\nis above the sense of our miseries, nor can our calamities reach her.  What\nthough she be dead, must not we also die?  The same debt which she hath\npaid hangs over our heads; nature will require it of us, and we must all of\nus some day taste of the same sauce.  Let her pass then, and the Lord\npreserve the survivors; for I must now cast about how to get another wife.\nBut I will tell you what you shall do, said he to the midwives, in France\ncalled wise women (where be they, good folks?  I cannot see them):  Go you\nto my wife's interment, and I will the while rock my son; for I find myself\nsomewhat altered and distempered, and should otherwise be in danger of\nfalling sick; but drink one good draught first, you will be the better for\nit.  And believe me, upon mine honour, they at his request went to her\nburial and funeral obsequies.  In the meanwhile, poor Gargantua staying at\nhome, and willing to have somewhat in remembrance of her to be engraven\nupon her tomb, made this epitaph in the manner as followeth.\n\n  Dead is the noble Badebec,\n  Who had a face like a rebeck;\n  A Spanish body, and a belly\n  Of Switzerland; she died, I tell ye,\n  In childbirth.  Pray to God, that her\n  He pardon wherein she did err.\n  Here lies her body, which did live\n  Free from all vice, as I believe,\n    And did decease at my bedside,\n    The year and day in which she died.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the infancy of Pantagruel.\n\nI find by the ancient historiographers and poets that divers have been born\nin this world after very strange manners, which would be too long to\nrepeat; read therefore the seventh chapter of Pliny, if you have so much\nleisure.  Yet have you never heard of any so wonderful as that of\nPantagruel; for it is a very difficult matter to believe, how in the little\ntime he was in his mother's belly he grew both in body and strength.  That\nwhich Hercules did was nothing, when in his cradle he slew two serpents,\nfor those serpents were but little and weak, but Pantagruel, being yet in\nthe cradle, did far more admirable things, and more to be amazed at.  I\npass by here the relation of how at every one of his meals he supped up the\nmilk of four thousand and six hundred cows, and how, to make him a skillet\nto boil his milk in, there were set a-work all the braziers of Somure in\nAnjou, of Villedieu in Normandy, and of Bramont in Lorraine.  And they\nserved in this whitepot-meat to him in a huge great bell, which is yet to\nbe seen in the city of Bourges in Berry, near the palace, but his teeth\nwere already so well grown, and so strengthened with vigour, that of the\nsaid bell he bit off a great morsel, as very plainly doth appear till this\nhour.\n\nOne day in the morning, when they would have made him suck one of his cows\n--for he never had any other nurse, as the history tells us--he got one of\nhis arms loose from the swaddling bands wherewith he was kept fast in the\ncradle, laid hold on the said cow under the left foreham, and grasping her\nto him ate up her udder and half of her paunch, with the liver and the\nkidneys, and had devoured all up if she had not cried out most horribly, as\nif the wolves had held her by the legs, at which noise company came in and\ntook away the said cow from Pantagruel.  Yet could they not so well do it\nbut that the quarter whereby he caught her was left in his hand, of which\nquarter he gulped up the flesh in a trice, even with as much ease as you\nwould eat a sausage, and that so greedily with desire of more, that, when\nthey would have taken away the bone from him, he swallowed it down whole,\nas a cormorant would do a little fish; and afterwards began fumblingly to\nsay, Good, good, good--for he could not yet speak plain--giving them to\nunderstand thereby that he had found it very good, and that he did lack but\nso much more.  Which when they saw that attended him, they bound him with\ngreat cable-ropes, like those that are made at Tain for the carriage of\nsalt to Lyons, or such as those are whereby the great French ship rides at\nanchor in the road of Newhaven in Normandy.  But, on a certain time, a\ngreat bear, which his father had bred, got loose, came towards him, began\nto lick his face, for his nurses had not thoroughly wiped his chaps, at\nwhich unexpected approach being on a sudden offended, he as lightly rid\nhimself of those great cables as Samson did of the hawser ropes wherewith\nthe Philistines had tied him, and, by your leave, takes me up my lord the\nbear, and tears him to you in pieces like a pullet, which served him for a\ngorgeful or good warm bit for that meal.\n\nWhereupon Gargantua, fearing lest the child should hurt himself, caused\nfour great chains of iron to be made to bind him, and so many strong wooden\narches unto his cradle, most firmly stocked and morticed in huge frames.\nOf those chains you have one at Rochelle, which they draw up at night\nbetwixt the two great towers of the haven.  Another is at Lyons,--a third\nat Angiers,--and the fourth was carried away by the devils to bind Lucifer,\nwho broke his chains in those days by reason of a colic that did\nextraordinarily torment him, taken with eating a sergeant's soul fried for\nhis breakfast.  And therefore you may believe that which Nicholas de Lyra\nsaith upon that place of the Psalter where it is written, Et Og Regem\nBasan, that the said Og, being yet little, was so strong and robustious,\nthat they were fain to bind him with chains of iron in his cradle.  Thus\ncontinued Pantagruel for a while very calm and quiet, for he was not able\nso easily to break those chains, especially having no room in the cradle to\ngive a swing with his arms.  But see what happened once upon a great\nholiday that his father Gargantua made a sumptuous banquet to all the\nprinces of his court.  I am apt to believe that the menial officers of the\nhouse were so embusied in waiting each on his proper service at the feast,\nthat nobody took care of poor Pantagruel, who was left a reculorum,\nbehindhand, all alone, and as forsaken.  What did he?  Hark what he did,\ngood people.  He strove and essayed to break the chains of the cradle with\nhis arms, but could not, for they were too strong for him.  Then did he\nkeep with his feet such a stamping stir, and so long, that at last he beat\nout the lower end of his cradle, which notwithstanding was made of a great\npost five foot in square; and as soon as he had gotten out his feet, he\nslid down as well as he could till he had got his soles to the ground, and\nthen with a mighty force he rose up, carrying his cradle upon his back,\nbound to him like a tortoise that crawls up against a wall; and to have\nseen him, you would have thought it had been a great carrick of five\nhundred tons upon one end.  In this manner he entered into the great hall\nwhere they were banqueting, and that very boldly, which did much affright\nthe company; yet, because his arms were tied in, he could not reach\nanything to eat, but with great pain stooped now and then a little to take\nwith the whole flat of his tongue some lick, good bit, or morsel.  Which\nwhen his father saw, he knew well enough that they had left him without\ngiving him anything to eat, and therefore commanded that he should be\nloosed from the said chains, by the counsel of the princes and lords there\npresent.  Besides that also the physicians of Gargantua said that, if they\ndid thus keep him in the cradle, he would be all his lifetime subject to\nthe stone.  When he was unchained, they made him to sit down, where, after\nhe had fed very well, he took his cradle and broke it into more than five\nhundred thousand pieces with one blow of his fist that he struck in the\nmidst of it, swearing that he would never come into it again.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the acts of the noble Pantagruel in his youthful age.\n\nThus grew Pantagruel from day to day, and to everyone's eye waxed more and\nmore in all his dimensions, which made his father to rejoice by a natural\naffection.  Therefore caused he to be made for him, whilst he was yet\nlittle, a pretty crossbow wherewith to shoot at small birds, which now they\ncall the great crossbow at Chantelle.  Then he sent him to the school to\nlearn, and to spend his youth in virtue.  In the prosecution of which\ndesign he came first to Poictiers, where, as he studied and profited very\nmuch, he saw that the scholars were oftentimes at leisure and knew not how\nto bestow their time, which moved him to take such compassion on them, that\none day he took from a long ledge of rocks, called there Passelourdin, a\nhuge great stone, of about twelve fathom square and fourteen handfuls\nthick, and with great ease set it upon four pillars in the midst of a\nfield, to no other end but that the said scholars, when they had nothing\nelse to do, might pass their time in getting up on that stone, and feast it\nwith store of gammons, pasties, and flagons, and carve their names upon it\nwith a knife, in token of which deed till this hour the stone is called the\nlifted stone.  And in remembrance hereof there is none entered into the\nregister and matricular book of the said university, or accounted capable\nof taking any degree therein, till he have first drunk in the caballine\nfountain of Croustelles, passed at Passelourdin, and got up upon the lifted\nstone.\n\nAfterwards, reading the delectable chronicles of his ancestors, he found\nthat Geoffrey of Lusignan, called Geoffrey with the great tooth,\ngrandfather to the cousin-in-law of the eldest sister of the aunt of the\nson-in-law of the uncle of the good daughter of his stepmother, was\ninterred at Maillezais; therefore one day he took campos (which is a little\nvacation from study to play a while), that he might give him a visit as\nunto an honest man.  And going from Poictiers with some of his companions,\nthey passed by the Guge (Leguge), visiting the noble Abbot Ardillon; then\nby Lusignan, by Sansay, by Celles, by Coolonges, by Fontenay-le-Comte,\nsaluting the learned Tiraqueau, and from thence arrived at Maillezais,\nwhere he went to see the sepulchre of the said Geoffrey with the great\ntooth; which made him somewhat afraid, looking upon the picture, whose\nlively draughts did set him forth in the representation of a man in an\nextreme fury, drawing his great Malchus falchion half way out of his\nscabbard.  When the reason hereof was demanded, the canons of the said\nplace told him that there was no other cause of it but that Pictoribus\natque Poetis, &c., that is to say, that painters and poets have liberty to\npaint and devise what they list after their own fancy.  But he was not\nsatisfied with their answer, and said, He is not thus painted without a\ncause, and I suspect that at his death there was some wrong done him,\nwhereof he requireth his kindred to take revenge.  I will inquire further\ninto it, and then do what shall be reasonable.  Then he returned not to\nPoictiers, but would take a view of the other universities of France.\nTherefore, going to Rochelle, he took shipping and arrived at Bordeaux,\nwhere he found no great exercise, only now and then he would see some\nmariners and lightermen a-wrestling on the quay or strand by the\nriver-side.  From thence he came to Toulouse, where he learned to dance very\nwell, and to play with the two-handed sword, as the fashion of the scholars\nof the said university is to bestir themselves in games whereof they may\nhave their hands full; but he stayed not long there when he saw that they\ndid cause burn their regents alive like red herring, saying, Now God forbid\nthat I should die this death! for I am by nature sufficiently dry already,\nwithout heating myself any further.\n\nHe went then to Montpellier, where he met with the good wives of Mirevaux,\nand good jovial company withal, and thought to have set himself to the\nstudy of physic; but he considered that that calling was too troublesome\nand melancholic, and that physicians did smell of glisters like old devils.\nTherefore he resolved he would study the laws; but seeing that there were\nbut three scald- and one bald-pated legist in that place, he departed from\nthence, and in his way made the bridge of Guard and the amphitheatre of\nNimes in less than three hours, which, nevertheless, seems to be a more\ndivine than human work.  After that he came to Avignon, where he was not\nabove three days before he fell in love; for the women there take great\ndelight in playing at the close-buttock game, because it is papal ground.\nWhich his tutor and pedagogue Epistemon perceiving, he drew him out of that\nplace, and brought him to Valence in the Dauphiny, where he saw no great\nmatter of recreation, only that the lubbers of the town did beat the\nscholars, which so incensed him with anger, that when, upon a certain very\nfair Sunday, the people being at their public dancing in the streets, and\none of the scholars offering to put himself into the ring to partake of\nthat sport, the foresaid lubberly fellows would not permit him the\nadmittance into their society, he, taking the scholar's part, so belaboured\nthem with blows, and laid such load upon them, that he drove them all\nbefore him, even to the brink of the river Rhone, and would have there\ndrowned them, but that they did squat to the ground, and there lay close a\nfull half-league under the river.  The hole is to be seen there yet.\n\nAfter that he departed from thence, and in three strides and one leap came\nto Angiers, where he found himself very well, and would have continued\nthere some space, but that the plague drove them away.  So from thence he\ncame to Bourges, where he studied a good long time, and profited very much\nin the faculty of the laws, and would sometimes say that the books of the\ncivil law were like unto a wonderfully precious, royal, and triumphant robe\nof cloth of gold edged with dirt; for in the world are no goodlier books to\nbe seen, more ornate, nor more eloquent than the texts of the Pandects, but\nthe bordering of them, that is to say, the gloss of Accursius, is so\nscurvy, vile, base, and unsavoury, that it is nothing but filthiness and\nvillainy.\n\nGoing from Bourges, he came to Orleans, where he found store of swaggering\nscholars that made him great entertainment at his coming, and with whom he\nlearned to play at tennis so well that he was a master at that game.  For\nthe students of the said place make a prime exercise of it; and sometimes\nthey carried him unto Cupid's houses of commerce (in that city termed\nislands, because of their being most ordinarily environed with other\nhouses, and not contiguous to any), there to recreate his person at the\nsport of poussavant, which the wenches of London call the ferkers in and\nin.  As for breaking his head with over-much study, he had an especial care\nnot to do it in any case, for fear of spoiling his eyes.  Which he the\nrather observed, for that it was told him by one of his teachers, there\ncalled regents, that the pain of the eyes was the most hurtful thing of any\nto the sight.  For this cause, when he one day was made a licentiate, or\ngraduate in law, one of the scholars of his acquaintance, who of learning\nhad not much more than his burden, though instead of that he could dance\nvery well and play at tennis, made the blazon and device of the licentiates\nin the said university, saying,\n\n  So you have in your hand a racket,\n  A tennis-ball in your cod-placket,\n  A Pandect law in your cap's tippet,\n  And that you have the skill to trip it\n  In a low dance, you will b' allowed\n  The grant of the licentiate's hood.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel met with a Limousin, who too affectedly did counterfeit the\nFrench language.\n\nUpon a certain day, I know not when, Pantagruel walking after supper with\nsome of his fellow-students without that gate of the city through which we\nenter on the road to Paris, encountered with a young spruce-like scholar\nthat was coming upon the same very way, and, after they had saluted one\nanother, asked him thus, My friend, from whence comest thou now?  The\nscholar answered him, From the alme, inclyte, and celebrate academy, which\nis vocitated Lutetia.  What is the meaning of this? said Pantagruel to one\nof his men.  It is, answered he, from Paris.  Thou comest from Paris then,\nsaid Pantagruel; and how do you spend your time there, you my masters the\nstudents of Paris?  The scholar answered, We transfretate the Sequan at the\ndilucul and crepuscul; we deambulate by the compites and quadrives of the\nurb; we despumate the Latial verbocination; and, like verisimilary\namorabons, we captat the benevolence of the omnijugal, omniform and\nomnigenal feminine sex.  Upon certain diecules we invisat the lupanares,\nand in a venerian ecstasy inculcate our veretres into the penitissime\nrecesses of the pudends of these amicabilissim meretricules.  Then do we\ncauponisate in the meritory taberns of the Pineapple, the Castle, the\nMagdalene, and the Mule, goodly vervecine spatules perforaminated with\npetrocile.  And if by fortune there be rarity or penury of pecune in our\nmarsupies, and that they be exhausted of ferruginean metal, for the shot we\ndimit our codices and oppignerat our vestments, whilst we prestolate the\ncoming of the tabellaries from the Penates and patriotic Lares.  To which\nPantagruel answered, What devilish language is this?  By the Lord, I think\nthou art some kind of heretick.  My lord, no, said the scholar; for\nlibentissimally, as soon as it illucesceth any minutule slice of the day, I\ndemigrate into one of these so well architected minsters, and there,\nirrorating myself with fair lustral water, I mumble off little parcels of\nsome missic precation of our sacrificuls, and, submurmurating my horary\nprecules, I elevate and absterge my anime from its nocturnal inquinations.\nI revere the Olympicols.  I latrially venere the supernal Astripotent.  I\ndilige and redame my proxims.  I observe the decalogical precepts, and,\naccording to the facultatule of my vires, I do not discede from them one\nlate unguicule.  Nevertheless, it is veriform, that because Mammona doth\nnot supergurgitate anything in my loculs, that I am somewhat rare and lent\nto supererogate the elemosynes to those egents that hostially queritate\ntheir stipe.\n\nPrut, tut, said Pantagruel, what doth this fool mean to say?  I think he is\nupon the forging of some diabolical tongue, and that enchanter-like he\nwould charm us.  To whom one of his men said, Without doubt, sir, this\nfellow would counterfeit the language of the Parisians, but he doth only\nflay the Latin, imagining by so doing that he doth highly Pindarize it in\nmost eloquent terms, and strongly conceiteth himself to be therefore a\ngreat orator in the French, because he disdaineth the common manner of\nspeaking.  To which Pantagruel said, Is it true?  The scholar answered, My\nworshipful lord, my genie is not apt nate to that which this flagitious\nnebulon saith, to excoriate the cut(ic)ule of our vernacular Gallic, but\nvice-versally I gnave opere, and by veles and rames enite to locupletate it\nwith the Latinicome redundance.  By G--, said Pantagruel, I will teach you\nto speak.  But first come hither, and tell me whence thou art.  To this the\nscholar answered, The primeval origin of my aves and ataves was indigenary\nof the Lemovic regions, where requiesceth the corpor of the hagiotat St.\nMartial.  I understand thee very well, said Pantagruel.  When all comes to\nall, thou art a Limousin, and thou wilt here by thy affected speech\ncounterfeit the Parisians.  Well now, come hither, I must show thee a new\ntrick, and handsomely give thee the combfeat.  With this he took him by the\nthroat, saying to him, Thou flayest the Latin; by St. John, I will make\nthee flay the fox, for I will now flay thee alive.  Then began the poor\nLimousin to cry, Haw, gwid maaster! haw, Laord, my halp, and St. Marshaw!\nhaw, I'm worried.  Haw, my thropple, the bean of my cragg is bruck!  Haw,\nfor gauad's seck lawt my lean, mawster; waw, waw, waw.  Now, said\nPantagruel, thou speakest naturally, and so let him go, for the poor\nLimousin had totally bewrayed and thoroughly conshit his breeches, which\nwere not deep and large enough, but round straight cannioned gregs, having\nin the seat a piece like a keeling's tail, and therefore in French called,\nde chausses a queue de merlus.  Then, said Pantagruel, St. Alipantin, what\ncivet?  Fie! to the devil with this turnip-eater, as he stinks! and so let\nhim go.  But this hug of Pantagruel's was such a terror to him all the days\nof his life, and took such deep impression in his fancy, that very often,\ndistracted with sudden affrightments, he would startle and say that\nPantagruel held him by the neck.  Besides that, it procured him a continual\ndrought and desire to drink, so that after some few years he died of the\ndeath Roland, in plain English called thirst, a work of divine vengeance,\nshowing us that which saith the philosopher and Aulus Gellius, that it\nbecometh us to speak according to the common language; and that we should,\nas said Octavian Augustus, strive to shun all strange and unknown terms\nwith as much heedfulness and circumspection as pilots of ships use to avoid\nthe rocks and banks in the sea.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel came to Paris, and of the choice books of the Library of St.\nVictor.\n\nAfter that Pantagruel had studied very well at Orleans, he resolved to see\nthe great University at Paris; but, before his departure, he was informed\nthat there was a huge big bell at St. Anian in the said town of Orleans,\nunder the ground, which had been there above two hundred and fourteen\nyears, for it was so great that they could not by any device get it so much\nas above the ground, although they used all the means that are found in\nVitruvius de Architectura, Albertus de Re Aedificatoria, Euclid, Theon,\nArchimedes, and Hero de Ingeniis; for all that was to no purpose.\nWherefore, condescending heartily to the humble request of the citizens and\ninhabitants of the said town, he determined to remove it to the tower that\nwas erected for it.  With that he came to the place where it was, and\nlifted it out of the ground with his little finger as easily as you would\nhave done a hawk's bell or bellwether's tingle-tangle; but, before he would\ncarry it to the foresaid tower or steeple appointed for it, he would needs\nmake some music with it about the town, and ring it alongst all the streets\nas he carried it in his hand, wherewith all the people were very glad.  But\nthere happened one great inconveniency, for with carrying it so, and\nringing it about the streets, all the good Orleans wine turned instantly,\nwaxed flat and was spoiled, which nobody there did perceive till the night\nfollowing; for every man found himself so altered and a-dry with drinking\nthese flat wines, that they did nothing but spit, and that as white as\nMalta cotton, saying, We have of the Pantagruel, and our very throats are\nsalted.  This done, he came to Paris with his retinue.  And at his entry\neveryone came out to see him--as you know well enough that the people of\nParis is sottish by nature, by B flat and B sharp--and beheld him with\ngreat astonishment, mixed with no less fear that he would carry away the\npalace into some other country, a remotis, and far from them, as his father\nformerly had done the great peal of bells at Our Lady's Church to tie about\nhis mare's neck.  Now after he had stayed there a pretty space, and studied\nvery well in all the seven liberal arts, he said it was a good town to live\nin, but not to die; for that the grave-digging rogues of St. Innocent used\nin frosty nights to warm their bums with dead men's bones.  In his abode\nthere he found the library of St. Victor a very stately and magnific one,\nespecially in some books which were there, of which followeth the Repertory\nand Catalogue, Et primo,\n\nThe for Godsake of Salvation.\nThe Codpiece of the Law.\nThe Slipshoe of the Decretals.\nThe Pomegranate of Vice.\nThe Clew-bottom of Theology.\nThe Duster or Foxtail-flap of Preachers, composed by Turlupin.\nThe Churning Ballock of the Valiant.\nThe Henbane of the Bishops.\nMarmotretus de baboonis et apis, cum Commento Dorbellis.\nDecretum Universitatis Parisiensis super gorgiasitate muliercularum\n  ad placitum.\nThe Apparition of Sancte Geltrude to a Nun of Poissy, being in\n  travail at the bringing forth of a child.\nArs honeste fartandi in societate, per Marcum Corvinum (Ortuinum).\nThe Mustard-pot of Penance.\nThe Gamashes, alias the Boots of Patience.\nFormicarium artium.\nDe brodiorum usu, et honestate quartandi, per Sylvestrem Prioratem\n  Jacobinum.\nThe Cosened or Gulled in Court.\nThe Frail of the Scriveners.\nThe Marriage-packet.\nThe Cruizy or Crucible of Contemplation.\nThe Flimflams of the Law.\nThe Prickle of Wine.\nThe Spur of Cheese.\nRuboffatorium (Decrotatorium) scholarium.\nTartaretus de modo cacandi.\nThe Bravades of Rome.\nBricot de Differentiis Browsarum.\nThe Tailpiece-Cushion, or Close-breech of Discipline.\nThe Cobbled Shoe of Humility.\nThe Trivet of good Thoughts.\nThe Kettle of Magnanimity.\nThe Cavilling Entanglements of Confessors.\nThe Snatchfare of the Curates.\nReverendi patris fratris Lubini, provincialis Bavardiae, de gulpendis\n  lardslicionibus libri tres.\nPasquilli Doctoris Marmorei, de capreolis cum artichoketa comedendis,\n  tempore Papali ab Ecclesia interdicto.\nThe Invention of the Holy Cross, personated by six wily Priests.\nThe Spectacles of Pilgrims bound for Rome.\nMajoris de modo faciendi puddinos.\nThe Bagpipe of the Prelates.\nBeda de optimitate triparum.\nThe Complaint of the Barristers upon the Reformation of Comfits.\nThe Furred Cat of the Solicitors and Attorneys.\nOf Peas and Bacon, cum Commento.\nThe Small Vales or Drinking Money of the Indulgences.\nPraeclarissimi juris utriusque Doctoris Maistre Pilloti, &c.,\n  Scrap-farthingi de botchandis glossae Accursianae Triflis repetitio\n  enucidi-luculidissima.\nStratagemata Francharchiaeri de Baniolet.\nCarlbumpkinus de Re Militari cum Figuris Tevoti.\nDe usu et utilitate flayandi equos et equas, authore Magistro nostro\n  de Quebecu.\nThe Sauciness of Country-Stewards.\nM.N. Rostocostojambedanesse de mustarda post prandium servienda,\n  libri quatuordecim, apostillati per M. Vaurillonis.\nThe Covillage or Wench-tribute of Promoters.\n(Jabolenus de Cosmographia Purgatorii.)\nQuaestio subtilissima, utrum Chimaera in vacuo bonbinans possit\n  comedere secundas intentiones; et fuit debatuta per decem\n  hebdomadas in Consilio Constantiensi.\nThe Bridle-champer of the Advocates.\nSmutchudlamenta Scoti.\nThe Rasping and Hard-scraping of the Cardinals.\nDe calcaribus removendis, Decades undecim, per M. Albericum de Rosata.\nEjusdem de castramentandis criminibus libri tres.\nThe Entrance of Anthony de Leve into the Territories of Brazil.\n(Marforii, bacalarii cubantis Romae) de peelandis aut unskinnandis\n  blurrandisque Cardinalium mulis.\nThe said Author's Apology against those who allege that the Pope's\n  mule doth eat but at set times.\nPrognosticatio quae incipit, Silvii Triquebille, balata per M.N., the\n  deep-dreaming gull Sion.\nBoudarini Episcopi de emulgentiarum profectibus Aeneades novem,\n  cum privilegio Papali ad triennium et postea non.\nThe Shitabranna of the Maids.\nThe Bald Arse or Peeled Breech of the Widows.\nThe Cowl or Capouch of the Monks.\nThe Mumbling Devotion of the Celestine Friars.\nThe Passage-toll of Beggarliness.\nThe Teeth-chatter or Gum-didder of Lubberly Lusks.\nThe Paring-shovel of the Theologues.\nThe Drench-horn of the Masters of Arts.\nThe Scullions of Olcam, the uninitiated Clerk.\nMagistri N. Lickdishetis, de garbellisiftationibus horarum canonicarum,\n  libri quadriginta.\nArsiversitatorium confratriarum, incerto authore.\nThe Gulsgoatony or Rasher of Cormorants and Ravenous Feeders.\nThe Rammishness of the Spaniards supergivuregondigaded by Friar Inigo.\nThe Muttering of Pitiful Wretches.\nDastardismus rerum Italicarum, authore Magistro Burnegad.\nR. Lullius de Batisfolagiis Principum.\nCalibistratorium caffardiae, authore M. Jacobo Hocstraten hereticometra.\nCodtickler de Magistro nostrandorum Magistro nostratorumque beuvetis,\n  libri octo galantissimi.\nThe Crackarades of Balists or stone-throwing Engines, Contrepate\n  Clerks, Scriveners, Brief-writers, Rapporters, and Papal\n  Bull-despatchers lately compiled by Regis.\nA perpetual Almanack for those that have the gout and the pox.\nManera sweepandi fornacellos per Mag. Eccium.\nThe Shable or Scimetar of Merchants.\nThe Pleasures of the Monachal Life.\nThe Hotchpot of Hypocrites.\nThe History of the Hobgoblins.\nThe Ragamuffinism of the pensionary maimed Soldiers.\nThe Gulling Fibs and Counterfeit shows of Commissaries.\nThe Litter of Treasurers.\nThe Juglingatorium of Sophisters.\nAntipericatametanaparbeugedamphicribrationes Toordicantium.\nThe Periwinkle of Ballad-makers.\nThe Push-forward of the Alchemists.\nThe Niddy-noddy of the Satchel-loaded Seekers, by Friar Bindfastatis.\nThe Shackles of Religion.\nThe Racket of Swag-waggers.\nThe Leaning-stock of old Age.\nThe Muzzle of Nobility.\nThe Ape's Paternoster.\nThe Crickets and Hawk's-bells of Devotion.\nThe Pot of the Ember-weeks.\nThe Mortar of the Politic Life.\nThe Flap of the Hermits.\nThe Riding-hood or Monterg of the Penitentiaries.\nThe Trictrac of the Knocking Friars.\nBlockheadodus, de vita et honestate bragadochiorum.\nLyrippii Sorbonici Moralisationes, per M. Lupoldum.\nThe Carrier-horse-bells of Travellers.\nThe Bibbings of the tippling Bishops.\nDolloporediones Doctorum Coloniensium adversus Reuclin.\nThe Cymbals of Ladies.\nThe Dunger's Martingale.\nWhirlingfriskorum Chasemarkerorum per Fratrem Crackwoodloguetis.\nThe Clouted Patches of a Stout Heart.\nThe Mummery of the Racket-keeping Robin-goodfellows.\nGerson, de auferibilitate Papae ab Ecclesia.\nThe Catalogue of the Nominated and Graduated Persons.\nJo. Dytebrodii, terribilitate excommunicationis libellus acephalos.\nIngeniositas invocandi diabolos et diabolas, per M. Guingolphum.\nThe Hotchpotch or Gallimaufry of the perpetually begging Friars.\nThe Morris-dance of the Heretics.\nThe Whinings of Cajetan.\nMuddisnout Doctoris Cherubici, de origine Roughfootedarum, et\n  Wryneckedorum ritibus, libri septem.\nSixty-nine fat Breviaries.\nThe Nightmare of the five Orders of Beggars.\nThe Skinnery of the new Start-ups extracted out of the fallow-butt,\n  incornifistibulated and plodded upon in the angelic sum.\nThe Raver and idle Talker in cases of Conscience.\nThe Fat Belly of the Presidents.\nThe Baffling Flouter of the Abbots.\nSutoris adversus eum qui vocaverat eum Slabsauceatorem, et quod\n  Slabsauceatores non sunt damnati ab Ecclesia.\nCacatorium medicorum.\nThe Chimney-sweeper of Astrology.\nCampi clysteriorum per paragraph C.\nThe Bumsquibcracker of Apothecaries.\nThe Kissbreech of Chirurgery.\nJustinianus de Whiteleperotis tollendis.\nAntidotarium animae.\nMerlinus Coccaius, de patria diabolorum.\nThe Practice of Iniquity, by Cleuraunes Sadden.\nThe Mirror of Baseness, by Radnecu Waldenses.\nThe Engrained Rogue, by Dwarsencas Eldenu.\nThe Merciless Cormorant, by Hoxinidno the Jew.\n\nOf which library some books are already printed, and the rest are now at\nthe press in this noble city of Tubingen.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel, being at Paris, received letters from his father Gargantua,\nand the copy of them.\n\nPantagruel studied very hard, as you may well conceive, and profited\naccordingly; for he had an excellent understanding and notable wit,\ntogether with a capacity in memory equal to the measure of twelve oil\nbudgets or butts of olives.  And, as he was there abiding one day, he\nreceived a letter from his father in manner as followeth.\n\nMost dear Son,--Amongst the gifts, graces, and prerogatives, with which the\nsovereign plasmator God Almighty hath endowed and adorned human nature at\nthe beginning, that seems to me most singular and excellent by which we may\nin a mortal state attain to a kind of immortality, and in the course of\nthis transitory life perpetuate our name and seed, which is done by a\nprogeny issued from us in the lawful bonds of matrimony.  Whereby that in\nsome measure is restored unto us which was taken from us by the sin of our\nfirst parents, to whom it was said that, because they had not obeyed the\ncommandment of God their Creator, they should die, and by death should be\nbrought to nought that so stately frame and plasmature wherein the man at\nfirst had been created.\n\nBut by this means of seminal propagation there (\"Which continueth\" in the\nold copy.) continueth in the children what was lost in the parents, and in\nthe grandchildren that which perished in their fathers, and so successively\nuntil the day of the last judgment, when Jesus Christ shall have rendered\nup to God the Father his kingdom in a peaceable condition, out of all\ndanger and contamination of sin; for then shall cease all generations and\ncorruptions, and the elements leave off their continual transmutations,\nseeing the so much desired peace shall be attained unto and enjoyed, and\nthat all things shall be brought to their end and period.  And, therefore,\nnot without just and reasonable cause do I give thanks to God my Saviour\nand Preserver, for that he hath enabled me to see my bald old age\nreflourish in thy youth; for when, at his good pleasure, who rules and\ngoverns all things, my soul shall leave this mortal habitation, I shall not\naccount myself wholly to die, but to pass from one place unto another,\nconsidering that, in and by that, I continue in my visible image living in\nthe world, visiting and conversing with people of honour, and other my good\nfriends, as I was wont to do.  Which conversation of mine, although it was\nnot without sin, because we are all of us trespassers, and therefore ought\ncontinually to beseech his divine majesty to blot our transgressions out of\nhis memory, yet was it, by the help and grace of God, without all manner of\nreproach before men.\n\nWherefore, if those qualities of the mind but shine in thee wherewith I am\nendowed, as in thee remaineth the perfect image of my body, thou wilt be\nesteemed by all men to be the perfect guardian and treasure of the\nimmortality of our name.  But, if otherwise, I shall truly take but small\npleasure to see it, considering that the lesser part of me, which is the\nbody, would abide in thee, and the best, to wit, that which is the soul,\nand by which our name continues blessed amongst men, would be degenerate\nand abastardized.  This I do not speak out of any distrust that I have of\nthy virtue, which I have heretofore already tried, but to encourage thee\nyet more earnestly to proceed from good to better.  And that which I now\nwrite unto thee is not so much that thou shouldst live in this virtuous\ncourse, as that thou shouldst rejoice in so living and having lived, and\ncheer up thyself with the like resolution in time to come; to the\nprosecution and accomplishment of which enterprise and generous undertaking\nthou mayst easily remember how that I have spared nothing, but have so\nhelped thee, as if I had had no other treasure in this world but to see\nthee once in my life completely well-bred and accomplished, as well in\nvirtue, honesty, and valour, as in all liberal knowledge and civility, and\nso to leave thee after my death as a mirror representing the person of me\nthy father, and if not so excellent, and such in deed as I do wish thee,\nyet such in my desire.\n\nBut although my deceased father of happy memory, Grangousier, had bent his\nbest endeavours to make me profit in all perfection and political\nknowledge, and that my labour and study was fully correspondent to, yea,\nwent beyond his desire, nevertheless, as thou mayest well understand, the\ntime then was not so proper and fit for learning as it is at present,\nneither had I plenty of such good masters as thou hast had.  For that time\nwas darksome, obscured with clouds of ignorance, and savouring a little of\nthe infelicity and calamity of the Goths, who had, wherever they set\nfooting, destroyed all good literature, which in my age hath by the divine\ngoodness been restored unto its former light and dignity, and that with\nsuch amendment and increase of the knowledge, that now hardly should I be\nadmitted unto the first form of the little grammar-schoolboys--I say, I,\nwho in my youthful days was, and that justly, reputed the most learned of\nthat age.  Which I do not speak in vain boasting, although I might lawfully\ndo it in writing unto thee--in verification whereof thou hast the authority\nof Marcus Tullius in his book of old age, and the sentence of Plutarch in\nthe book entitled How a man may praise himself without envy--but to give\nthee an emulous encouragement to strive yet further.\n\nNow is it that the minds of men are qualified with all manner of\ndiscipline, and the old sciences revived which for many ages were extinct.\nNow it is that the learned languages are to their pristine purity restored,\nviz., Greek, without which a man may be ashamed to account himself a\nscholar, Hebrew, Arabic, Chaldaean, and Latin.  Printing likewise is now in\nuse, so elegant and so correct that better cannot be imagined, although it\nwas found out but in my time by divine inspiration, as by a diabolical\nsuggestion on the other side was the invention of ordnance.  All the world\nis full of knowing men, of most learned schoolmasters, and vast libraries;\nand it appears to me as a truth, that neither in Plato's time, nor\nCicero's, nor Papinian's, there was ever such conveniency for studying as\nwe see at this day there is.  Nor must any adventure henceforward to come\nin public, or present himself in company, that hath not been pretty well\npolished in the shop of Minerva.  I see robbers, hangmen, freebooters,\ntapsters, ostlers, and such like, of the very rubbish of the people, more\nlearned now than the doctors and preachers were in my time.\n\nWhat shall I say?  The very women and children have aspired to this praise\nand celestial manner of good learning.  Yet so it is that, in the age I am\nnow of, I have been constrained to learn the Greek tongue--which I\ncontemned not like Cato, but had not the leisure in my younger years to\nattend the study of it--and take much delight in the reading of Plutarch's\nMorals, the pleasant Dialogues of Plato, the Monuments of Pausanias, and\nthe Antiquities of Athenaeus, in waiting on the hour wherein God my Creator\nshall call me and command me to depart from this earth and transitory\npilgrimage.  Wherefore, my son, I admonish thee to employ thy youth to\nprofit as well as thou canst, both in thy studies and in virtue.  Thou art\nat Paris, where the laudable examples of many brave men may stir up thy\nmind to gallant actions, and hast likewise for thy tutor and pedagogue the\nlearned Epistemon, who by his lively and vocal documents may instruct thee\nin the arts and sciences.\n\nI intend, and will have it so, that thou learn the languages perfectly;\nfirst of all the Greek, as Quintilian will have it; secondly, the Latin;\nand then the Hebrew, for the Holy Scripture sake; and then the Chaldee and\nArabic likewise, and that thou frame thy style in Greek in imitation of\nPlato, and for the Latin after Cicero.  Let there be no history which thou\nshalt not have ready in thy memory; unto the prosecuting of which design,\nbooks of cosmography will be very conducible and help thee much.  Of the\nliberal arts of geometry, arithmetic, and music, I gave thee some taste\nwhen thou wert yet little, and not above five or six years old.  Proceed\nfurther in them, and learn the remainder if thou canst.  As for astronomy,\nstudy all the rules thereof.  Let pass, nevertheless, the divining and\njudicial astrology, and the art of Lullius, as being nothing else but plain\nabuses and vanities.  As for the civil law, of that I would have thee to\nknow the texts by heart, and then to confer them with philosophy.\n\nNow, in matter of the knowledge of the works of nature, I would have thee\nto study that exactly, and that so there be no sea, river, nor fountain, of\nwhich thou dost not know the fishes; all the fowls of the air; all the\nseveral kinds of shrubs and trees, whether in forests or orchards; all the\nsorts of herbs and flowers that grow upon the ground; all the various\nmetals that are hid within the bowels of the earth; together with all the\ndiversity of precious stones that are to be seen in the orient and south\nparts of the world.  Let nothing of all these be hidden from thee.  Then\nfail not most carefully to peruse the books of the Greek, Arabian, and\nLatin physicians, not despising the Talmudists and Cabalists; and by\nfrequent anatomies get thee the perfect knowledge of the other world,\ncalled the microcosm, which is man.  And at some hours of the day apply thy\nmind to the study of the Holy Scriptures; first in Greek, the New\nTestament, with the Epistles of the Apostles; and then the Old Testament in\nHebrew.  In brief, let me see thee an abyss and bottomless pit of\nknowledge; for from henceforward, as thou growest great and becomest a man,\nthou must part from this tranquillity and rest of study, thou must learn\nchivalry, warfare, and the exercises of the field, the better thereby to\ndefend my house and our friends, and to succour and protect them at all\ntheir needs against the invasion and assaults of evildoers.\n\nFurthermore, I will that very shortly thou try how much thou hast profited,\nwhich thou canst not better do than by maintaining publicly theses and\nconclusions in all arts against all persons whatsoever, and by haunting the\ncompany of learned men, both at Paris and otherwhere.  But because, as the\nwise man Solomon saith, Wisdom entereth not into a malicious mind, and that\nknowledge without conscience is but the ruin of the soul, it behoveth thee\nto serve, to love, to fear God, and on him to cast all thy thoughts and all\nthy hope, and by faith formed in charity to cleave unto him, so that thou\nmayst never be separated from him by thy sins.  Suspect the abuses of the\nworld.  Set not thy heart upon vanity, for this life is transitory, but the\nWord of the Lord endureth for ever.  Be serviceable to all thy neighbours,\nand love them as thyself.  Reverence thy preceptors:  shun the conversation\nof those whom thou desirest not to resemble, and receive not in vain the\ngraces which God hath bestowed upon thee.  And, when thou shalt see that\nthou hast attained to all the knowledge that is to be acquired in that\npart, return unto me, that I may see thee and give thee my blessing before\nI die.  My son, the peace and grace of our Lord be with thee.  Amen.\n\n    Thy father Gargantua.\n\n  From Utopia the 17th day of the month of March.\n\nThese letters being received and read, Pantagruel plucked up his heart,\ntook a fresh courage to him, and was inflamed with a desire to profit in\nhis studies more than ever, so that if you had seen him, how he took pains,\nand how he advanced in learning, you would have said that the vivacity of\nhis spirit amidst the books was like a great fire amongst dry wood, so\nactive it was, vigorous and indefatigable.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel found Panurge, whom he loved all his lifetime.\n\nOne day, as Pantagruel was taking a walk without the city, towards St.\nAnthony's abbey, discoursing and philosophating with his own servants and\nsome other scholars, (he) met with a young man of very comely stature and\nsurpassing handsome in all the lineaments of his body, but in several parts\nthereof most pitifully wounded; in such bad equipage in matter of his\napparel, which was but tatters and rags, and every way so far out of order\nthat he seemed to have been a-fighting with mastiff-dogs, from whose fury\nhe had made an escape; or to say better, he looked, in the condition\nwherein he then was, like an apple-gatherer of the country of Perche.\n\nAs far off as Pantagruel saw him, he said to those that stood by, Do you\nsee that man there, who is a-coming hither upon the road from Charenton\nbridge?  By my faith, he is only poor in fortune; for I may assure you that\nby his physiognomy it appeareth that nature hath extracted him from some\nrich and noble race, and that too much curiosity hath thrown him upon\nadventures which possibly have reduced him to this indigence, want, and\npenury.  Now as he was just amongst them, Pantagruel said unto him, Let me\nentreat you, friend, that you may be pleased to stop here a little and\nanswer me to that which I shall ask you, and I am confident you will not\nthink your time ill bestowed; for I have an extreme desire, according to my\nability, to give you some supply in this distress wherein I see you are;\nbecause I do very much commiserate your case, which truly moves me to great\npity.  Therefore, my friend, tell me who you are; whence you come; whither\nyou go; what you desire; and what your name is.  The companion answered him\nin the German (The first edition reads \"Dutch.\") tongue, thus:\n\n'Junker, Gott geb euch gluck und heil.  Furwahr, lieber Junker, ich lasz\neuch wissen, das da ihr mich von fragt, ist ein arm und erbarmlich Ding,\nund wer viel darvon zu sagen, welches euch verdrussig zu horen, und mir zu\nerzelen wer, wiewol die Poeten und Oratorn vorzeiten haben gesagt in ihren\nSpruchen und Sentenzen, dasz die gedechtniss des Elends und Armuth\nvorlangst erlitten ist eine grosse Lust.'  My friend, said Pantagruel, I\nhave no skill in that gibberish of yours; therefore, if you would have us\nto understand you, speak to us in some other language.  Then did the droll\nanswer him thus:\n\n'Albarildim gotfano dechmin brin alabo dordio falbroth ringuam albaras.\nNin portzadikin almucatin milko prin alelmin en thoth dalheben ensouim;\nkuthim al dum alkatim nim broth dechoth porth min michais im endoth, pruch\ndalmaisoulum hol moth danfrihim lupaldas in voldemoth.  Nin hur diavosth\nmnarbotim dalgousch palfrapin duch im scoth pruch galeth dal chinon, min\nfoulchrich al conin brutathen doth dal prin.'  Do you understand none of\nthis? said Pantagruel to the company.  I believe, said Epistemon, that this\nis the language of the Antipodes, and such a hard one that the devil\nhimself knows not what to make of it.  Then said Pantagruel, Gossip, I know\nnot if the walls do comprehend the meaning of your words, but none of us\nhere doth so much as understand one syllable of them.  Then said my blade\nagain:\n\n'Signor mio, voi vedete per essempio, che la cornamusa non suona mai,\ns'ella non ha il ventre pieno.  Cosi io parimente non vi saprei contare le\nmie fortune, se prima il tribulato ventre non ha la solita refettione.  Al\nquale e adviso che le mani et li denti habbiano perso il loro ordine\nnaturale et del tutto annichilati.'  To which Epistemon answered, As much\nof the one as of the other, and nothing of either.  Then said Panurge:\n\n'Lord, if you be so virtuous of intelligence as you be naturally relieved\nto the body, you should have pity of me.  For nature hath made us equal,\nbut fortune hath some exalted and others deprived; nevertheless is virtue\noften deprived and the virtuous men despised; for before the last end none\nis good.'  (The following is the passage as it stands in the first edition.\nUrquhart seems to have rendered Rabelais' indifferent English into worse\nScotch, and this, with probably the use of contractions in his MS., or 'the\noddness' of handwriting which he owns to in his Logopandecteision (p.419,\nMait. Club. Edit.), has led to a chaotic jumble, which it is nearly\nimpossible to reduce to order.--Instead of any attempt to do so, it is here\ngiven verbatim: 'Lard gestholb besua virtuisbe intelligence:  ass yi body\nscalbisbe natural reloth cholb suld osme pety have; for natur hass visse\nequaly maide bot fortune sum exaiti hesse andoyis deprevit:  non yeless\niviss mou virtiuss deprevit, and virtuiss men decreviss for anen ye\nladeniss non quid.'  Here is a morsel for critical ingenuity to fix its\nteeth in.--M.)  Yet less, said Pantagruel.  Then said my jolly Panurge:\n\n'Jona andie guaussa goussy etan beharda er remedio beharde versela ysser\nlanda.  Anbat es otoy y es nausu ey nessassust gourray proposian ordine\nden.  Non yssena bayta facheria egabe gen herassy badia sadassu noura\nassia.  Aran hondavan gualde cydassu naydassuna.  Estou oussyc eg vinan\nsoury hien er darstura eguy harm.  Genicoa plasar vadu.'  Are you there,\nsaid Eudemon, Genicoa?  To this said Carpalim, St. Trinian's rammer\nunstitch your bum, for I had almost understood it.  Then answered Panurge:\n\n'Prust frest frinst sorgdmand strochdi drhds pag brlelang Gravot Chavigny\nPomardiere rusth pkaldracg Deviniere pres Nays.  Couille kalmuch monach\ndrupp del meupplist rincq drlnd dodelb up drent loch minc stz rinq jald de\nvins ders cordelis bur jocst stzampenards.'  Do you speak Christian, said\nEpistemon, or the buffoon language, otherwise called Patelinois?  Nay, it\nis the puzlatory tongue, said another, which some call Lanternois.  Then\nsaid Panurge:\n\n'Heere, ik en spreeke anders geen taele dan kersten taele:  my dunkt\nnoghtans, al en seg ik u niet een wordt, mynen noot verklaert genoegh wat\nik begeere:  geeft my uyt bermhertigheit yets waar van ik gevoet magh zyn.'\nTo which answered Pantagruel, As much of that.  Then said Panurge:\n\n'Sennor, de tanto hablar yo soy cansado, porque yo suplico a vuestra\nreverentia que mire a los preceptos evangelicos, para que ellos movan\nvuestra reverentia a lo que es de conscientia; y si ellos non bastaren,\npara mouer vuestra reverentia a piedad, yo suplico que mire a la piedad\nnatural, la qual yo creo que le movera como es de razon: y con esso non\ndigo mas.'  Truly, my friend, (said Pantagruel,) I doubt not but you can\nspeak divers languages; but tell us that which you would have us to do for\nyou in some tongue which you conceive we may understand.  Then said the\ncompanion:\n\n'Min Herre, endog ieg med ingen tunge talede, ligesom baern, oc uskellige\ncreatuure:  Mine klaedebon oc mit legoms magerhed uduiser alligeuel klarlig\nhuad ting mig best behof gioris, som er sandelig mad oc dricke:  Huorfor\nforbarme dig ofuer mig, oc befal at giue mig noguet, af huilcket ieg kand\nslyre min giaeendis mage, ligeruiis som mand Cerbero en suppe forsetter:\nSaa skalt du lefue laenge oc lycksalig.'  I think really, said Eusthenes,\nthat the Goths spoke thus of old, and that, if it pleased God, we would all\nof us speak so with our tails.  Then again said Panurge:\n\n'Adon, scalom lecha:  im ischar harob hal hebdeca bimeherah thithen li\nkikar lehem:  chanchat ub laah al Adonai cho nen ral.'  To which answered\nEpistemon, At this time have I understood him very well; for it is the\nHebrew tongue most rhetorically pronounced.  Then again said the gallant:\n\n'Despota tinyn panagathe, diati sy mi ouk artodotis? horas gar limo\nanaliscomenon eme athlion, ke en to metaxy me ouk eleis oudamos, zetis de\npar emou ha ou chre.  Ke homos philologi pantes homologousi tote logous te\nke remata peritta hyparchin, hopote pragma afto pasi delon esti.  Entha gar\nanankei monon logi isin, hina pragmata (hon peri amphisbetoumen), me\nprosphoros epiphenete.'  What?  Said Carpalim, Pantagruel's footman, It is\nGreek, I have understood him.  And how? hast thou dwelt any while in\nGreece?  Then said the droll again:\n\n'Agonou dont oussys vous desdagnez algorou:  nou den farou zamist vous\nmariston ulbrou, fousques voubrol tant bredaguez moupreton dengoulhoust,\ndaguez daguez non cropys fost pardonnoflist nougrou.  Agou paston tol\nnalprissys hourtou los echatonous, prou dhouquys brol pany gou den bascrou\nnoudous caguons goulfren goul oustaroppassou.'  (In this and the preceding\nspeeches of Panurge, the Paris Variorum Edition of 1823 has been followed\nin correcting Urquhart's text, which is full of inaccuracies.--M.)\nMethinks I understand him, said Pantagruel; for either it is the language\nof my country of Utopia, or sounds very like it.  And, as he was about to\nhave begun some purpose, the companion said:\n\n'Jam toties vos per sacra, perque deos deasque omnes obtestatus sum, ut si\nquae vos pietas permovet, egestatem meam solaremini, nec hilum proficio\nclamans et ejulans.  Sinite, quaeso, sinite, viri impii, quo me fata vocant\nabire; nec ultra vanis vestris interpellationibus obtundatis, memores\nveteris illius adagii, quo venter famelicus auriculis carere dicitur.'\nWell, my friend, said Pantagruel, but cannot you speak French?  That I can\ndo, sir, very well, said the companion, God be thanked.  It is my natural\nlanguage and mother tongue, for I was born and bred in my younger years in\nthe garden of France, to wit, Touraine.  Then, said Pantagruel, tell us\nwhat is your name, and from whence you are come; for, by my faith, I have\nalready stamped in my mind such a deep impression of love towards you,\nthat, if you will condescend unto my will, you shall not depart out of my\ncompany, and you and I shall make up another couple of friends such as\nAeneas and Achates were.  Sir, said the companion, my true and proper\nChristian name is Panurge, and now I come out of Turkey, to which country I\nwas carried away prisoner at that time when they went to Metelin with a\nmischief.  And willingly would I relate unto you my fortunes, which are\nmore wonderful than those of Ulysses were; but, seeing that it pleaseth you\nto retain me with you, I most heartily accept of the offer, protesting\nnever to leave you should you go to all the devils in hell.  We shall have\ntherefore more leisure at another time, and a fitter opportunity wherein to\nreport them; for at this present I am in a very urgent necessity to feed;\nmy teeth are sharp, my belly empty, my throat dry, and my stomach fierce\nand burning, all is ready.  If you will but set me to work, it will be as\ngood as a balsamum for sore eyes to see me gulch and raven it.  For God's\nsake, give order for it.  Then Pantagruel commanded that they should carry\nhim home and provide him good store of victuals; which being done, he ate\nvery well that evening, and, capon-like, went early to bed; then slept\nuntil dinner-time the next day, so that he made but three steps and one\nleap from the bed to the board.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel judged so equitably of a controversy, which was wonderfully\nobscure and difficult, that, by reason of his just decree therein, he was\nreputed to have a most admirable judgment.\n\nPantagruel, very well remembering his father's letter and admonitions,\nwould one day make trial of his knowledge.  Thereupon, in all the\ncarrefours, that is, throughout all the four quarters, streets, and corners\nof the city, he set up conclusions to the number of nine thousand seven\nhundred sixty and four, in all manner of learning, touching in them the\nhardest doubts that are in any science.  And first of all, in the Fodder\nStreet he held dispute against all the regents or fellows of colleges,\nartists or masters of arts, and orators, and did so gallantly that he\noverthrew them and set them all upon their tails.  He went afterwards to\nthe Sorbonne, where he maintained argument against all the theologians or\ndivines, for the space of six weeks, from four o'clock in the morning until\nsix in the evening, except an interval of two hours to refresh themselves\nand take their repast.  And at this were present the greatest part of the\nlords of the court, the masters of requests, presidents, counsellors, those\nof the accompts, secretaries, advocates, and others; as also the sheriffs\nof the said town, with the physicians and professors of the canon law.\nAmongst which, it is to be remarked, that the greatest part were stubborn\njades, and in their opinions obstinate; but he took such course with them\nthat, for all their ergoes and fallacies, he put their backs to the wall,\ngravelled them in the deepest questions, and made it visibly appear to the\nworld that, compared to him, they were but monkeys and a knot of muffled\ncalves.  Whereupon everybody began to keep a bustling noise and talk of his\nso marvellous knowledge, through all degrees of persons of both sexes, even\nto the very laundresses, brokers, roast-meat sellers, penknife makers, and\nothers, who, when he passed along in the street, would say, This is he! in\nwhich he took delight, as Demosthenes, the prince of Greek orators, did,\nwhen an old crouching wife, pointing at him with her fingers, said, That is\nthe man.\n\nNow at this same very time there was a process or suit in law depending in\ncourt between two great lords, of which one was called my Lord Kissbreech,\nplaintiff of one side, and the other my Lord Suckfist, defendant of the\nother; whose controversy was so high and difficult in law that the court of\nparliament could make nothing of it.  And therefore, by the commandment of\nthe king, there were assembled four of the greatest and most learned of all\nthe parliaments of France, together with the great council, and all the\nprincipal regents of the universities, not only of France, but of England\nalso and Italy, such as Jason, Philippus Decius, Petrus de Petronibus, and\na rabble of other old Rabbinists.  Who being thus met together, after they\nhad thereupon consulted for the space of six-and-forty weeks, finding that\nthey could not fasten their teeth in it, nor with such clearness understand\nthe case as that they might in any manner of way be able to right it, or\ntake up the difference betwixt the two aforesaid parties, it did so\ngrievously vex them that they most villainously conshit themselves for\nshame.  In this great extremity one amongst them, named Du Douhet, the\nlearnedest of all, and more expert and prudent than any of the rest, whilst\none day they were thus at their wits' end, all-to-be-dunced and\nphilogrobolized in their brains, said unto them, We have been here, my\nmasters, a good long space, without doing anything else than trifle away\nboth our time and money, and can nevertheless find neither brim nor bottom\nin this matter, for the more we study about it the less we understand\ntherein, which is a great shame and disgrace to us, and a heavy burden to\nour consciences; yea, such that in my opinion we shall not rid ourselves of\nit without dishonour, unless we take some other course; for we do nothing\nbut dote in our consultations.\n\nSee, therefore, what I have thought upon.  You have heard much talking of\nthat worthy personage named Master Pantagruel, who hath been found to be\nlearned above the capacity of this present age, by the proofs he gave in\nthose great disputations which he held publicly against all men.  My\nopinion is, that we send for him to confer with him about this business;\nfor never any man will encompass the bringing of it to an end if he do it\nnot.\n\nHereunto all the counsellors and doctors willingly agreed, and according to\nthat their result having instantly sent for him, they entreated him to be\npleased to canvass the process and sift it thoroughly, that, after a deep\nsearch and narrow examination of all the points thereof, he might forthwith\nmake the report unto them such as he shall think good in true and legal\nknowledge.  To this effect they delivered into his hands the bags wherein\nwere the writs and pancarts concerning that suit, which for bulk and weight\nwere almost enough to lade four great couillard or stoned asses. But\nPantagruel said unto them, Are the two lords between whom this debate and\nprocess is yet living?  It was answered him, Yes.  To what a devil, then,\nsaid he, serve so many paltry heaps and bundles of papers and copies which\nyou give me?  Is it not better to hear their controversy from their own\nmouths whilst they are face to face before us, than to read these vile\nfopperies, which are nothing but trumperies, deceits, diabolical cozenages\nof Cepola, pernicious slights and subversions of equity?  For I am sure\nthat you, and all those through whose hands this process has passed, have\nby your devices added what you could to it pro et contra in such sort that,\nalthough their difference perhaps was clear and easy enough to determine at\nfirst, you have obscured it and made it more intricate by the frivolous,\nsottish, unreasonable, and foolish reasons and opinions of Accursius,\nBaldus, Bartolus, de Castro, de Imola, Hippolytus, Panormo, Bertachin,\nAlexander, Curtius, and those other old mastiffs, who never understood the\nleast law of the Pandects, they being but mere blockheads and great tithe\ncalves, ignorant of all that which was needful for the understanding of the\nlaws; for, as it is most certain, they had not the knowledge either of the\nGreek or Latin tongue, but only of the Gothic and barbarian.  The laws,\nnevertheless, were first taken from the Greeks, according to the testimony\nof Ulpian, L. poster. de origine juris, which we likewise may perceive by\nthat all the laws are full of Greek words and sentences.  And then we find\nthat they are reduced into a Latin style the most elegant and ornate that\nwhole language is able to afford, without excepting that of any that ever\nwrote therein, nay, not of Sallust, Varro, Cicero, Seneca, Titus Livius,\nnor Quintilian.  How then could these old dotards be able to understand\naright the text of the laws who never in their time had looked upon a good\nLatin book, as doth evidently enough appear by the rudeness of their style,\nwhich is fitter for a chimney-sweeper, or for a cook or a scullion, than\nfor a jurisconsult and doctor in the laws?\n\nFurthermore, seeing the laws are excerpted out of the middle of moral and\nnatural philosophy, how should these fools have understood it, that have,\nby G--, studied less in philosophy than my mule?  In respect of human\nlearning and the knowledge of antiquities and history they were truly laden\nwith those faculties as a toad is with feathers.  And yet of all this the\nlaws are so full that without it they cannot be understood, as I intend\nmore fully to show unto you in a peculiar treatise which on that purpose I\nam about to publish.  Therefore, if you will that I take any meddling in\nthis process, first cause all these papers to be burnt; secondly, make the\ntwo gentlemen come personally before me, and afterwards, when I shall have\nheard them, I will tell you my opinion freely without any feignedness or\ndissimulation whatsoever.\n\nSome amongst them did contradict this motion, as you know that in all\ncompanies there are more fools than wise men, and that the greater part\nalways surmounts the better, as saith Titus Livius in speaking of the\nCarthaginians.  But the foresaid Du Douhet held the contrary opinion,\nmaintaining that Pantagruel had said well, and what was right, in affirming\nthat these records, bills of inquest, replies, rejoinders, exceptions,\ndepositions, and other such diableries of truth-entangling writs, were but\nengines wherewith to overthrow justice and unnecessarily to prolong such\nsuits as did depend before them; and that, therefore, the devil would carry\nthem all away to hell if they did not take another course and proceeded not\nin times coming according to the prescripts of evangelical and\nphilosophical equity.  In fine, all the papers were burnt, and the two\ngentlemen summoned and personally convented.  At whose appearance before\nthe court Pantagruel said unto them, Are you they that have this great\ndifference betwixt you?  Yes, my lord, said they.  Which of you, said\nPantagruel, is the plaintiff?  It is I, said my Lord Kissbreech.  Go to,\nthen, my friend, said he, and relate your matter unto me from point to\npoint, according to the real truth, or else, by cock's body, if I find you\nto lie so much as in one word, I will make you shorter by the head, and\ntake it from off your shoulders to show others by your example that in\njustice and judgment men ought to speak nothing but the truth.  Therefore\ntake heed you do not add nor impair anything in the narration of your case.\nBegin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Lords of Kissbreech and Suckfist did plead before Pantagruel\nwithout an attorney.\n\nThen began Kissbreech in manner as followeth.  My lord, it is true that a\ngood woman of my house carried eggs to the market to sell.  Be covered,\nKissbreech, said Pantagruel.  Thanks to you, my lord, said the Lord\nKissbreech; but to the purpose.  There passed betwixt the two tropics the\nsum of threepence towards the zenith and a halfpenny, forasmuch as the\nRiphaean mountains had been that year oppressed with a great sterility of\ncounterfeit gudgeons and shows without substance, by means of the babbling\ntattle and fond fibs seditiously raised between the gibblegabblers and\nAccursian gibberish-mongers for the rebellion of the Switzers, who had\nassembled themselves to the full number of the bumbees and myrmidons to go\na-handsel-getting on the first day of the new year, at that very time when\nthey give brewis to the oxen and deliver the key of the coals to the\ncountry-girls for serving in of the oats to the dogs.  All the night long\nthey did nothing else, keeping their hands still upon the pot, but\ndespatch, both on foot and horseback, leaden-sealed writs or letters, to\nwit, papal commissions commonly called bulls, to stop the boats; for the\ntailors and seamsters would have made of the stolen shreds and clippings a\ngoodly sagbut to cover the face of the ocean, which then was great with\nchild of a potful of cabbage, according to the opinion of the\nhay-bundle-makers.  But the physicians said that by the urine they\ncould discern no manifest sign of the bustard's pace, nor how to eat\ndouble-tongued mattocks with mustard, unless the lords and gentlemen of the\ncourt should be pleased to give by B.mol express command to the pox not to\nrun about any longer in gleaning up of coppersmiths and tinkers; for the\njobbernolls had already a pretty good beginning in their dance of the\nBritish jig called the estrindore, to a perfect diapason, with one foot in\nthe fire, and their head in the middle, as goodman Ragot was wont to say.\n\nHa, my masters, God moderates all things, and disposeth of them at his\npleasure, so that against unlucky fortune a carter broke his frisking whip,\nwhich was all the wind-instrument he had.  This was done at his return from\nthe little paltry town, even then when Master Antitus of Cressplots was\nlicentiated, and had passed his degrees in all dullery and blockishness,\naccording to this sentence of the canonists, Beati Dunces, quoniam ipsi\nstumblaverunt.  But that which makes Lent to be so high, by St. Fiacre of\nBry, is for nothing else but that the Pentecost never comes but to my cost;\nyet, on afore there, ho! a little rain stills a great wind, and we must\nthink so, seeing that the sergeant hath propounded the matter so far above\nmy reach, that the clerks and secondaries could not with the benefit\nthereof lick their fingers, feathered with ganders, so orbicularly as they\nwere wont in other things to do.  And we do manifestly see that everyone\nacknowledgeth himself to be in the error wherewith another hath been\ncharged, reserving only those cases whereby we are obliged to take an\nocular inspection in a perspective glass of these things towards the place\nin the chimney where hangeth the sign of the wine of forty girths, which\nhave been always accounted very necessary for the number of twenty pannels\nand pack-saddles of the bankrupt protectionaries of five years' respite.\nHowsoever, at least, he that would not let fly the fowl before the\ncheesecakes ought in law to have discovered his reason why not, for the\nmemory is often lost with a wayward shoeing.  Well, God keep Theobald\nMitain from all danger!  Then said Pantagruel, Hold there!  Ho, my friend,\nsoft and fair, speak at leisure and soberly without putting yourself in\ncholer.  I understand the case,--go on.  Now then, my lord, said\nKissbreech, the foresaid good woman saying her gaudez and audi nos, could\nnot cover herself with a treacherous backblow, ascending by the wounds and\npassions of the privileges of the universities, unless by the virtue of a\nwarming-pan she had angelically fomented every part of her body in covering\nthem with a hedge of garden-beds; then giving in a swift unavoidable thirst\n(thrust) very near to the place where they sell the old rags whereof the\npainters of Flanders make great use when they are about neatly to clap on\nshoes on grasshoppers, locusts, cigals, and such like fly-fowls, so strange\nto us that I am wonderfully astonished why the world doth not lay, seeing\nit is so good to hatch.\n\nHere the Lord of Suckfist would have interrupted him and spoken somewhat,\nwhereupon Pantagruel said unto him, St! by St. Anthony's belly, doth it\nbecome thee to speak without command?  I sweat here with the extremity of\nlabour and exceeding toil I take to understand the proceeding of your\nmutual difference, and yet thou comest to trouble and disquiet me.  Peace,\nin the devil's name, peace.  Thou shalt be permitted to speak thy bellyful\nwhen this man hath done, and no sooner.  Go on, said he to Kissbreech;\nspeak calmly, and do not overheat yourself with too much haste.\n\nI perceiving, then, said Kissbreech, that the Pragmatical Sanction did make\nno mention of it, and that the holy Pope to everyone gave liberty to fart\nat his own ease, if that the blankets had no streaks wherein the liars were\nto be crossed with a ruffian-like crew, and, the rainbow being newly\nsharpened at Milan to bring forth larks, gave his full consent that the\ngood woman should tread down the heel of the hip-gut pangs, by virtue of a\nsolemn protestation put in by the little testiculated or codsted fishes,\nwhich, to tell the truth, were at that time very necessary for\nunderstanding the syntax and construction of old boots.  Therefore John\nCalf, her cousin gervais once removed with a log from the woodstack, very\nseriously advised her not to put herself into the hazard of quagswagging in\nthe lee, to be scoured with a buck of linen clothes till first she had\nkindled the paper.  This counsel she laid hold on, because he desired her\nto take nothing and throw out, for Non de ponte vadit, qui cum sapientia\ncadit.  Matters thus standing, seeing the masters of the chamber of\naccompts or members of that committee did not fully agree amongst\nthemselves in casting up the number of the Almany whistles, whereof were\nframed those spectacles for princes which have been lately printed at\nAntwerp, I must needs think that it makes a bad return of the writ, and\nthat the adverse party is not to be believed, in sacer verbo dotis.  For\nthat, having a great desire to obey the pleasure of the king, I armed\nmyself from toe to top with belly furniture, of the soles of good\nvenison-pasties, to go see how my grape-gatherers and vintagers had pinked\nand cut full of small holes their high-coped caps, to lecher it the better,\nand play at in and in.  And indeed the time was very dangerous in coming\nfrom the fair, in so far that many trained bowmen were cast at the muster\nand quite rejected, although the chimney-tops were high enough, according to\nthe proportion of the windgalls in the legs of horses, or of the malanders,\nwhich in the esteem of expert farriers is no better disease, or else the\nstory of Ronypatifam or Lamibaudichon, interpreted by some to be the tale of\na tub or of a roasted horse, savours of apocrypha, and is not an authentic\nhistory.  And by this means there was that year great abundance, throughout\nall the country of Artois, of tawny buzzing beetles, to the no small profit\nof the gentlemen-great-stick-faggot-carriers, when they did eat without\ndisdaining the cocklicranes, till their belly was like to crack with it\nagain.  As for my own part, such is my Christian charity towards my\nneighbours, that I could wish from my heart everyone had as good a voice; it\nwould make us play the better at the tennis and the balloon.  And truly, my\nlord, to express the real truth without dissimulation, I cannot but say that\nthose petty subtle devices which are found out in the etymologizing of\npattens would descend more easily into the river of Seine, to serve for ever\nat the millers' bridge upon the said water, as it was heretofore decreed by\nthe king of the Canarians, according to the sentence or judgment given\nthereupon, which is to be seen in the registry and records within the\nclerk's office of this house.\n\nAnd, therefore, my lord, I do most humbly require, that by your lordship\nthere may be said and declared upon the case what is reasonable, with\ncosts, damages, and interests.  Then said Pantagruel, My friend, is this\nall you have to say?  Kissbreech answered, Yes, my lord, for I have told\nall the tu autem, and have not varied at all upon mine honour in so much as\none single word.  You then, said Pantagruel, my Lord of Suckfist, say what\nyou will, and be brief, without omitting, nevertheless, anything that may\nserve to the purpose.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Lord of Suckfist pleaded before Pantagruel.\n\nThen began the Lord Suckfist in manner as followeth.  My lord, and you my\nmasters, if the iniquity of men were as easily seen in categorical judgment\nas we can discern flies in a milkpot, the world's four oxen had not been so\neaten up with rats, nor had so many ears upon the earth been nibbled away\nso scurvily.  For although all that my adversary hath spoken be of a very\nsoft and downy truth, in so much as concerns the letter and history of the\nfactum, yet nevertheless the crafty slights, cunning subtleties, sly\ncozenages, and little troubling entanglements are hid under the rosepot,\nthe common cloak and cover of all fraudulent deceits.\n\nShould I endure that, when I am eating my pottage equal with the best, and\nthat without either thinking or speaking any manner of ill, they rudely\ncome to vex, trouble, and perplex my brains with that antique proverb which\nsaith,\n\n  Who in his pottage-eating drinks will not,\n  When he is dead and buried, see one jot.\n\nAnd, good lady, how many great captains have we seen in the day of battle,\nwhen in open field the sacrament was distributed in luncheons of the\nsanctified bread of the confraternity, the more honestly to nod their\nheads, play on the lute, and crack with their tails, to make pretty little\nplatform leaps in keeping level by the ground?  But now the world is\nunshackled from the corners of the packs of Leicester.  One flies out\nlewdly and becomes debauched; another, likewise, five, four, and two, and\nthat at such random that, if the court take not some course therein, it\nwill make as bad a season in matter of gleaning this year as ever it made,\nor it will make goblets.  If any poor creature go to the stoves to\nilluminate his muzzle with a cowsherd or to buy winter-boots, and that the\nsergeants passing by, or those of the watch, happen to receive the\ndecoction of a clyster or the fecal matter of a close-stool upon their\nrustling-wrangling-clutter-keeping masterships, should any because of that\nmake bold to clip the shillings and testers and fry the wooden dishes?\nSometimes, when we think one thing, God does another; and when the sun is\nwholly set all beasts are in the shade.  Let me never be believed again, if\nI do not gallantly prove it by several people who have seen the light of\nthe day.\n\nIn the year thirty and six, buying a Dutch curtail, which was a middle-sized\nhorse, both high and short, of a wool good enough and dyed in grain, as the\ngoldsmiths assured me, although the notary put an &c. in it, I told really\nthat I was not a clerk of so much learning as to snatch at the moon with my\nteeth; but, as for the butter-firkin where Vulcanian deeds and evidences\nwere sealed, the rumour was, and the report thereof went current, that\nsalt-beef will make one find the way to the wine without a candle, though it\nwere hid in the bottom of a collier's sack, and that with his drawers on he\nwere mounted on a barbed horse furnished with a fronstal, and such arms,\nthighs, and leg-pieces as are requisite for the well frying and broiling of\na swaggering sauciness.  Here is a sheep's head, and it is well they make a\nproverb of this, that it is good to see black cows in burnt wood when one\nattains to the enjoyment of his love.  I had a consultation upon this point\nwith my masters the clerks, who for resolution concluded in frisesomorum\nthat there is nothing like to mowing in the summer, and sweeping clean away\nin water, well garnished with paper, ink, pens, and penknives, of Lyons upon\nthe river of Rhone, dolopym dolopof, tarabin tarabas, tut, prut, pish; for,\nincontinently after that armour begins to smell of garlic, the rust will go\nnear to eat the liver, not of him that wears it, and then do they nothing\nelse but withstand others' courses, and wryneckedly set up their bristles\n'gainst one another, in lightly passing over their afternoon's sleep, and\nthis is that which maketh salt so dear. My lords, believe not when the said\ngood woman had with birdlime caught the shoveler fowl, the better before a\nsergeant's witness to deliver the younger son's portion to him, that the\nsheep's pluck or hog's haslet did dodge and shrink back in the usurers'\npurses, or that there could be anything better to preserve one from the\ncannibals than to take a rope of onions, knit with three hundred turnips,\nand a little of a calf's chaldern of the best allay that the alchemists have\nprovided, (and) that they daub and do over with clay, as also calcinate and\nburn to dust these pantoufles, muff in muff out, mouflin mouflard, with the\nfine sauce of the juice of the rabble rout, whilst they hide themselves in\nsome petty mouldwarphole, saving always the little slices of bacon.  Now, if\nthe dice will not favour you with any other throw but ambes-ace and the\nchance of three at the great end, mark well the ace, then take me your dame,\nsettle her in a corner of the bed, and whisk me her up drilletrille, there,\nthere, toureloura la la; which when you have done, take a hearty draught of\nthe best, despicando grenovillibus, in despite of the frogs, whose fair\ncoarse bebuskined stockings shall be set apart for the little green geese or\nmewed goslings, which, fattened in a coop, take delight to sport themselves\nat the wagtail game, waiting for the beating of the metal and heating of the\nwax by the slavering drivellers of consolation.\n\nVery true it is, that the four oxen which are in debate, and whereof\nmention was made, were somewhat short in memory.  Nevertheless, to\nunderstand the game aright, they feared neither the cormorant nor mallard\nof Savoy, which put the good people of my country in great hope that their\nchildren some time should become very skilful in algorism.  Therefore is\nit, that by a law rubric and special sentence thereof, that we cannot fail\nto take the wolf if we make our hedges higher than the windmill, whereof\nsomewhat was spoken by the plaintiff.  But the great devil did envy it, and\nby that means put the High Dutches far behind, who played the devils in\nswilling down and tippling at the good liquor, trink, mein herr, trink,\ntrink, by two of my table-men in the corner-point I have gained the lurch.\nFor it is not probable, nor is there any appearance of truth in this\nsaying, that at Paris upon a little bridge the hen is proportionable, and\nwere they as copped and high-crested as marsh whoops, if veritably they did\nnot sacrifice the printer's pumpet-balls at Moreb, with a new edge set upon\nthem by text letters or those of a swift-writing hand, it is all one to me,\nso that the headband of the book breed not moths or worms in it.  And put\nthe case that, at the coupling together of the buckhounds, the little\npuppies shall have waxed proud before the notary could have given an\naccount of the serving of his writ by the cabalistic art, it will\nnecessarily follow, under correction of the better judgment of the court,\nthat six acres of meadow ground of the greatest breadth will make three\nbutts of fine ink, without paying ready money; considering that, at the\nfuneral of King Charles, we might have had the fathom in open market for\none and two, that is, deuce ace.  This I may affirm with a safe conscience,\nupon my oath of wool.\n\nAnd I see ordinarily in all good bagpipes, that, when they go to the\ncounterfeiting of the chirping of small birds, by swinging a broom three\ntimes about a chimney, and putting his name upon record, they do nothing\nbut bend a crossbow backwards, and wind a horn, if perhaps it be too hot,\nand that, by making it fast to a rope he was to draw, immediately after the\nsight of the letters, the cows were restored to him.  Such another sentence\nafter the homeliest manner was pronounced in the seventeenth year, because\nof the bad government of Louzefougarouse, whereunto it may please the court\nto have regard.  I desire to be rightly understood; for truly, I say not\nbut that in all equity, and with an upright conscience, those may very well\nbe dispossessed who drink holy water as one would do a weaver's shuttle,\nwhereof suppositories are made to those that will not resign, but on the\nterms of ell and tell and giving of one thing for another.  Tunc, my lords,\nquid juris pro minoribus?  For the common custom of the Salic law is such,\nthat the first incendiary or firebrand of sedition that flays the cow and\nwipes his nose in a full concert of music without blowing in the cobbler's\nstitches, should in the time of the nightmare sublimate the penury of his\nmember by moss gathered when people are like to founder themselves at the\nmess at midnight, to give the estrapade to these white wines of Anjou that\ndo the fear of the leg in lifting it by horsemen called the gambetta, and\nthat neck to neck after the fashion of Brittany, concluding as before with\ncosts, damages, and interests.\n\nAfter that the Lord of Suckfist had ended, Pantagruel said to the Lord of\nKissbreech, My friend, have you a mind to make any reply to what is said?\nNo, my lord, answered Kissbreech; for I have spoke all I intended, and\nnothing but the truth.  Therefore, put an end for God's sake to our\ndifference, for we are here at great charge.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel gave judgment upon the difference of the two lords.\n\nThen Pantagruel, rising up, assembled all the presidents, counsellors, and\ndoctors that were there, and said unto them, Come now, my masters, you have\nheard vivae vocis oraculo, the controversy that is in question; what do you\nthink of it?  They answered him, We have indeed heard it, but have not\nunderstood the devil so much as one circumstance of the case; and therefore\nwe beseech you, una voce, and in courtesy request you that you would give\nsentence as you think good, and, ex nunc prout ex tunc, we are satisfied\nwith it, and do ratify it with our full consents.  Well, my masters, said\nPantagruel, seeing you are so pleased, I will do it; but I do not truly\nfind the case so difficult as you make it.  Your paragraph Caton, the law\nFrater, the law Gallus, the law Quinque pedum, the law Vinum, the law Si\nDominus, the law Mater, the law Mulier bona, to the law Si quis, the law\nPomponius, the law Fundi, the law Emptor, the law Praetor, the law\nVenditor, and a great many others, are far more intricate in my opinion.\nAfter he had spoke this, he walked a turn or two about the hall, plodding\nvery profoundly, as one may think; for he did groan like an ass whilst they\ngirth him too hard, with the very intensiveness of considering how he was\nbound in conscience to do right to both parties, without varying or\naccepting of persons.  Then he returned, sat down, and began to pronounce\nsentence as followeth.\n\nHaving seen, heard, calculated, and well considered of the difference\nbetween the Lords of Kissbreech and Suckfist, the court saith unto them,\nthat in regard of the sudden quaking, shivering, and hoariness of the\nflickermouse, bravely declining from the estival solstice, to attempt by\nprivate means the surprisal of toyish trifles in those who are a little\nunwell for having taken a draught too much, through the lewd demeanour and\nvexation of the beetles that inhabit the diarodal (diarhomal) climate of an\nhypocritical ape on horseback, bending a crossbow backwards, the plaintiff\ntruly had just cause to calfet, or with oakum to stop the chinks of the\ngalleon which the good woman blew up with wind, having one foot shod and\nthe other bare, reimbursing and restoring to him, low and stiff in his\nconscience, as many bladder-nuts and wild pistaches as there is of hair in\neighteen cows, with as much for the embroiderer, and so much for that.  He\nis likewise declared innocent of the case privileged from the knapdardies,\ninto the danger whereof it was thought he had incurred; because he could\nnot jocundly and with fulness of freedom untruss and dung, by the decision\nof a pair of gloves perfumed with the scent of bum-gunshot at the\nwalnut-tree taper, as is usual in his country of Mirebalais.  Slacking,\ntherefore, the topsail, and letting go the bowline with the brazen bullets,\nwherewith the mariners did by way of protestation bake in pastemeat great\nstore of pulse interquilted with the dormouse, whose hawk's-bells were made\nwith a puntinaria, after the manner of Hungary or Flanders lace, and which\nhis brother-in-law carried in a pannier, lying near to three chevrons or\nbordered gules, whilst he was clean out of heart, drooping and crestfallen\nby the too narrow sifting, canvassing, and curious examining of the matter\nin the angularly doghole of nasty scoundrels, from whence we shoot at the\nvermiformal popinjay with the flap made of a foxtail.\n\nBut in that he chargeth the defendant that he was a botcher, cheese-eater,\nand trimmer of man's flesh embalmed, which in the arsiversy swagfall tumble\nwas not found true, as by the defendant was very well discussed.\n\nThe court, therefore, doth condemn and amerce him in three porringers of\ncurds, well cemented and closed together, shining like pearls, and\ncodpieced after the fashion of the country, to be paid unto the said\ndefendant about the middle of August in May.  But, on the other part, the\ndefendant shall be bound to furnish him with hay and stubble for stopping\nthe caltrops of his throat, troubled and impulregafized, with gabardines\ngarbled shufflingly, and friends as before, without costs and for cause.\n\nWhich sentence being pronounced, the two parties departed both contented\nwith the decree, which was a thing almost incredible.  For it never came to\npass since the great rain, nor shall the like occur in thirteen jubilees\nhereafter, that two parties contradictorily contending in judgment be\nequally satisfied and well pleased with the definitive sentence.  As for\nthe counsellors and other doctors in the law that were there present, they\nwere all so ravished with admiration at the more than human wisdom of\nPantagruel, which they did most clearly perceive to be in him by his so\naccurate decision of this so difficult and thorny cause, that their spirits\nwith the extremity of the rapture being elevated above the pitch of\nactuating the organs of the body, they fell into a trance and sudden\necstasy, wherein they stayed for the space of three long hours, and had\nbeen so as yet in that condition had not some good people fetched store of\nvinegar and rose-water to bring them again unto their former sense and\nunderstanding, for the which God be praised everywhere.  And so be it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge related the manner how he escaped out of the hands of the\nTurks.\n\nThe great wit and judgment of Pantagruel was immediately after this made\nknown unto all the world by setting forth his praises in print, and putting\nupon record this late wonderful proof he hath given thereof amongst the\nrolls of the crown and registers of the palace, in such sort that everybody\nbegan to say that Solomon, who by a probable guess only, without any\nfurther certainty, caused the child to be delivered to its own mother,\nshowed never in his time such a masterpiece of wisdom as the good\nPantagruel hath done.  Happy are we, therefore, that have him in our\ncountry.  And indeed they would have made him thereupon master of the\nrequests and president in the court; but he refused all, very graciously\nthanking them for their offer.  For, said he, there is too much slavery in\nthese offices, and very hardly can they be saved that do exercise them,\nconsidering the great corruption that is amongst men.  Which makes me\nbelieve, if the empty seats of angels be not filled with other kind of\npeople than those, we shall not have the final judgment these seven\nthousand, sixty and seven jubilees yet to come, and so Cusanus will be\ndeceived in his conjecture.  Remember that I have told you of it, and given\nyou fair advertisement in time and place convenient.\n\nBut if you have any hogsheads of good wine, I willingly will accept of a\npresent of that.  Which they very heartily did do, in sending him of the\nbest that was in the city, and he drank reasonably well, but poor Panurge\nbibbed and boused of it most villainously, for he was as dry as a\nred-herring, as lean as a rake, and, like a poor, lank, slender cat, walked\ngingerly as if he had trod upon eggs.  So that by someone being admonished,\nin the midst of his draught of a large deep bowl full of excellent claret\nwith these words--Fair and softly, gossip, you suck up as if you were mad\n--I give thee to the devil, said he; thou hast not found here thy little\ntippling sippers of Paris, that drink no more than the little bird called a\nspink or chaffinch, and never take in their beakful of liquor till they be\nbobbed on the tails after the manner of the sparrows.  O companion! if I\ncould mount up as well as I can get down, I had been long ere this above\nthe sphere of the moon with Empedocles.  But I cannot tell what a devil\nthis means.  This wine is so good and delicious, that the more I drink\nthereof the more I am athirst.  I believe that the shadow of my master\nPantagruel engendereth the altered and thirsty men, as the moon doth the\ncatarrhs and defluxions.  At which word the company began to laugh, which\nPantagruel perceiving, said, Panurge, what is that which moves you to laugh\nso?  Sir, said he, I was telling them that these devilish Turks are very\nunhappy in that they never drink one drop of wine, and that though there\nwere no other harm in all Mahomet's Alcoran, yet for this one base point of\nabstinence from wine which therein is commanded, I would not submit myself\nunto their law.  But now tell me, said Pantagruel, how you escaped out of\ntheir hands. By G--, sir, said Panurge, I will not lie to you in one word.\n\nThe rascally Turks had broached me upon a spit all larded like a rabbit,\nfor I was so dry and meagre that otherwise of my flesh they would have made\nbut very bad meat, and in this manner began to roast me alive.  As they\nwere thus roasting me, I recommended myself unto the divine grace, having\nin my mind the good St. Lawrence, and always hoped in God that he would\ndeliver me out of this torment.  Which came to pass, and that very\nstrangely.  For as I did commit myself with all my heart unto God, crying,\nLord God, help me!  Lord God, save me!  Lord God, take me out of this pain\nand hellish torture, wherein these traitorous dogs detain me for my\nsincerity in the maintenance of thy law!  The roaster or turnspit fell\nasleep by the divine will, or else by the virtue of some good Mercury, who\ncunningly brought Argus into a sleep for all his hundred eyes.  When I saw\nthat he did no longer turn me in roasting, I looked upon him, and perceived\nthat he was fast asleep.  Then took I up in my teeth a firebrand by the end\nwhere it was not burnt, and cast it into the lap of my roaster, and another\ndid I throw as well as I could under a field-couch that was placed near to\nthe chimney, wherein was the straw-bed of my master turnspit.  Presently\nthe fire took hold in the straw, and from the straw to the bed, and from\nthe bed to the loft, which was planked and ceiled with fir, after the\nfashion of the foot of a lamp.  But the best was, that the fire which I had\ncast into the lap of my paltry roaster burnt all his groin, and was\nbeginning to cease (seize) upon his cullions, when he became sensible of\nthe danger, for his smelling was not so bad but that he felt it sooner than\nhe could have seen daylight.  Then suddenly getting up, and in a great\namazement running to the window, he cried out to the streets as high as he\ncould, Dal baroth, dal baroth, dal baroth, which is as much to say as Fire,\nfire, fire.  Incontinently turning about, he came straight towards me to\nthrow me quite into the fire, and to that effect had already cut the ropes\nwherewith my hands were tied, and was undoing the cords from off my feet,\nwhen the master of the house hearing him cry Fire, and smelling the smoke\nfrom the very street where he was walking with some other Bashaws and\nMustaphas, ran with all the speed he had to save what he could, and to\ncarry away his jewels.  Yet such was his rage, before he could well resolve\nhow to go about it, that he caught the broach whereon I was spitted and\ntherewith killed my roaster stark dead, of which wound he died there for\nwant of government or otherwise; for he ran him in with the spit a little\nabove the navel, towards the right flank, till he pierced the third lappet\nof his liver, and the blow slanting upwards from the midriff or diaphragm,\nthrough which it had made penetration, the spit passed athwart the\npericardium or capsule of his heart, and came out above at his shoulders,\nbetwixt the spondyls or turning joints of the chine of the back and the\nleft homoplat, which we call the shoulder-blade.\n\nTrue it is, for I will not lie, that, in drawing the spit out of my body I\nfell to the ground near unto the andirons, and so by the fall took some\nhurt, which indeed had been greater, but that the lardons, or little slices\nof bacon wherewith I was stuck, kept off the blow.  My Bashaw then seeing\nthe case to be desperate, his house burnt without remission, and all his\ngoods lost, gave himself over unto all the devils in hell, calling upon\nsome of them by their names, Grilgoth, Astaroth, Rappalus, and Gribouillis,\nnine several times.  Which when I saw, I had above sixpence' worth of fear,\ndreading that the devils would come even then to carry away this fool, and,\nseeing me so near him, would perhaps snatch me up to.  I am already,\nthought I, half roasted, and my lardons will be the cause of my mischief;\nfor these devils are very liquorous of lardons, according to the authority\nwhich you have of the philosopher Jamblicus, and Murmault, in the Apology\nof Bossutis, adulterated pro magistros nostros.  But for my better security\nI made the sign of the cross, crying, Hageos, athanatos, ho theos, and none\ncame.  At which my rogue Bashaw being very much aggrieved would, in\ntranspiercing his heart with my spit, have killed himself, and to that\npurpose had set it against his breast, but it could not enter, because it\nwas not sharp enough.  Whereupon I perceiving that he was not like to work\nupon his body the effect which he intended, although he did not spare all\nthe force he had to thrust it forward, came up to him and said, Master\nBugrino, thou dost here but trifle away thy time, or rashly lose it, for\nthou wilt never kill thyself thus as thou doest.  Well, thou mayst hurt or\nbruise somewhat within thee, so as to make thee languish all thy lifetime\nmost pitifully amongst the hands of the chirurgeons; but if thou wilt be\ncounselled by me, I will kill thee clear outright, so that thou shalt not\nso much as feel it, and trust me, for I have killed a great many others,\nwho have found themselves very well after it.  Ha, my friend, said he, I\nprithee do so, and for thy pains I will give thee my codpiece (budget);\ntake, here it is, there are six hundred seraphs in it, and some fine\ndiamonds and most excellent rubies.  And where are they? said Epistemon.\nBy St. John, said Panurge, they are a good way hence, if they always keep\ngoing.  But where is the last year's snow?  This was the greatest care that\nVillon the Parisian poet took.  Make an end, said Pantagruel, that we may\nknow how thou didst dress thy Bashaw.  By the faith of an honest man, said\nPanurge, I do not lie in one word.  I swaddled him in a scurvy\nswathel-binding which I found lying there half burnt, and with my cords tied\nhim roister-like both hand and foot, in such sort that he was not able to\nwince; then passed my spit through his throat, and hanged him thereon,\nfastening the end thereof at two great hooks or crampirons, upon which they\ndid hang their halberds; and then, kindling a fair fire under him, did flame\nyou up my Milourt, as they use to do dry herrings in a chimney.  With this,\ntaking his budget and a little javelin that was upon the foresaid hooks, I\nran away a fair gallop-rake, and God he knows how I did smell my shoulder of\nmutton.\n\nWhen I was come down into the street, I found everybody come to put out the\nfire with store of water, and seeing me so half-roasted, they did naturally\npity my case, and threw all their water upon me, which, by a most joyful\nrefreshing of me, did me very much good.  Then did they present me with\nsome victuals, but I could not eat much, because they gave me nothing to\ndrink but water after their fashion.  Other hurt they did me none, only one\nlittle villainous Turkey knobbreasted rogue came thiefteously to snatch\naway some of my lardons, but I gave him such a sturdy thump and sound rap\non the fingers with all the weight of my javelin, that he came no more the\nsecond time.  Shortly after this there came towards me a pretty young\nCorinthian wench, who brought me a boxful of conserves, of round Mirabolan\nplums, called emblicks, and looked upon my poor robin with an eye of great\ncompassion, as it was flea-bitten and pinked with the sparkles of the fire\nfrom whence it came, for it reached no farther in length, believe me, than\nmy knees.  But note that this roasting cured me entirely of a sciatica,\nwhereunto I had been subject above seven years before, upon that side which\nmy roaster by falling asleep suffered to be burnt.\n\nNow, whilst they were thus busy about me, the fire triumphed, never ask\nhow?  For it took hold on above two thousand houses, which one of them\nespying cried out, saying, By Mahoom's belly, all the city is on fire, and\nwe do nevertheless stand gazing here, without offering to make any relief.\nUpon this everyone ran to save his own; for my part, I took my way towards\nthe gate.  When I was got upon the knap of a little hillock not far off, I\nturned me about as did Lot's wife, and, looking back, saw all the city\nburning in a fair fire, whereat I was so glad that I had almost beshit\nmyself for joy.  But God punished me well for it.  How? said Pantagruel.\nThus, said Panurge; for when with pleasure I beheld this jolly fire,\njesting with myself, and saying--Ha! poor flies, ha! poor mice, you will\nhave a bad winter of it this year; the fire is in your reeks, it is in your\nbed-straw--out come more than six, yea, more than thirteen hundred and\neleven dogs, great and small, altogether out of the town, flying away from\nthe fire.  At the first approach they ran all upon me, being carried on by\nthe scent of my lecherous half-roasted flesh, and had even then devoured me\nin a trice, if my good angel had not well inspired me with the instruction\nof a remedy very sovereign against the toothache.  And wherefore, said\nPantagruel, wert thou afraid of the toothache or pain of the teeth?  Wert\nthou not cured of thy rheums?  By Palm Sunday, said Panurge, is there any\ngreater pain of the teeth than when the dogs have you by the legs?  But on\na sudden, as my good angel directed me, I thought upon my lardons, and\nthrew them into the midst of the field amongst them.  Then did the dogs\nrun, and fight with one another at fair teeth which should have the\nlardons.  By this means they left me, and I left them also bustling with\nand hairing one another.  Thus did I escape frolic and lively, gramercy\nroastmeat and cookery.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge showed a very new way to build the walls of Paris.\n\nPantagruel one day, to refresh himself of his study, went a-walking towards\nSt. Marcel's suburbs, to see the extravagancy of the Gobeline building, and\nto taste of their spiced bread.  Panurge was with him, having always a\nflagon under his gown and a good slice of a gammon of bacon; for without\nthis he never went, saying that it was as a yeoman of the guard to him, to\npreserve his body from harm.  Other sword carried he none; and, when\nPantagruel would have given him one, he answered that he needed none, for\nthat it would but heat his milt.  Yea but, said Epistemon, if thou shouldst\nbe set upon, how wouldst thou defend thyself?  With great buskinades or\nbrodkin blows, answered he, provided thrusts were forbidden.  At their\nreturn, Panurge considered the walls of the city of Paris, and in derision\nsaid to Pantagruel, See what fair walls here are!  O how strong they are,\nand well fitted to keep geese in a mew or coop to fatten them!  By my\nbeard, they are competently scurvy for such a city as this is; for a cow\nwith one fart would go near to overthrow above six fathoms of them.  O my\nfriend, said Pantagruel, dost thou know what Agesilaus said when he was\nasked why the great city of Lacedaemon was not enclosed with walls?  Lo\nhere, said he, the walls of the city! in showing them the inhabitants and\ncitizens thereof, so strong, so well armed, and so expert in military\ndiscipline; signifying thereby that there is no wall but of bones, and that\ntowns and cities cannot have a surer wall nor better fortification than the\nprowess and virtue of the citizens and inhabitants.  So is this city so\nstrong, by the great number of warlike people that are in it, that they\ncare not for making any other walls.  Besides, whosoever would go about to\nwall it, as Strasbourg, Orleans, or Ferrara, would find it almost\nimpossible, the cost and charges would be so excessive.  Yea but, said\nPanurge, it is good, nevertheless, to have an outside of stone when we are\ninvaded by our enemies, were it but to ask, Who is below there?  As for the\nenormous expense which you say would be needful for undertaking the great\nwork of walling this city about, if the gentlemen of the town will be\npleased to give me a good rough cup of wine, I will show them a pretty,\nstrange, and new way, how they may build them good cheap.  How? said\nPantagruel.  Do not speak of it then, answered Panurge, and I will tell it\nyou.  I see that the sine quo nons, kallibistris, or contrapunctums of the\nwomen of this country are better cheap than stones.  Of them should the\nwalls be built, ranging them in good symmetry by the rules of architecture,\nand placing the largest in the first ranks, then sloping downwards\nridge-wise, like the back of an ass.  The middle-sized ones must be ranked\nnext, and last of all the least and smallest.  This done, there must be a\nfine little interlacing of them, like points of diamonds, as is to be seen\nin the great tower of Bourges, with a like number of the nudinnudos,\nnilnisistandos, and stiff bracmards, that dwell in amongst the claustral\ncodpieces.  What devil were able to overthrow such walls?  There is no metal\nlike it to resist blows, in so far that, if culverin-shot should come to\ngraze upon it, you would incontinently see distil from thence the blessed\nfruit of the great pox as small as rain.  Beware, in the name of the devils,\nand hold off.  Furthermore, no thunderbolt or lightning would fall upon it.\nFor why?  They are all either blest or consecrated.  I see but one\ninconveniency in it.  Ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! said Pantagruel, and what is that?\nIt is, that the flies would be so liquorish of them that you would wonder,\nand would quickly gather there together, and there leave their ordure and\nexcretions, and so all the work would be spoiled.  But see how that might be\nremedied:  they must be wiped and made rid of the flies with fair foxtails,\nor great good viedazes, which are ass-pizzles, of Provence.  And to this\npurpose I will tell you, as we go to supper, a brave example set down by\nFrater Lubinus, Libro de compotationibus mendicantium.\n\nIn the time that the beasts did speak, which is not yet three days since, a\npoor lion, walking through the forest of Bieure, and saying his own little\nprivate devotions, passed under a tree where there was a roguish collier\ngotten up to cut down wood, who, seeing the lion, cast his hatchet at him\nand wounded him enormously in one of his legs; whereupon the lion halting,\nhe so long toiled and turmoiled himself in roaming up and down the forest\nto find help, that at last he met with a carpenter, who willingly looked\nupon his wound, cleansed it as well as he could, and filled it with moss,\ntelling him that he must wipe his wound well that the flies might not do\ntheir excrements in it, whilst he should go search for some yarrow or\nmillefoil, commonly called the carpenter's herb.  The lion, being thus\nhealed, walked along in the forest at what time a sempiternous crone and\nold hag was picking up and gathering some sticks in the said forest, who,\nseeing the lion coming towards her, for fear fell down backwards, in such\nsort that the wind blew up her gown, coats, and smock, even as far as above\nher shoulders; which the lion perceiving, for pity ran to see whether she\nhad taken any hurt by the fall, and thereupon considering her how do you\ncall it, said, O poor woman, who hath thus wounded thee?  Which words when\nhe had spoken, he espied a fox, whom he called to come to him saying,\nGossip Reynard, hau, hither, hither, and for cause!  When the fox was come,\nhe said unto him, My gossip and friend, they have hurt this good woman here\nbetween the legs most villainously, and there is a manifest solution of\ncontinuity.  See how great a wound it is, even from the tail up to the\nnavel, in measure four, nay full five handfuls and a half.  This is the\nblow of a hatchet, I doubt me; it is an old wound, and therefore, that the\nflies may not get into it, wipe it lustily well and hard, I prithee, both\nwithin and without; thou hast a good tail, and long.  Wipe, my friend,\nwipe, I beseech thee, and in the meanwhile I will go get some moss to put\ninto it; for thus ought we to succour and help one another.  Wipe it hard,\nthus, my friend; wipe it well, for this wound must be often wiped,\notherwise the party cannot be at ease.  Go to, wipe well, my little gossip,\nwipe; God hath furnished thee with a tail; thou hast a long one, and of a\nbigness proportionable; wipe hard, and be not weary.  A good wiper, who, in\nwiping continually, wipeth with his wipard, by wasps shall never be\nwounded.  Wipe, my pretty minion; wipe, my little bully; I will not stay\nlong.  Then went he to get store of moss; and when he was a little way off,\nhe cried out in speaking to the fox thus, Wipe well still, gossip, wipe,\nand let it never grieve thee to wipe well, my little gossip; I will put\nthee into service to be wiper to Don Pedro de Castile; wipe, only wipe, and\nno more.  The poor fox wiped as hard as he could, here and there, within\nand without; but the false old trot did so fizzle and fist that she stunk\nlike a hundred devils, which put the poor fox to a great deal of ill ease,\nfor he knew not to what side to turn himself to escape the unsavoury\nperfume of this old woman's postern blasts.  And whilst to that effect he\nwas shifting hither and thither, without knowing how to shun the annoyance\nof those unwholesome gusts, he saw that behind there was yet another hole,\nnot so great as that which he did wipe, out of which came this filthy and\ninfectious air.  The lion at last returned, bringing with him of moss more\nthan eighteen packs would hold, and began to put into the wound with a\nstaff which he had provided for that purpose, and had already put in full\nsixteen packs and a half, at which he was amazed.  What a devil! said he,\nthis wound is very deep; it would hold above two cartloads of moss.  The\nfox, perceiving this, said unto the lion, O gossip lion, my friend, I pray\nthee do not put in all thy moss there; keep somewhat, for there is yet here\nanother little hole, that stinks like five hundred devils; I am almost\nchoked with the smell thereof, it is so pestiferous and empoisoning.\n\nThus must these walls be kept from the flies, and wages allowed to some for\nwiping of them.  Then said Pantagruel, How dost thou know that the privy\nparts of women are at such a cheap rate?  For in this city there are many\nvirtuous, honest, and chaste women besides the maids.  Et ubi prenus? said\nPanurge.  I will give you my opinion of it, and that upon certain and\nassured knowledge.  I do not brag that I have bumbasted four hundred and\nseventeen since I came into this city, though it be but nine days ago; but\nthis very morning I met with a good fellow, who, in a wallet such as\nAesop's was, carried two little girls of two or three years old at the\nmost, one before and the other behind.  He demanded alms of me, but I made\nhim answer that I had more cods than pence.  Afterwards I asked him, Good\nman, these two girls, are they maids?  Brother, said he, I have carried\nthem thus these two years, and in regard of her that is before, whom I see\ncontinually, in my opinion she is a virgin, nevertheless I will not put my\nfinger in the fire for it; as for her that is behind, doubtless I can say\nnothing.\n\nIndeed, said Pantagruel, thou art a gentle companion; I will have thee to\nbe apparelled in my livery.  And therefore caused him to be clothed most\ngallantly according to the fashion that then was, only that Panurge would\nhave the codpiece of his breeches three foot long, and in shape square, not\nround; which was done, and was well worth the seeing.  Oftentimes was he\nwont to say, that the world had not yet known the emolument and utility\nthat is in wearing great codpieces; but time would one day teach it them,\nas all things have been invented in time.  God keep from hurt, said he, the\ngood fellow whose long codpiece or braguet hath saved his life!  God keep\nfrom hurt him whose long braguet hath been worth to him in one day one\nhundred threescore thousand and nine crowns!  God keep from hurt him who by\nhis long braguet hath saved a whole city from dying by famine!  And, by G-,\nI will make a book of the commodity of long braguets when I shall have more\nleisure.  And indeed he composed a fair great book with figures, but it is\nnot printed as yet that I know of.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the qualities and conditions of Panurge.\n\nPanurge was of a middle stature, not too high nor too low, and had somewhat\nan aquiline nose, made like the handle of a razor.  He was at that time\nfive and thirty years old or thereabouts, fine to gild like a leaden\ndagger--for he was a notable cheater and coney-catcher--he was a very\ngallant and proper man of his person, only that he was a little lecherous,\nand naturally subject to a kind of disease which at that time they called\nlack of money--it is an incomparable grief, yet, notwithstanding, he had\nthree score and three tricks to come by it at his need, of which the most\nhonourable and most ordinary was in manner of thieving, secret purloining\nand filching, for he was a wicked lewd rogue, a cozener, drinker, roister,\nrover, and a very dissolute and debauched fellow, if there were any in\nParis; otherwise, and in all matters else, the best and most virtuous man\nin the world; and he was still contriving some plot, and devising mischief\nagainst the sergeants and the watch.\n\nAt one time he assembled three or four especial good hacksters and roaring\nboys, made them in the evening drink like Templars, afterwards led them\ntill they came under St. Genevieve, or about the college of Navarre, and,\nat the hour that the watch was coming up that way--which he knew by putting\nhis sword upon the pavement, and his ear by it, and, when he heard his\nsword shake, it was an infallible sign that the watch was near at that\ninstant--then he and his companions took a tumbrel or dung-cart, and gave\nit the brangle, hurling it with all their force down the hill, and so\noverthrew all the poor watchmen like pigs, and then ran away upon the other\nside; for in less than two days he knew all the streets, lanes, and\nturnings in Paris as well as his Deus det.\n\nAt another time he made in some fair place, where the said watch was to\npass, a train of gunpowder, and, at the very instant that they went along,\nset fire to it, and then made himself sport to see what good grace they had\nin running away, thinking that St. Anthony's fire had caught them by the\nlegs.  As for the poor masters of arts, he did persecute them above all\nothers.  When he encountered with any of them upon the street, he would not\nnever fail to put some trick or other upon them, sometimes putting the bit\nof a fried turd in their graduate hoods, at other times pinning on little\nfoxtails or hares'-ears behind them, or some such other roguish prank.  One\nday that they were appointed all to meet in the Fodder Street (Sorbonne),\nhe made a Borbonesa tart, or filthy and slovenly compound, made of store of\ngarlic, of assafoetida, of castoreum, of dogs' turds very warm, which he\nsteeped, tempered, and liquefied in the corrupt matter of pocky boils and\npestiferous botches; and, very early in the morning therewith anointed all\nthe pavement, in such sort that the devil could not have endured it, which\nmade all these good people there to lay up their gorges, and vomit what was\nupon their stomachs before all the world, as if they had flayed the fox;\nand ten or twelve of them died of the plague, fourteen became lepers,\neighteen grew lousy, and about seven and twenty had the pox, but he did not\ncare a button for it.  He commonly carried a whip under his gown, wherewith\nhe whipped without remission the pages whom he found carrying wine to their\nmasters, to make them mend their pace.  In his coat he had above six and\ntwenty little fobs and pockets always full; one with some lead-water, and a\nlittle knife as sharp as a glover's needle, wherewith he used to cut\npurses; another with some kind of bitter stuff, which he threw into the\neyes of those he met; another with clotburrs, penned with little geese' or\ncapon's feathers, which he cast upon the gowns and caps of honest people,\nand often made them fair horns, which they wore about all the city,\nsometimes all their life.  Very often, also, upon the women's French hoods\nwould he stick in the hind part somewhat made in the shape of a man's\nmember.  In another, he had a great many little horns full of fleas and\nlice, which he borrowed from the beggars of St. Innocent, and cast them\nwith small canes or quills to write with into the necks of the daintiest\ngentlewomen that he could find, yea, even in the church, for he never\nseated himself above in the choir, but always sat in the body of the church\namongst the women, both at mass, at vespers, and at sermon.  In another, he\nused to have good store of hooks and buckles, wherewith he would couple men\nand women together that sat in company close to one another, but especially\nthose that wore gowns of crimson taffeties, that, when they were about to\ngo away, they might rend all their gowns.  In another, he had a squib\nfurnished with tinder, matches, stones to strike fire, and all other\ntackling necessary for it.  In another, two or three burning glasses,\nwherewith he made both men and women sometimes mad, and in the church put\nthem quite out of countenance; for he said that there was but an\nantistrophe, or little more difference than of a literal inversion, between\na woman folle a la messe and molle a la fesse, that is, foolish at the mass\nand of a pliant buttock.\n\nIn another, he had a good deal of needles and thread, wherewith he did a\nthousand little devilish pranks.  One time, at the entry of the palace unto\nthe great hall, where a certain grey friar or cordelier was to say mass to\nthe counsellors, he did help to apparel him and put on his vestments, but\nin the accoutring of him he sewed on his alb, surplice, or stole, to his\ngown and shirt, and then withdrew himself when the said lords of the court\nor counsellors came to hear the said mass; but when it came to the Ite,\nmissa est, that the poor frater would have laid by his stole or surplice,\nas the fashion then was, he plucked off withal both his frock and shirt,\nwhich were well sewed together, and thereby stripping himself up to the\nvery shoulders showed his bel vedere to all the world, together with his\nDon Cypriano, which was no small one, as you may imagine.  And the friar\nstill kept haling, but so much the more did he discover himself and lay\nopen his back parts, till one of the lords of the court said, How now!\nwhat's the matter?  Will this fair father make us here an offering of his\ntail to kiss it?  Nay, St. Anthony's fire kiss it for us!  From thenceforth\nit was ordained that the poor fathers should never disrobe themselves any\nmore before the world, but in their vestry-room, or sextry, as they call\nit; especially in the presence of women, lest it should tempt them to the\nsin of longing and disordinate desire.  The people then asked why it was\nthe friars had so long and large genitories?  The said Panurge resolved the\nproblem very neatly, saying, That which makes asses to have such great ears\nis that their dams did put no biggins on their heads, as Alliaco mentioneth\nin his Suppositions.  By the like reason, that which makes the genitories\nor generation-tools of those so fair fraters so long is, for that they wear\nno bottomed breeches, and therefore their jolly member, having no\nimpediment, hangeth dangling at liberty as far as it can reach, with a\nwiggle-waggle down to their knees, as women carry their paternoster beads.\nand the cause wherefore they have it so correspondently great is, that in\nthis constant wig-wagging the humours of the body descend into the said\nmember.  For, according to the Legists, agitation and continual motion is\ncause of attraction.\n\nItem, he had another pocket full of itching powder, called stone-alum,\nwhereof he would cast some into the backs of those women whom he judged to\nbe most beautiful and stately, which did so ticklishly gall them, that some\nwould strip themselves in the open view of the world, and others dance like\na cock upon hot embers, or a drumstick on a tabor.  Others, again, ran\nabout the streets, and he would run after them.  To such as were in the\nstripping vein he would very civilly come to offer his attendance, and\ncover them with his cloak, like a courteous and very gracious man.\n\nItem, in another he had a little leather bottle full of old oil, wherewith,\nwhen he saw any man or woman in a rich new handsome suit, he would grease,\nsmutch, and spoil all the best parts of it under colour and pretence of\ntouching them, saying, This is good cloth; this is good satin; good\ntaffeties!  Madam, God give you all that your noble heart desireth!  You\nhave a new suit, pretty sir;--and you a new gown, sweet mistress;--God give\nyou joy of it, and maintain you in all prosperity!  And with this would lay\nhis hand upon their shoulder, at which touch such a villainous spot was\nleft behind, so enormously engraven to perpetuity in the very soul, body,\nand reputation, that the devil himself could never have taken it away.\nThen, upon his departing, he would say, Madam, take heed you do not fall,\nfor there is a filthy great hole before you, whereinto if you put your\nfoot, you will quite spoil yourself.\n\nAnother he had all full of euphorbium, very finely pulverized.  In that\npowder did he lay a fair handkerchief curiously wrought, which he had\nstolen from a pretty seamstress of the palace, in taking away a louse from\noff her bosom which he had put there himself, and, when he came into the\ncompany of some good ladies, he would trifle them into a discourse of some\nfine workmanship of bone-lace, then immediately put his hand into their\nbosom, asking them, And this work, is it of Flanders, or of Hainault? and\nthen drew out his handkerchief, and said, Hold, hold, look what work here\nis, it is of Foutignan or of Fontarabia, and shaking it hard at their nose,\nmade them sneeze for four hours without ceasing.  In the meanwhile he would\nfart like a horse, and the women would laugh and say, How now, do you fart,\nPanurge?  No, no, madam, said he, I do but tune my tail to the plain song\nof the music which you make with your nose.  In another he had a picklock,\na pelican, a crampiron, a crook, and some other iron tools, wherewith there\nwas no door nor coffer which he would not pick open.  He had another full\nof little cups, wherewith he played very artificially, for he had his\nfingers made to his hand, like those of Minerva or Arachne, and had\nheretofore cried treacle.  And when he changed a teston, cardecu, or any\nother piece of money, the changer had been more subtle than a fox if\nPanurge had not at every time made five or six sols (that is, some six or\nseven pence,) vanish away invisibly, openly, and manifestly, without making\nany hurt or lesion, whereof the changer should have felt nothing but the\nwind.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge gained the pardons, and married the old women, and of the suit\nin law which he had at Paris.\n\nOne day I found Panurge very much out of countenance, melancholic, and\nsilent; which made me suspect that he had no money; whereupon I said unto\nhim, Panurge, you are sick, as I do very well perceive by your physiognomy,\nand I know the disease.  You have a flux in your purse; but take no care.\nI have yet sevenpence halfpenny that never saw father nor mother, which\nshall not be wanting, no more than the pox, in your necessity.  Whereunto\nhe answered me, Well, well; for money one day I shall have but too much,\nfor I have a philosopher's stone which attracts money out of men's purses\nas the adamant doth iron.  But will you go with me to gain the pardons?\nsaid he.  By my faith, said I, I am no great pardon-taker in this world--if\nI shall be any such in the other, I cannot tell; yet let us go, in God's\nname; it is but one farthing more or less; But, said he, lend me then a\nfarthing upon interest.  No, no, said I; I will give it you freely, and\nfrom my heart.  Grates vobis dominos, said he.\n\nSo we went along, beginning at St. Gervase, and I got the pardons at the\nfirst box only, for in those matters very little contenteth me.  Then did I\nsay my small suffrages and the prayers of St. Brigid; but he gained them\nall at the boxes, and always gave money to everyone of the pardoners.  From\nthence we went to Our Lady's Church, to St. John's, to St. Anthony's, and\nso to the other churches, where there was a banquet (bank) of pardons.  For\nmy part, I gained no more of them, but he at all the boxes kissed the\nrelics, and gave at everyone.  To be brief, when we were returned, he\nbrought me to drink at the castle-tavern, and there showed me ten or twelve\nof his little bags full of money, at which I blessed myself, and made the\nsign of the cross, saying, Where have you recovered so much money in so\nlittle time?  Unto which he answered me that he had taken it out of the\nbasins of the pardons.  For in giving them the first farthing, said he, I\nput it in with such sleight of hand and so dexterously that it appeared to\nbe a threepence; thus with one hand I took threepence, ninepence, or\nsixpence at the least, and with the other as much, and so through all the\nchurches where we have been.  Yea but, said I, you damn yourself like a\nsnake, and are withal a thief and sacrilegious person.  True, said he, in\nyour opinion, but I am not of that mind; for the pardoners do give me it,\nwhen they say unto me in presenting the relics to kiss, Centuplum accipies,\nthat is, that for one penny I should take a hundred; for accipies is spoken\naccording to the manner of the Hebrews, who use the future tense instead of\nthe imperative, as you have in the law, Diliges Dominum, that is, Dilige.\nEven so, when the pardon-bearer says to me, Centuplum accipies, his meaning\nis, Centuplum accipe; and so doth Rabbi Kimy and Rabbi Aben Ezra expound\nit, and all the Massorets, et ibi Bartholus.  Moreover, Pope Sixtus gave me\nfifteen hundred francs of yearly pension, which in English money is a\nhundred and fifty pounds, upon his ecclesiastical revenues and treasure,\nfor having cured him of a cankerous botch, which did so torment him that he\nthought to have been a cripple by it all his life.  Thus I do pay myself at\nmy own hand, for otherwise I get nothing upon the said ecclesiastical\ntreasure.  Ho, my friend! said he, if thou didst know what advantage I\nmade, and how well I feathered my nest, by the Pope's bull of the crusade,\nthou wouldst wonder exceedingly.  It was worth to me above six thousand\nflorins, in English coin six hundred pounds.  And what a devil is become of\nthem? said I; for of that money thou hast not one halfpenny.  They returned\nfrom whence they came, said he; they did no more but change their master.\n\nBut I employed at least three thousand of them, that is, three hundred\npounds English, in marrying--not young virgins, for they find but too many\nhusbands--but great old sempiternous trots which had not so much as one\ntooth in their heads; and that out of the consideration I had that these\ngood old women had very well spent the time of their youth in playing at\nthe close-buttock game to all comers, serving the foremost first, till no\nman would have any more dealing with them.  And, by G--, I will have their\nskin-coat shaken once yet before they die.  By this means, to one I gave a\nhundred florins, to another six score, to another three hundred, according\nto that they were infamous, detestable, and abominable.  For, by how much\nthe more horrible and execrable they were, so much the more must I needs\nhave given them, otherwise the devil would not have jummed them.  Presently\nI went to some great and fat wood-porter, or such like, and did myself make\nthe match.  But, before I did show him the old hags, I made a fair muster\nto him of the crowns, saying, Good fellow, see what I will give thee if\nthou wilt but condescend to duffle, dinfredaille, or lecher it one good\ntime.  Then began the poor rogues to gape like old mules, and I caused to\nbe provided for them a banquet, with drink of the best, and store of\nspiceries, to put the old women in rut and heat of lust.  To be short, they\noccupied all, like good souls; only, to those that were horribly ugly and\nill-favoured, I caused their head to be put within a bag, to hide their\nface.\n\nBesides all this, I have lost a great deal in suits of law.  And what\nlawsuits couldst thou have? said I; thou hast neither house nor lands.  My\nfriend, said he, the gentlewomen of this city had found out, by the\ninstigation of the devil of hell, a manner of high-mounted bands and\nneckerchiefs for women, which did so closely cover their bosoms that men\ncould no more put their hands under.  For they had put the slit behind, and\nthose neckcloths were wholly shut before, whereat the poor sad\ncontemplative lovers were much discontented.  Upon a fair Tuesday I\npresented a petition to the court, making myself a party against the said\ngentlewomen, and showing the great interest that I pretended therein,\nprotesting that by the same reason I would cause the codpiece of my\nbreeches to be sewed behind, if the court would not take order for it.  In\nsum, the gentlewomen put in their defences, showing the grounds they went\nupon, and constituted their attorney for the prosecuting of the cause.  But\nI pursued them so vigorously, that by a sentence of the court it was\ndecreed those high neckcloths should be no longer worn if they were not a\nlittle cleft and open before; but it cost me a good sum of money.  I had\nanother very filthy and beastly process against the dung-farmer called\nMaster Fifi and his deputies, that they should no more read privily the\npipe, puncheon, nor quart of sentences, but in fair full day, and that in\nthe Fodder schools, in face of the Arrian (Artitian) sophisters, where I\nwas ordained to pay the charges, by reason of some clause mistaken in the\nrelation of the sergeant.  Another time I framed a complaint to the court\nagainst the mules of the presidents, counsellors, and others, tending to\nthis purpose, that, when in the lower court of the palace they left them to\nchamp on their bridles, some bibs were made for them (by the counsellors'\nwives), that with their drivelling they might not spoil the pavement; to\nthe end that the pages of the palace what play upon it with their dice, or\nat the game of coxbody, at their own ease, without spoiling their breeches\nat the knees.  And for this I had a fair decree, but it cost me dear.  Now\nreckon up what expense I was at in little banquets which from day to day I\nmade to the pages of the palace.  And to what end? said I.  My friend, said\nhe, thou hast no pastime at all in this world.  I have more than the king,\nand if thou wilt join thyself with me, we will do the devil together.  No,\nno, said I; by St. Adauras, that will I not, for thou wilt be hanged one\ntime or another.  And thou, said he, wilt be interred some time or other.\nNow which is most honourable, the air or the earth?  Ho, grosse pecore!\n\nWhilst the pages are at their banqueting, I keep their mules, and to\nsomeone I cut the stirrup-leather of the mounting side till it hang but by\na thin strap or thread, that when the great puffguts of the counsellor or\nsome other hath taken his swing to get up, he may fall flat on his side\nlike a pork, and so furnish the spectators with more than a hundred francs'\nworth of laughter.  But I laugh yet further to think how at his home-coming\nthe master-page is to be whipped like green rye, which makes me not to\nrepent what I have bestowed in feasting them.  In brief, he had, as I said\nbefore, three score and three ways to acquire money, but he had two hundred\nand fourteen to spend it, besides his drinking.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow a great scholar of England would have argued against Pantagruel, and\nwas overcome by Panurge.\n\nIn that same time a certain learned man named Thaumast, hearing the fame\nand renown of Pantagruel's incomparable knowledge, came out of his own\ncountry of England with an intent only to see him, to try thereby and prove\nwhether his knowledge in effect was so great as it was reported to be.  In\nthis resolution being arrived at Paris, he went forthwith unto the house of\nthe said Pantagruel, who was lodged in the palace of St. Denis, and was\nthen walking in the garden thereof with Panurge, philosophizing after the\nfashion of the Peripatetics.  At his first entrance he startled, and was\nalmost out of his wits for fear, seeing him so great and so tall.  Then did\nhe salute him courteously as the manner is, and said unto him, Very true it\nis, saith Plato the prince of philosophers, that if the image and knowledge\nof wisdom were corporeal and visible to the eyes of mortals, it would stir\nup all the world to admire her.  Which we may the rather believe that the\nvery bare report thereof, scattered in the air, if it happen to be received\ninto the ears of men, who, for being studious and lovers of virtuous things\nare called philosophers, doth not suffer them to sleep nor rest in quiet,\nbut so pricketh them up and sets them on fire to run unto the place where\nthe person is, in whom the said knowledge is said to have built her temple\nand uttered her oracles.  As it was manifestly shown unto us in the Queen\nof Sheba, who came from the utmost borders of the East and Persian Sea, to\nsee the order of Solomon's house and to hear his wisdom; in Anacharsis, who\ncame out of Scythia, even unto Athens, to see Solon; in Pythagoras, who\ntravelled far to visit the memphitical vaticinators; in Plato, who went a\ngreat way off to see the magicians of Egypt, and Architus of Tarentum; in\nApollonius Tyaneus, who went as far as unto Mount Caucasus, passed along\nthe Scythians, the Massagetes, the Indians, and sailed over the great river\nPhison, even to the Brachmans to see Hiarchus; as likewise unto Babylon,\nChaldea, Media, Assyria, Parthia, Syria, Phoenicia, Arabia, Palestina, and\nAlexandria, even unto Aethiopia, to see the Gymnosophists.  The like\nexample have we of Titus Livius, whom to see and hear divers studious\npersons came to Rome from the confines of France and Spain.  I dare not\nreckon myself in the number of those so excellent persons, but well would\nbe called studious, and a lover, not only of learning, but of learned men\nalso.  And indeed, having heard the report of your so inestimable\nknowledge, I have left my country, my friends, my kindred, and my house,\nand am come thus far, valuing at nothing the length of the way, the\ntediousness of the sea, nor strangeness of the land, and that only to see\nyou and to confer with you about some passages in philosophy, of geomancy,\nand of the cabalistic art, whereof I am doubtful and cannot satisfy my\nmind; which if you can resolve, I yield myself unto you for a slave\nhenceforward, together with all my posterity, for other gift have I none\nthat I can esteem a recompense sufficient for so great a favour.  I will\nreduce them into writing, and to-morrow publish them to all the learned men\nin the city, that we may dispute publicly before them.\n\nBut see in what manner I mean that we shall dispute.  I will not argue pro\net contra, as do the sottish sophisters of this town and other places.\nLikewise I will not dispute after the manner of the Academics by\ndeclamation; nor yet by numbers, as Pythagoras was wont to do, and as Picus\nde la Mirandula did of late at Rome.  But I will dispute by signs only\nwithout speaking, for the matters are so abstruse, hard, and arduous, that\nwords proceeding from the mouth of man will never be sufficient for\nunfolding of them to my liking.  May it, therefore, please your\nmagnificence to be there; it shall be at the great hall of Navarre at seven\no'clock in the morning.  When he had spoken these words, Pantagruel very\nhonourably said unto him:  Sir, of the graces that God hath bestowed upon\nme, I would not deny to communicate unto any man to my power.  For whatever\ncomes from him is good, and his pleasure is that it should be increased\nwhen we come amongst men worthy and fit to receive this celestial manna of\nhonest literature.  In which number, because that in this time, as I do\nalready very plainly perceive, thou holdest the first rank, I give thee\nnotice that at all hours thou shalt find me ready to condescend to every\none of thy requests according to my poor ability; although I ought rather\nto learn of thee than thou of me.  But, as thou hast protested, we will\nconfer of these doubts together, and will seek out the resolution, even\nunto the bottom of that undrainable well where Heraclitus says the truth\nlies hidden.  And I do highly commend the manner of arguing which thou hast\nproposed, to wit, by signs without speaking; for by this means thou and I\nshall understand one another well enough, and yet shall be free from this\nclapping of hands which these blockish sophisters make when any of the\narguers hath gotten the better of the argument.  Now to-morrow I will not\nfail to meet thee at the place and hour that thou hast appointed, but let\nme entreat thee that there be not any strife or uproar between us, and that\nwe seek not the honour and applause of men, but the truth only.  To which\nThaumast answered:  The Lord God maintain you in his favour and grace, and,\ninstead of my thankfulness to you, pour down his blessings upon you, for\nthat your highness and magnificent greatness hath not disdained to descend\nto the grant of the request of my poor baseness.  So farewell till\nto-morrow!  Farewell, said Pantagruel.\n\nGentlemen, you that read this present discourse, think not that ever men\nwere more elevated and transported in their thoughts than all this night\nwere both Thaumast and Pantagruel; for the said Thaumast said to the keeper\nof the house of Cluny, where he was lodged, that in all his life he had\nnever known himself so dry as he was that night.  I think, said he, that\nPantagruel held me by the throat.  Give order, I pray you, that we may have\nsome drink, and see that some fresh water be brought to us, to gargle my\npalate.  On the other side, Pantagruel stretched his wits as high as he\ncould, entering into very deep and serious meditations, and did nothing all\nthat night but dote upon and turn over the book of Beda, De numeris et\nsignis; Plotin's book, De inenarrabilibus; the book of Proclus, De magia;\nthe book of Artemidorus peri Oneirokritikon; of Anaxagoras, peri Zemeion;\nDinarius, peri Aphaton; the books of Philiston; Hipponax, peri\nAnekphoneton, and a rabble of others, so long, that Panurge said unto him:\n\nMy lord, leave all these thoughts and go to bed; for I perceive your\nspirits to be so troubled by a too intensive bending of them, that you may\neasily fall into some quotidian fever with this so excessive thinking and\nplodding.  But, having first drunk five and twenty or thirty good draughts,\nretire yourself and sleep your fill, for in the morning I will argue\nagainst and answer my master the Englishman, and if I drive him not ad\nmetam non loqui, then call me knave.  Yea but, said he, my friend Panurge,\nhe is marvellously learned; how wilt thou be able to answer him?  Very\nwell, answered Panurge; I pray you talk no more of it, but let me alone.\nIs any man so learned as the devils are?  No, indeed, said Pantagruel,\nwithout God's especial grace.  Yet for all that, said Panurge, I have\nargued against them, gravelled and blanked them in disputation, and laid\nthem so squat upon their tails that I have made them look like monkeys.\nTherefore be assured that to-morrow I will make this vain-glorious\nEnglishman to skite vinegar before all the world.  So Panurge spent the\nnight with tippling amongst the pages, and played away all the points of\nhis breeches at primus secundus and at peck point, in French called La\nVergette.  Yet, when the condescended on time was come, he failed not to\nconduct his master Pantagruel to the appointed place, unto which, believe\nme, there was neither great nor small in Paris but came, thinking with\nthemselves that this devilish Pantagruel, who had overthrown and vanquished\nin dispute all these doting fresh-water sophisters, would now get full\npayment and be tickled to some purpose.  For this Englishman is a terrible\nbustler and horrible coil-keeper.  We will see who will be conqueror, for\nhe never met with his match before.\n\nThus all being assembled, Thaumast stayed for them, and then, when\nPantagruel and Panurge came into the hall, all the schoolboys, professors\nof arts, senior sophisters, and bachelors began to clap their hands, as\ntheir scurvy custom is.  But Pantagruel cried out with a loud voice, as if\nit had been the sound of a double cannon, saying, Peace, with a devil to\nyou, peace!  By G--, you rogues, if you trouble me here, I will cut off the\nheads of everyone of you.  At which words they remained all daunted and\nastonished like so many ducks, and durst not do so much as cough, although\nthey had swallowed fifteen pounds of feathers.  Withal they grew so dry\nwith this only voice, that they laid out their tongues a full half foot\nbeyond their mouths, as if Pantagruel had salted all their throats.  Then\nbegan Panurge to speak, saying to the Englishman, Sir, are you come hither\nto dispute contentiously in those propositions you have set down, or,\notherwise, but to learn and know the truth?  To which answered Thaumast,\nSir, no other thing brought me hither but the great desire I had to learn\nand to know that of which I have doubted all my life long, and have neither\nfound book nor man able to content me in the resolution of those doubts\nwhich I have proposed.  And, as for disputing contentiously, I will not do\nit, for it is too base a thing, and therefore leave it to those sottish\nsophisters who in their disputes do not search for the truth, but for\ncontradiction only and debate.  Then said Panurge, If I, who am but a mean\nand inconsiderable disciple of my master my lord Pantagruel, content and\nsatisfy you in all and everything, it were a thing below my said master\nwherewith to trouble him.  Therefore is it fitter that he be chairman, and\nsit as a judge and moderator of our discourse and purpose, and give you\nsatisfaction in many things wherein perhaps I shall be wanting to your\nexpectation.  Truly, said Thaumast, it is very well said; begin then.  Now\nyou must note that Panurge had set at the end of his long codpiece a pretty\ntuft of red silk, as also of white, green, and blue, and within it had put\na fair orange.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge put to a nonplus the Englishman that argued by signs.\n\nEverybody then taking heed, and hearkening with great silence, the\nEnglishman lift up on high into the air his two hands severally, clunching\nin all the tops of his fingers together, after the manner which, a la\nChinonnese, they call the hen's arse, and struck the one hand on the other\nby the nails four several times.  Then he, opening them, struck the one\nwith the flat of the other till it yielded a clashing noise, and that only\nonce.  Again, in joining them as before, he struck twice, and afterwards\nfour times in opening them.  Then did he lay them joined, and extended the\none towards the other, as if he had been devoutly to send up his prayers\nunto God.  Panurge suddenly lifted up in the air his right hand, and put\nthe thumb thereof into the nostril of the same side, holding his four\nfingers straight out, and closed orderly in a parallel line to the point of\nhis nose, shutting the left eye wholly, and making the other wink with a\nprofound depression of the eyebrows and eyelids.  Then lifted he up his\nleft hand, with hard wringing and stretching forth his four fingers and\nelevating his thumb, which he held in a line directly correspondent to the\nsituation of his right hand, with the distance of a cubit and a half\nbetween them.  This done, in the same form he abased towards the ground\nabout the one and the other hand.  Lastly, he held them in the midst, as\naiming right at the Englishman's nose.  And if Mercury,--said the\nEnglishman.  There Panurge interrupted him, and said, You have spoken,\nMask.\n\nThen made the Englishman this sign.  His left hand all open he lifted up\ninto the air, then instantly shut into his fist the four fingers thereof,\nand his thumb extended at length he placed upon the gristle of his nose.\nPresently after, he lifted up his right hand all open, and all open abased\nand bent it downwards, putting the thumb thereof in the very place where\nthe little finger of the left hand did close in the fist, and the four\nright-hand fingers he softly moved in the air.  Then contrarily he did with\nthe right hand what he had done with the left, and with the left what he\nhad done with the right.\n\nPanurge, being not a whit amazed at this, drew out into the air his\ntrismegist codpiece with the left hand, and with his right drew forth a\ntruncheon of a white ox-rib, and two pieces of wood of a like form, one of\nblack ebony and the other of incarnation brasil, and put them betwixt the\nfingers of that hand in good symmetry; then, knocking them together, made\nsuch a noise as the lepers of Brittany use to do with their clappering\nclickets, yet better resounding and far more harmonious, and with his\ntongue contracted in his mouth did very merrily warble it, always looking\nfixedly upon the Englishman.  The divines, physicians, and chirurgeons that\nwere there thought that by this sign he would have inferred that the\nEnglishman was a leper.  The counsellors, lawyers, and decretalists\nconceived that by doing this he would have concluded some kind of mortal\nfelicity to consist in leprosy, as the Lord maintained heretofore.\n\nThe Englishman for all this was nothing daunted, but holding up his two\nhands in the air, kept them in such form that he closed the three\nmaster-fingers in his fist, and passing his thumbs through his indical or\nforemost and middle fingers, his auriculary or little fingers remained\nextended and stretched out, and so presented he them to Panurge.  Then\njoined he them so that the right thumb touched the left, and the left little\nfinger touched the right.  Hereat Panurge, without speaking one word, lift\nup his hands and made this sign.\n\nHe put the nail of the forefinger of his left hand to the nail of the thumb\nof the same, making in the middle of the distance as it were a buckle, and\nof his right hand shut up all the fingers into his fist, except the\nforefinger, which he often thrust in and out through the said two others of\nthe left hand.  Then stretched he out the forefinger and middle finger or\nmedical of his right hand, holding them asunder as much as he could, and\nthrusting them towards Thaumast.  Then did he put the thumb of his left\nhand upon the corner of his left eye, stretching out all his hand like the\nwing of a bird or the fin of a fish, and moving it very daintily this way\nand that way, he did as much with his right hand upon the corner of his\nright eye.  Thaumast began then to wax somewhat pale, and to tremble, and\nmade him this sign.\n\nWith the middle finger of his right hand he struck against the muscle of\nthe palm or pulp which is under the thumb.  Then put he the forefinger of\nthe right hand in the like buckle of the left, but he put it under, and not\nover, as Panurge did.  Then Panurge knocked one hand against another, and\nblowed in his palm, and put again the forefinger of his right hand into the\noverture or mouth of the left, pulling it often in and out.  Then held he\nout his chin, most intentively looking upon Thaumast.  The people there,\nwhich understood nothing in the other signs, knew very well that therein he\ndemanded, without speaking a word to Thaumast, What do you mean by that?\nIn effect, Thaumast then began to sweat great drops, and seemed to all the\nspectators a man strangely ravished in high contemplation.  Then he\nbethought himself, and put all the nails of his left hand against those of\nhis right, opening his fingers as if they had been semicircles, and with\nthis sign lift up his hands as high as he could.  Whereupon Panurge\npresently put the thumb of his right hand under his jaws, and the little\nfinger thereof in the mouth of the left hand, and in this posture made his\nteeth to sound very melodiously, the upper against the lower.  With this\nThaumast, with great toil and vexation of spirit, rose up, but in rising\nlet a great baker's fart, for the bran came after, and pissing withal very\nstrong vinegar, stunk like all the devils in hell.  The company began to\nstop their noses; for he had conskited himself with mere anguish and\nperplexity.  Then lifted he up his right hand, clunching it in such sort\nthat he brought the ends of all his fingers to meet together, and his left\nhand he laid flat upon his breast.  Whereat Panurge drew out his long\ncodpiece with his tuff, and stretched it forth a cubit and a half, holding\nit in the air with his right hand, and with his left took out his orange,\nand, casting it up into the air seven times, at the eighth he hid it in the\nfist of his right hand, holding it steadily up on high, and then began to\nshake his fair codpiece, showing it to Thaumast.\n\nAfter that, Thaumast began to puff up his two cheeks like a player on a\nbagpipe, and blew as if he had been to puff up a pig's bladder.  Whereupon\nPanurge put one finger of his left hand in his nockandrow, by some called\nSt. Patrick's hole, and with his mouth sucked in the air, in such a manner\nas when one eats oysters in the shell, or when we sup up our broth.  This\ndone, he opened his mouth somewhat, and struck his right hand flat upon it,\nmaking therewith a great and a deep sound, as if it came from the\nsuperficies of the midriff through the trachiartery or pipe of the lungs,\nand this he did for sixteen times; but Thaumast did always keep blowing\nlike a goose.  Then Panurge put the forefinger of his right hand into his\nmouth, pressing it very hard to the muscles thereof; then he drew it out,\nand withal made a great noise, as when little boys shoot pellets out of the\npot-cannons made of the hollow sticks of the branch of an alder-tree, and\nhe did it nine times.\n\nThen Thaumast cried out, Ha, my masters, a great secret!  With this he put\nin his hand up to the elbow, then drew out a dagger that he had, holding it\nby the point downwards.  Whereat Panurge took his long codpiece, and shook\nit as hard as he could against his thighs; then put his two hands entwined\nin manner of a comb upon his head, laying out his tongue as far as he was\nable, and turning his eyes in his head like a goat that is ready to die.\nHa, I understand, said Thaumast, but what? making such a sign that he put\nthe haft of his dagger against his breast, and upon the point thereof the\nflat of his hand, turning in a little the ends of his fingers.  Whereat\nPanurge held down his head on the left side, and put his middle finger into\nhis right ear, holding up his thumb bolt upright.  Then he crossed his two\narms upon his breast and coughed five times, and at the fifth time he\nstruck his right foot against the ground.  Then he lift up his left arm,\nand closing all his fingers into his fist, held his thumb against his\nforehead, striking with his right hand six times against his breast.  But\nThaumast, as not content therewith, put the thumb of his left hand upon the\ntop of his nose, shutting the rest of his said hand, whereupon Panurge set\nhis two master-fingers upon each side of his mouth, drawing it as much as\nhe was able, and widening it so that he showed all his teeth, and with his\ntwo thumbs plucked down his two eyelids very low, making therewith a very\nill-favoured countenance, as it seemed to the company.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Thaumast relateth the virtues and knowledge of Panurge.\n\nThen Panurge rose up, and, putting off his cap, did very kindly thank the\nsaid Panurge, and with a loud voice said unto all the people that were\nthere:  My lords, gentlemen, and others, at this time may I to some good\npurpose speak that evangelical word, Et ecce plus quam Salomon hic!  You\nhave here in your presence an incomparable treasure, that is, my lord\nPantagruel, whose great renown hath brought me hither, out of the very\nheart of England, to confer with him about the insoluble problems, both in\nmagic, alchemy, the cabal, geomancy, astrology, and philosophy, which I had\nin my mind.  But at present I am angry even with fame itself, which I think\nwas envious to him, for that it did not declare the thousandth part of the\nworth that indeed is in him.  You have seen how his disciple only hath\nsatisfied me, and hath told me more than I asked of him.  Besides, he hath\nopened unto me, and resolved other inestimable doubts, wherein I can assure\nyou he hath to me discovered the very true well, fountain, and abyss of the\nencyclopaedia of learning; yea, in such a sort that I did not think I\nshould ever have found a man that could have made his skill appear in so\nmuch as the first elements of that concerning which we disputed by signs,\nwithout speaking either word or half word.  But, in fine, I will reduce\ninto writing that which we have said and concluded, that the world may not\ntake them to be fooleries, and will thereafter cause them to be printed,\nthat everyone may learn as I have done.  Judge, then, what the master had\nbeen able to say, seeing the disciple hath done so valiantly; for, Non est\ndiscipulus super magistrum.  Howsoever, God be praised! and I do very\nhumbly thank you for the honour that you have done us at this act.  God\nreward you for it eternally!  The like thanks gave Pantagruel to all the\ncompany, and, going from thence, he carried Thaumast to dinner with him,\nand believe that they drank as much as their skins could hold, or, as the\nphrase is, with unbuttoned bellies (for in that age they made fast their\nbellies with buttons, as we do now the collars of our doublets or jerkins),\neven till they neither knew where they were nor whence they came.  Blessed\nLady, how they did carouse it, and pluck, as we say, at the kid's leather!\nAnd flagons to trot, and they to toot, Draw; give, page, some wine here;\nreach hither; fill with a devil, so!  There was not one but did drink five\nand twenty or thirty pipes.  Can you tell how?  Even sicut terra sine aqua;\nfor the weather was hot, and, besides that, they were very dry.  In matter\nof the exposition of the propositions set down by Thaumast, and the\nsignification of the signs which they used in their disputation, I would\nhave set them down for you according to their own relation, but I have been\ntold that Thaumast made a great book of it, imprinted at London, wherein he\nhath set down all, without omitting anything, and therefore at this time I\ndo pass by it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge was in love with a lady of Paris.\n\nPanurge began to be in great reputation in the city of Paris by means of\nthis disputation wherein he prevailed against the Englishman, and from\nthenceforth made his codpiece to be very useful to him.  To which effect he\nhad it pinked with pretty little embroideries after the Romanesca fashion.\nAnd the world did praise him publicly, in so far that there was a song made\nof him, which little children did use to sing when they were to fetch\nmustard.  He was withal made welcome in all companies of ladies and\ngentlewomen, so that at last he became presumptuous, and went about to\nbring to his lure one of the greatest ladies in the city.  And, indeed,\nleaving a rabble of long prologues and protestations, which ordinarily\nthese dolent contemplative lent-lovers make who never meddle with the\nflesh, one day he said unto her, Madam, it would be a very great benefit to\nthe commonwealth, delightful to you, honourable to your progeny, and\nnecessary for me, that I cover you for the propagating of my race, and\nbelieve it, for experience will teach it you.  The lady at this word thrust\nhim back above a hundred leagues, saying, You mischievous fool, is it for\nyou to talk thus unto me?  Whom do you think you have in hand?  Begone,\nnever to come in my sight again; for, if one thing were not, I would have\nyour legs and arms cut off.  Well, said he, that were all one to me, to\nwant both legs and arms, provided you and I had but one merry bout together\nat the brangle-buttock game; for herewithin is--in showing her his long\ncodpiece--Master John Thursday, who will play you such an antic that you\nshall feel the sweetness thereof even to the very marrow of your bones.  He\nis a gallant, and doth so well know how to find out all the corners,\ncreeks, and ingrained inmates in your carnal trap, that after him there\nneeds no broom, he'll sweep so well before, and leave nothing to his\nfollowers to work upon.  Whereunto the lady answered, Go, villain, go.  If\nyou speak to me one such word more, I will cry out and make you to be\nknocked down with blows.  Ha, said he, you are not so bad as you say--no,\nor else I am deceived in your physiognomy.  For sooner shall the earth\nmount up unto the heavens, and the highest heavens descend unto the hells,\nand all the course of nature be quite perverted, than that in so great\nbeauty and neatness as in you is there should be one drop of gall or\nmalice.  They say, indeed, that hardly shall a man ever see a fair woman\nthat is not also stubborn.  Yet that is spoke only of those vulgar\nbeauties; but yours is so excellent, so singular, and so heavenly, that I\nbelieve nature hath given it you as a paragon and masterpiece of her art,\nto make us know what she can do when she will employ all her skill and all\nher power.  There is nothing in you but honey, but sugar, but a sweet and\ncelestial manna.  To you it was to whom Paris ought to have adjudged the\ngolden apple, not to Venus, no, nor to Juno, nor to Minerva, for never was\nthere so much magnificence in Juno, so much wisdom in Minerva, nor so much\ncomeliness in Venus as there is in you.  O heavenly gods and goddesses!\nHow happy shall that man be to whom you will grant the favour to embrace\nher, to kiss her, and to rub his bacon with hers!  By G--, that shall be I,\nI know it well; for she loves me already her bellyful, I am sure of it, and\nso was I predestinated to it by the fairies.  And therefore, that we lose\nno time, put on, thrust out your gammons!--and would have embraced her, but\nshe made as if she would put out her head at the window to call her\nneighbours for help.  Then Panurge on a sudden ran out, and in his running\naway said, Madam, stay here till I come again; I will go call them myself;\ndo not you take so much pains.  Thus went he away, not much caring for the\nrepulse he had got, nor made he any whit the worse cheer for it.  The next\nday he came to the church at the time she went to mass.  At the door he\ngave her some of the holy water, bowing himself very low before her.\nAfterwards he kneeled down by her very familiarly and said unto her, Madam,\nknow that I am so amorous of you that I can neither piss nor dung for love.\nI do not know, lady, what you mean, but if I should take any hurt by it,\nhow much you would be to blame!  Go, said she, go!  I do not care; let me\nalone to say my prayers.  Ay but, said he, equivocate upon this:  a beau\nmont le viconte, or, to fair mount the prick-cunts.  I cannot, said she.\nIt is, said he, a beau con le vit monte, or to a fair c. . .the pr. .\n.mounts.  And upon this, pray to God to give you that which your noble\nheart desireth, and I pray you give me these paternosters.  Take them, said\nshe, and trouble me no longer.  This done, she would have taken off her\npaternosters, which were made of a kind of yellow stone called cestrin, and\nadorned with great spots of gold, but Panurge nimbly drew out one of his\nknives, wherewith he cut them off very handsomely, and whilst he was going\naway to carry them to the brokers, he said to her, Will you have my knife?\nNo, no, said she.  But, said he, to the purpose.  I am at your commandment,\nbody and goods, tripes and bowels.\n\nIn the meantime the lady was not very well content with the want of her\npaternosters, for they were one of her implements to keep her countenance\nby in the church; then thought with herself, This bold flouting roister is\nsome giddy, fantastical, light-headed fool of a strange country.  I shall\nnever recover my paternosters again.  What will my husband say?  He will no\ndoubt be angry with me.  But I will tell him that a thief hath cut them off\nfrom my hands in the church, which he will easily believe, seeing the end\nof the ribbon left at my girdle.  After dinner Panurge went to see her,\ncarrying in his sleeve a great purse full of palace-crowns, called\ncounters, and began to say unto her, Which of us two loveth other best, you\nme, or I you?  Whereunto she answered, As for me, I do not hate you; for,\nas God commands, I love all the world.  But to the purpose, said he; are\nnot you in love with me?  I have, said she, told you so many times already\nthat you should talk so no more to me, and if you speak of it again I will\nteach you that I am not one to be talked unto dishonestly.  Get you hence\npacking, and deliver me my paternosters, that my husband may not ask me for\nthem.\n\nHow now, madam, said he, your paternosters?  Nay, by mine oath, I will not\ndo so, but I will give you others.  Had you rather have them of gold well\nenamelled in great round knobs, or after the manner of love-knots, or,\notherwise, all massive, like great ingots, or if you had rather have them\nof ebony, of jacinth, or of grained gold, with the marks of fine\nturquoises, or of fair topazes, marked with fine sapphires, or of baleu\nrubies, with great marks of diamonds of eight and twenty squares?  No, no,\nall this is too little.  I know a fair bracelet of fine emeralds, marked\nwith spotted ambergris, and at the buckle a Persian pearl as big as an\norange.  It will not cost above five and twenty thousand ducats.  I will\nmake you a present of it, for I have ready coin enough,--and withal he made\na noise with his counters, as if they had been French crowns.\n\nWill you have a piece of velvet, either of the violet colour or of crimson\ndyed in grain, or a piece of broached or crimson satin?  Will you have\nchains, gold, tablets, rings?  You need no more but say, Yes; so far as\nfifty thousand ducats may reach, it is but as nothing to me.  By the virtue\nof which words he made the water come in her mouth; but she said unto him,\nNo, I thank you, I will have nothing of you.  By G--, said he, but I will\nhave somewhat of you; yet shall it be that which shall cost you nothing,\nneither shall you have a jot the less when you have given it.  Hold!\n--showing his long codpiece--this is Master John Goodfellow, that asks for\nlodging!--and with that would have embraced her; but she began to cry out,\nyet not very loud.  Then Panurge put off his counterfeit garb, changed his\nfalse visage, and said unto her, You will not then otherwise let me do a\nlittle?  A turd for you!  You do not deserve so much good, nor so much\nhonour; but, by G--, I will make the dogs ride you;--and with this he ran\naway as fast as he could, for fear of blows, whereof he was naturally\nfearful.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge served a Parisian lady a trick that pleased her not very well.\n\nNow you must note that the next day was the great festival of Corpus\nChristi, called the Sacre, wherein all women put on their best apparel, and\non that day the said lady was clothed in a rich gown of crimson satin,\nunder which she wore a very costly white velvet petticoat.\n\nThe day of the eve, called the vigil, Panurge searched so long of one side\nand another that he found a hot or salt bitch, which, when he had tied her\nwith his girdle, he led to his chamber and fed her very well all that day\nand night.  In the morning thereafter he killed her, and took that part of\nher which the Greek geomancers know, and cut it into several small pieces\nas small as he could.  Then, carrying it away as close as might be, he went\nto the place where the lady was to come along to follow the procession, as\nthe custom is upon the said holy day; and when she came in Panurge\nsprinkled some holy water on her, saluting her very courteously.  Then, a\nlittle while after she had said her petty devotions, he sat down close by\nher upon the same bench, and gave her this roundelay in writing, in manner\nas followeth.\n\n  A Roundelay.\n\n  For this one time, that I to you my love\n  Discovered, you did too cruel prove,\n  To send me packing, hopeless, and so soon,\n  Who never any wrong to you had done,\n  In any kind of action, word, or thought:\n  So that, if my suit liked you not, you ought\n  T' have spoke more civilly, and to this sense,\n  My friend, be pleased to depart from hence,\n    For this one time.\n\n  What hurt do I, to wish you to remark,\n  With favour and compassion, how a spark\n  Of your great beauty hath inflamed my heart\n  With deep affection, and that, for my part,\n  I only ask that you with me would dance\n  The brangle gay in feats of dalliance,\n    For this one time?\n\nAnd, as she was opening this paper to see what it was, Panurge very\npromptly and lightly scattered the drug that he had upon her in divers\nplaces, but especially in the plaits of her sleeves and of her gown.  Then\nsaid he unto her, Madam, the poor lovers are not always at ease.  As for\nme, I hope that those heavy nights, those pains and troubles, which I\nsuffer for love of you, shall be a deduction to me of so much pain in\npurgatory; yet, at the least, pray to God to give me patience in my misery.\nPanurge had no sooner spoke this but all the dogs that were in the church\ncame running to this lady with the smell of the drugs that he had strewed\nupon her, both small and great, big and little, all came, laying out their\nmember, smelling to her, and pissing everywhere upon her--it was the\ngreatest villainy in the world.  Panurge made the fashion of driving them\naway; then took his leave of her and withdrew himself into some chapel or\noratory of the said church to see the sport; for these villainous dogs did\ncompiss all her habiliments, and left none of her attire unbesprinkled with\ntheir staling; insomuch that a tall greyhound pissed upon her head, others\nin her sleeves, others on her crupper-piece, and the little ones pissed\nupon her pataines; so that all the women that were round about her had much\nado to save her.  Whereat Panurge very heartily laughing, he said to one of\nthe lords of the city, I believe that same lady is hot, or else that some\ngreyhound hath covered her lately.  And when he saw that all the dogs were\nflocking about her, yarring at the retardment of their access to her, and\nevery way keeping such a coil with her as they are wont to do about a proud\nor salt bitch, he forthwith departed from thence, and went to call\nPantagruel, not forgetting in his way alongst the streets through which he\nwent, where he found any dogs to give them a bang with his foot, saying,\nWill you not go with your fellows to the wedding?  Away, hence, avant,\navant, with a devil avant!  And being come home, he said to Pantagruel,\nMaster, I pray you come and see all the dogs of the country, how they are\nassembled about a lady, the fairest in the city, and would duffle and line\nher.  Whereunto Pantagruel willingly condescended, and saw the mystery,\nwhich he found very pretty and strange.  But the best was at the\nprocession, in which were seen above six hundred thousand and fourteen dogs\nabout her, which did very much trouble and molest her, and whithersoever\nshe passed, those dogs that came afresh, tracing her footsteps, followed\nher at the heels, and pissed in the way where her gown had touched.  All\nthe world stood gazing at this spectacle, considering the countenance of\nthose dogs, who, leaping up, got about her neck and spoiled all her\ngorgeous accoutrements, for the which she could find no remedy but to\nretire unto her house, which was a palace.  Thither she went, and the dogs\nafter her; she ran to hide herself, but the chambermaids could not abstain\nfrom laughing.  When she was entered into the house and had shut the door\nupon herself, all the dogs came running of half a league round, and did so\nwell bepiss the gate of her house that there they made a stream with their\nurine wherein a duck might have very well swimmed, and it is the same\ncurrent that now runs at St. Victor, in which Gobelin dyeth scarlet, for\nthe specifical virtue of these piss-dogs, as our master Doribus did\nheretofore preach publicly.  So may God help you, a mill would have ground\ncorn with it.  Yet not so much as those of Basacle at Toulouse.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel departed from Paris, hearing news that the Dipsodes had\ninvaded the land of the Amaurots; and the cause wherefore the leagues are\nso short in France.\n\nA little while after Pantagruel heard news that his father Gargantua had\nbeen translated into the land of the fairies by Morgue, as heretofore were\nOgier and Arthur; as also, (In the original edition it stands 'together,\nand that.'--M.) that the report of his translation being spread abroad, the\nDipsodes had issued out beyond their borders, with inroads had wasted a\ngreat part of Utopia, and at that very time had besieged the great city of\nthe Amaurots.  Whereupon departing from Paris without bidding any man\nfarewell, for the business required diligence, he came to Rouen.\n\nNow Pantagruel in his journey seeing that the leagues of that little\nterritory about Paris called France were very short in regard of those of\nother countries, demanded the cause and reason of it from Panurge, who told\nhim a story which Marotus of the Lac, monachus, set down in the Acts of the\nKings of Canarre, saying that in old times countries were not distinguished\ninto leagues, miles, furlongs, nor parasangs, until that King Pharamond\ndivided them, which was done in manner as followeth.  The said king chose\nat Paris a hundred fair, gallant, lusty, brisk young men, all resolute and\nbold adventurers in Cupid's duels, together with a hundred comely, pretty,\nhandsome, lovely and well-complexioned wenches of Picardy, all which he\ncaused to be well entertained and highly fed for the space of eight days.\nThen having called for them, he delivered to every one of the young men his\nwench, with store of money to defray their charges, and this injunction\nbesides, to go unto divers places here and there.  And wheresoever they\nshould biscot and thrum their wenches, that, they setting a stone there, it\nshould be accounted for a league.  Thus went away those brave fellows and\nsprightly blades most merrily, and because they were fresh and had been at\nrest, they very often jummed and fanfreluched almost at every field's end,\nand this is the cause why the leagues about Paris are so short.  But when\nthey had gone a great way, and were now as weary as poor devils, all the\noil in their lamps being almost spent, they did not chink and duffle so\noften, but contented themselves (I mean for the men's part) with one scurvy\npaltry bout in a day, and this is that which makes the leagues in Brittany,\nDelanes, Germany, and other more remote countries so long.  Other men give\nother reasons for it, but this seems to me of all other the best.  To which\nPantagruel willingly adhered.  Parting from Rouen, they arrived at\nHonfleur, where they took shipping, Pantagruel, Panurge, Epistemon,\nEusthenes, and Carpalin.\n\nIn which place, waiting for a favourable wind, and caulking their ship,\nhe received from a lady of Paris, which I (he) had formerly kept and\nentertained a good long time, a letter directed on the outside thus,\n--To the best beloved of the fair women, and least loyal of the valiant men\n--P.N.T.G.R.L.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA letter which a messenger brought to Pantagruel from a lady of Paris,\ntogether with the exposition of a posy written in a gold ring.\n\nWhen Pantagruel had read the superscription he was much amazed, and\ntherefore demanded of the said messenger the name of her that had sent it.\nThen opened he the letter, and found nothing written in it, nor otherwise\nenclosed, but only a gold ring, with a square table diamond.  Wondering at\nthis, he called Panurge to him, and showed him the case.  Whereupon Panurge\ntold him that the leaf of paper was written upon, but with such cunning and\nartifice that no man could see the writing at the first sight. Therefore,\nto find it out, he set it by the fire to see if it was made with sal\nammoniac soaked in water.  Then put he it into the water, to see if the\nletter was written with the juice of tithymalle.  After that he held it up\nagainst the candle, to see if it was written with the juice of white\nonions.\n\nThen he rubbed one part of it with oil of nuts, to see if it were not\nwritten with the lee of a fig-tree, and another part of it with the milk of\na woman giving suck to her eldest daughter, to see if it was written with\nthe blood of red toads or green earth-frogs.  Afterwards he rubbed one\ncorner with the ashes of a swallow's nest, to see if it were not written\nwith the dew that is found within the herb alcakengy, called the\nwinter-cherry.  He rubbed, after that, one end with ear-wax, to see if it\nwere not written with the gall of a raven.  Then did he dip it into vinegar,\nto try if it was not written with the juice of the garden spurge.  After\nthat he greased it with the fat of a bat or flittermouse, to see if it was\nnot written with the sperm of a whale, which some call ambergris.  Then put\nit very fairly into a basinful of fresh water, and forthwith took it out, to\nsee whether it were written with stone-alum.  But after all experiments,\nwhen he perceived that he could find out nothing, he called the messenger\nand asked him, Good fellow, the lady that sent thee hither, did she not give\nthee a staff to bring with thee? thinking that it had been according to the\nconceit whereof Aulus Gellius maketh mention.  And the messenger answered\nhim, No, sir.  Then Panurge would have caused his head to be shaven, to see\nwhether the lady had written upon his bald pate, with the hard lye whereof\nsoap is made, that which she meant; but, perceiving that his hair was very\nlong, he forbore, considering that it could not have grown to so great a\nlength in so short a time.\n\nThen he said to Pantagruel, Master, by the virtue of G--, I cannot tell\nwhat to do nor say in it.  For, to know whether there be anything written\nupon this or no, I have made use of a good part of that which Master\nFrancisco di Nianto, the Tuscan, sets down, who hath written the manner of\nreading letters that do not appear; that which Zoroastes published, Peri\ngrammaton acriton; and Calphurnius Bassus, De literis illegibilibus.  But I\ncan see nothing, nor do I believe that there is anything else in it than\nthe ring.  Let us, therefore, look upon it.  Which when they had done, they\nfound this in Hebrew written within, Lamach saba(ch)thani; whereupon they\ncalled Epistemon, and asked him what that meant.  To which he answered that\nthey were Hebrew words, signifying, Wherefore hast thou forsaken me?  Upon\nthat Panurge suddenly replied, I know the mystery.  Do you see this\ndiamond?  It is a false one.  This, then, is the exposition of that which\nthe lady means, Diamant faux, that is, false lover, why hast thou forsaken\nme?  Which interpretation Pantagruel presently understood, and withal\nremembering that at his departure he had not bid the lady farewell, he was\nvery sorry, and would fain have returned to Paris to make his peace with\nher.  But Epistemon put him in mind of Aeneas's departure from Dido, and\nthe saying of Heraclitus of Tarentum, That the ship being at anchor, when\nneed requireth we must cut the cable rather than lose time about untying of\nit,--and that he should lay aside all other thoughts to succour the city of\nhis nativity, which was then in danger.  And, indeed, within an hour after\nthat the wind arose at the north-north-west, wherewith they hoist sail, and\nput out, even into the main sea, so that within few days, passing by Porto\nSancto and by the Madeiras, they went ashore in the Canary Islands.\nParting from thence, they passed by Capobianco, by Senege, by Capoverde, by\nGambre, by Sagres, by Melli, by the Cap di Buona Speranza, and set ashore\nagain in the kingdom of Melinda.  Parting from thence, they sailed away\nwith a tramontane or northerly wind, passing by Meden, by Uti, by Uden, by\nGelasim, by the Isles of the Fairies, and alongst the kingdom of Achorie,\ntill at last they arrived at the port of Utopia, distant from the city of\nthe Amaurots three leagues and somewhat more.\n\nWhen they were ashore, and pretty well refreshed, Pantagruel said,\nGentlemen, the city is not far from hence; therefore, were it not amiss,\nbefore we set forward, to advise well what is to be done, that we be not\nlike the Athenians, who never took counsel until after the fact?  Are you\nresolved to live and die with me?  Yes, sir, said they all, and be as\nconfident of us as of your own fingers.  Well, said he, there is but one\nthing that keeps my mind in great doubt and suspense, which is this, that I\nknow not in what order nor of what number the enemy is that layeth siege to\nthe city; for, if I were certain of that, I should go forward and set on\nwith the better assurance.  Let us therefore consult together, and bethink\nourselves by what means we may come to this intelligence.  Whereunto they\nall said, Let us go thither and see, and stay you here for us; for this\nvery day, without further respite, do we make account to bring you a\ncertain report thereof.\n\nMyself, said Panurge, will undertake to enter into their camp, within the\nvery midst of their guards, unespied by their watch, and merrily feast and\nlecher it at their cost, without being known of any, to see the artillery\nand the tents of all the captains, and thrust myself in with a grave and\nmagnific carriage amongst all their troops and companies, without being\ndiscovered.  The devil would not be able to peck me out with all his\ncircumventions, for I am of the race of Zopyrus.\n\nAnd I, said Epistemon, know all the plots and strategems of the valiant\ncaptains and warlike champions of former ages, together with all the tricks\nand subtleties of the art of war.  I will go, and, though I be detected and\nrevealed, I will escape by making them believe of you whatever I please,\nfor I am of the race of Sinon.\n\nI, said Eusthenes, will enter and set upon them in their trenches, in spite\nof their sentries and all their guards; for I will tread upon their bellies\nand break their legs and arms, yea, though they were every whit as strong\nas the devil himself, for I am of the race of Hercules.\n\nAnd I, said Carpalin, will get in there if the birds can enter, for I am so\nnimble of body, and light withal, that I shall have leaped over their\ntrenches, and ran clean through all their camp, before that they perceive\nme; neither do I fear shot, nor arrow, nor horse, how swift soever, were he\nthe Pegasus of Perseus or Pacolet, being assured that I shall be able to\nmake a safe and sound escape before them all without any hurt.  I will\nundertake to walk upon the ears of corn or grass in the meadows, without\nmaking either of them do so much as bow under me, for I am of the race of\nCamilla the Amazon.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge, Carpalin, Eusthenes, and Epistemon, the gentlemen attendants\nof Pantagruel, vanquished and discomfited six hundred and threescore\nhorsemen very cunningly.\n\nAs he was speaking this, they perceived six hundred and threescore light\nhorsemen, gallantly mounted, who made an outroad thither to see what ship\nit was that was newly arrived in the harbour, and came in a full gallop to\ntake them if they had been able.  Then said Pantagruel, My lads, retire\nyourselves unto the ship; here are some of our enemies coming apace, but I\nwill kill them here before you like beasts, although they were ten times so\nmany; in the meantime, withdraw yourselves, and take your sport at it.\nThen answered Panurge, No, sir; there is no reason that you should do so,\nbut, on the contrary, retire you unto the ship, both you and the rest, for\nI alone will here discomfit them; but we must not linger; come, set\nforward.  Whereunto the others said, It is well advised, sir; withdraw\nyourself, and we will help Panurge here, so shall you know what we are able\nto do.  Then said Pantagruel, Well, I am content; but, if that you be too\nweak, I will not fail to come to your assistance.  With this Panurge took\ntwo great cables of the ship and tied them to the kemstock or capstan which\nwas on the deck towards the hatches, and fastened them in the ground,\nmaking a long circuit, the one further off, the other within that.  Then\nsaid he to Epistemon, Go aboard the ship, and, when I give you a call, turn\nabout the capstan upon the orlop diligently, drawing unto you the two\ncable-ropes; and said to Eusthenes and to Carpalin, My bullies, stay you\nhere, and offer yourselves freely to your enemies.  Do as they bid you, and\nmake as if you would yield unto them, but take heed you come not within the\ncompass of the ropes--be sure to keep yourselves free of them.  And\npresently he went aboard the ship, and took a bundle of straw and a barrel\nof gunpowder, strewed it round about the compass of the cords, and stood by\nwith a brand of fire or match lighted in his hand.  Presently came the\nhorsemen with great fury, and the foremost ran almost home to the ship,\nand, by reason of the slipperiness of the bank, they fell, they and their\nhorses, to the number of four and forty; which the rest seeing, came on,\nthinking that resistance had been made them at their arrival.  But Panurge\nsaid unto them, My masters, I believe that you have hurt yourselves; I pray\nyou pardon us, for it is not our fault, but the slipperiness of the\nsea-water that is always flowing; we submit ourselves to your good pleasure.\nSo said likewise his two other fellows, and Epistemon that was upon the\ndeck.  In the meantime Panurge withdrew himself, and seeing that they were\nall within the compass of the cables, and that his two companions were\nretired, making room for all those horses which came in a crowd, thronging\nupon the neck of one another to see the ship and such as were in it, cried\nout on a sudden to Epistemon, Draw, draw!  Then began Epistemon to wind\nabout the capstan, by doing whereof the two cables so entangled and\nempestered the legs of the horses, that they were all of them thrown down\nto the ground easily, together with their riders.  But they, seeing that,\ndrew their swords, and would have cut them; whereupon Panurge set fire to\nthe train, and there burnt them up all like damned souls, both men and\nhorses, not one escaping save one alone, who being mounted on a fleet\nTurkey courser, by mere speed in flight got himself out of the circle of\nthe ropes.  But when Carpalin perceived him, he ran after him with such\nnimbleness and celerity that he overtook him in less than a hundred paces;\nthen, leaping close behind him upon the crupper of his horse, clasped him\nin his arms, and brought him back to the ship.\n\nThis exploit being ended, Pantagruel was very jovial, and wondrously\ncommended the industry of these gentlemen, whom he called his\nfellow-soldiers, and made them refresh themselves and feed well and merrily\nupon the seashore, and drink heartily with their bellies upon the ground,\nand their prisoner with them, whom they admitted to that familiarity; only\nthat the poor devil was somewhat afraid that Pantagruel would have eaten him\nup whole, which, considering the wideness of his mouth and capacity of his\nthroat was no great matter for him to have done; for he could have done it\nas easily as you would eat a small comfit, he showing no more in his throat\nthan would a grain of millet-seed in the mouth of an ass.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel and his company were weary in eating still salt meats; and\nhow Carpalin went a-hunting to have some venison.\n\nThus as they talked and chatted together, Carpalin said, And, by the belly\nof St. Quenet, shall we never eat any venison?  This salt meat makes me\nhorribly dry.  I will go fetch you a quarter of one of those horses which\nwe have burnt; it is well roasted already.  As he was rising up to go about\nit, he perceived under the side of a wood a fair great roebuck, which was\ncome out of his fort, as I conceive, at the sight of Panurge's fire.  Him\ndid he pursue and run after with as much vigour and swiftness as if it had\nbeen a bolt out of a crossbow, and caught him in a moment; and whilst he\nwas in his course he with his hands took in the air four great bustards,\nseven bitterns, six and twenty grey partridges, two and thirty red-legged\nones, sixteen pheasants, nine woodcocks, nineteen herons, two and thirty\ncushats and ringdoves; and with his feet killed ten or twelve hares and\nrabbits, which were then at relief and pretty big withal, eighteen rails in\na knot together, with fifteen young wild-boars, two little beavers, and\nthree great foxes.  So, striking the kid with his falchion athwart the\nhead, he killed him, and, bearing him on his back, he in his return took up\nhis hares, rails, and young wild-boars, and, as far off as he could be\nheard, cried out and said, Panurge, my friend, vinegar, vinegar!  Then the\ngood Pantagruel, thinking he had fainted, commanded them to provide him\nsome vinegar; but Panurge knew well that there was some good prey in hands,\nand forthwith showed unto noble Pantagruel how he was bearing upon his back\na fair roebuck, and all his girdle bordered with hares.  Then immediately\ndid Epistemon make, in the name of the nine Muses, nine antique wooden\nspits.  Eusthenes did help to flay, and Panurge placed two great cuirassier\nsaddles in such sort that they served for andirons, and making their\nprisoner to be their cook, they roasted their venison by the fire wherein\nthe horsemen were burnt; and making great cheer with a good deal of\nvinegar, the devil a one of them did forbear from his victuals--it was a\ntriumphant and incomparable spectacle to see how they ravened and devoured.\nThen said Pantagruel, Would to God every one of you had two pairs of little\nanthem or sacring bells hanging at your chin, and that I had at mine the\ngreat clocks of Rennes, of Poictiers, of Tours, and of Cambray, to see what\na peal they would ring with the wagging of our chaps.  But, said Panurge,\nit were better we thought a little upon our business, and by what means we\nmight get the upper hand of our enemies.  That is well remembered, said\nPantagruel.  Therefore spoke he thus to the prisoner, My friend, tell us\nhere the truth, and do not lie to us at all, if thou wouldst not be flayed\nalive, for it is I that eat the little children.  Relate unto us at full\nthe order, the number, and the strength of the army.  To which the prisoner\nanswered, Sir, know for a truth that in the army there are three hundred\ngiants, all armed with armour of proof, and wonderful great.  Nevertheless,\nnot fully so great as you, except one that is their head, named Loupgarou,\nwho is armed from head to foot with cyclopical anvils.  Furthermore, one\nhundred three score and three thousand foot, all armed with the skins of\nhobgoblins, strong and valiant men; eleven thousand four hundred\nmen-at-arms or cuirassiers; three thousand six hundred double cannons, and\narquebusiers without number; four score and fourteen thousand pioneers; one\nhundred and fifty thousand whores, fair like goddesses--(That is for me,\nsaid Panurge)--whereof some are Amazons, some Lionnoises, others\nParisiennes, Taurangelles, Angevines, Poictevines, Normandes, and High\nDutch--there are of them of all countries and all languages.\n\nYea but, said Pantagruel, is the king there?  Yes, sir, said the prisoner;\nhe is there in person, and we call him Anarchus, king of the Dipsodes,\nwhich is as much to say as thirsty people, for you never saw men more\nthirsty, nor more willing to drink, and his tent is guarded by the giants.\nIt is enough, said Pantagruel.  Come, brave boys, are you resolved to go\nwith me?  To which Panurge answered, God confound him that leaves you!  I\nhave already bethought myself how I will kill them all like pigs, and so\nthe devil one leg of them shall escape.  But I am somewhat troubled about\none thing.  And what is that? said Pantagruel.  It is, said Panurge, how I\nshall be able to set forward to the justling and bragmardizing of all the\nwhores that be there this afternoon, in such sort that there escape not one\nunbumped by me, breasted and jummed after the ordinary fashion of man and\nwomen in the Venetian conflict.  Ha, ha, ha, ha, said Pantagruel.\n\nAnd Carpalin said:  The devil take these sink-holes, if, by G--, I do not\nbumbaste some one of them.  Then said Eusthenes:  What! shall not I have\nany, whose paces, since we came from Rouen, were never so well winded up as\nthat my needle could mount to ten or eleven o'clock, till now that I have\nit hard, stiff, and strong, like a hundred devils?  Truly, said Panurge,\nthou shalt have of the fattest, and of those that are most plump and in the\nbest case.\n\nHow now! said Epistemon; everyone shall ride, and I must lead the ass?  The\ndevil take him that will do so.  We will make use of the right of war, Qui\npotest capere, capiat.  No, no, said Panurge, but tie thine ass to a crook,\nand ride as the world doth.  And the good Pantagruel laughed at all this,\nand said unto them, You reckon without your host.  I am much afraid that,\nbefore it be night, I shall see you in such taking that you will have no\ngreat stomach to ride, but more like to be rode upon with sound blows of\npike and lance.  Baste, said Epistemon, enough of that!  I will not fail to\nbring them to you, either to roast or boil, to fry or put in paste.  They\nare not so many in number as were in the army of Xerxes, for he had thirty\nhundred thousand fighting-men, if you will believe Herodotus and Trogus\nPompeius, and yet Themistocles with a few men overthrew them all.  For\nGod's sake, take you no care for that.  Cobsminny, cobsminny, said Panurge;\nmy codpiece alone shall suffice to overthrow all the men; and my St.\nSweephole, that dwells within it, shall lay all the women squat upon their\nbacks.  Up then, my lads, said Pantagruel, and let us march along.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel set up one trophy in memorial of their valour, and Panurge\nanother in remembrance of the hares.  How Pantagruel likewise with his\nfarts begat little men, and with his fisgs little women; and how Panurge\nbroke a great staff over two glasses.\n\nBefore we depart hence, said Pantagruel, in remembrance of the exploit that\nyou have now performed I will in this place erect a fair trophy.  Then\nevery man amongst them, with great joy and fine little country songs, set\nup a huge big post, whereunto they hanged a great cuirassier saddle, the\nfronstal of a barbed horse, bridle-bosses, pulley-pieces for the knees,\nstirrup-leathers, spurs, stirrups, a coat of mail, a corslet tempered with\nsteel, a battle-axe, a strong, short, and sharp horseman's sword, a\ngauntlet, a horseman's mace, gushet-armour for the armpits, leg-harness,\nand a gorget, with all other furniture needful for the decorement of a\ntriumphant arch, in sign of a trophy.  And then Pantagruel, for an eternal\nmemorial, wrote this victorial ditton, as followeth:--\n\n  Here was the prowess made apparent of\n  Four brave and valiant champions of proof,\n  Who, without any arms but wit, at once,\n  Like Fabius, or the two Scipions,\n  Burnt in a fire six hundred and threescore\n  Crablice, strong rogues ne'er vanquished before.\n  By this each king may learn, rook, pawn, and knight,\n  That sleight is much more prevalent than might.\n\n    For victory,\n    As all men see,\n    Hangs on the ditty\n    Of that committee\n    Where the great God\n    Hath his abode.\n\n  Nor doth he it to strong and great men give,\n  But to his elect, as we must believe;\n  Therefore shall he obtain wealth and esteem,\n  Who thorough faith doth put his trust in him.\n\nWhilst Pantagruel was writing these foresaid verses, Panurge halved and\nfixed upon a great stake the horns of a roebuck, together with the skin and\nthe right forefoot thereof, the ears of three leverets, the chine of a\nconey, the jaws of a hare, the wings of two bustards, the feet of four\nqueest-doves, a bottle or borracho full of vinegar, a horn wherein to put\nsalt, a wooden spit, a larding stick, a scurvy kettle full of holes, a\ndripping-pan to make sauce in, an earthen salt-cellar, and a goblet of\nBeauvais.  Then, in imitation of Pantagruel's verses and trophy, wrote that\nwhich followeth:--\n\n  Here was it that four jovial blades sat down\n  To a profound carousing, and to crown\n  Their banquet with those wines which please best great\n  Bacchus, the monarch of their drinking state.\n  Then were the reins and furch of a young hare,\n  With salt and vinegar, displayed there,\n  Of which to snatch a bit or two at once\n  They all fell on like hungry scorpions.\n\n    For th' Inventories\n    Of Defensories\n    Say that in heat\n    We must drink neat\n    All out, and of\n    The choicest stuff.\n\n  But it is bad to eat of young hare's flesh,\n  Unless with vinegar we it refresh.\n  Receive this tenet, then, without control,\n  That vinegar of that meat is the soul.\n\nThen said Pantagruel, Come, my lads, let us begone! we have stayed here too\nlong about our victuals; for very seldom doth it fall out that the greatest\neaters do the most martial exploits.  There is no shadow like that of\nflying colours, no smoke like that of horses, no clattering like that of\narmour.  At this Epistemon began to smile, and said, There is no shadow\nlike that of the kitchen, no smoke like that of pasties, and no clattering\nlike that of goblets.  Unto which answered Panurge, There is no shadow like\nthat of curtains, no smoke like that of women's breasts, and no clattering\nlike that of ballocks.  Then forthwith rising up he gave a fart, a leap,\nand a whistle, and most joyfully cried out aloud, Ever live Pantagruel!\nWhen Pantagruel saw that, he would have done as much; but with the fart\nthat he let the earth trembled nine leagues about, wherewith and with the\ncorrupted air he begot above three and fifty thousand little men,\nill-favoured dwarfs, and with one fisg that he let he made as many little\nwomen, crouching down, as you shall see in divers places, which never grow\nbut like cow's tails, downwards, or, like the Limosin radishes, round.  How\nnow! said Panurge, are your farts so fertile and fruitful?  By G--, here be\nbrave farted men and fisgued women; let them be married together; they will\nbeget fine hornets and dorflies.  So did Pantagruel, and called them\npigmies.  Those he sent to live in an island thereby, where since that time\nthey are increased mightily.  But the cranes make war with them\ncontinually, against which they do most courageously defend themselves; for\nthese little ends of men and dandiprats (whom in Scotland they call\nwhiphandles and knots of a tar-barrel) are commonly very testy and\ncholeric; the physical reason whereof is, because their heart is near their\nspleen.\n\nAt this same time Panurge took two drinking glasses that were there, both\nof one bigness, and filled them with water up to the brim, and set one of\nthem upon one stool and the other upon another, placing them about one foot\nfrom one another.  Then he took the staff of a javelin, about five foot and\na half long, and put it upon the two glasses, so that the two ends of the\nstaff did come just to the brims of the glasses.  This done, he took a\ngreat stake or billet of wood, and said to Pantagruel and to the rest, My\nmasters, behold how easily we shall have the victory over our enemies; for\njust as I shall break this staff here upon these glasses, without either\nbreaking or crazing of them, nay, which is more, without spilling one drop\nof the water that is within them, even so shall we break the heads of our\nDipsodes without receiving any of us any wound or loss in our person or\ngoods.  But, that you may not think there is any witchcraft in this, hold!\nsaid he to Eusthenes, strike upon the midst as hard as thou canst with this\nlog.  Eusthenes did so, and the staff broke in two pieces, and not one drop\nof the water fell out of the glasses.  Then said he, I know a great many\nsuch other tricks; let us now therefore march boldly and with assurance.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel got the victory very strangely over the Dipsodes and the\nGiants.\n\nAfter all this talk, Pantagruel took the prisoner to him and sent him away,\nsaying, Go thou unto thy king in his camp, and tell him tidings of what\nthou hast seen, and let him resolve to feast me to-morrow about noon; for,\nas soon as my galleys shall come, which will be to-morrow at furthest, I\nwill prove unto him by eighteen hundred thousand fighting-men and seven\nthousand giants, all of them greater than I am, that he hath done foolishly\nand against reason thus to invade my country.  Wherein Pantagruel feigned\nthat he had an army at sea.  But the prisoner answered that he would yield\nhimself to be his slave, and that he was content never to return to his own\npeople, but rather with Pantagruel to fight against them, and for God's\nsake besought him that he might be permitted so to do.  Whereunto\nPantagruel would not give consent, but commanded him to depart thence\nspeedily and begone as he had told him, and to that effect gave him a\nboxful of euphorbium, together with some grains of the black chameleon\nthistle, steeped into aqua vitae, and made up into the condiment of a wet\nsucket, commanding him to carry it to his king, and to say unto him, that\nif he were able to eat one ounce of that without drinking after it, he\nmight then be able to resist him without any fear or apprehension of\ndanger.\n\nThe prisoner then besought him with joined hands that in the hour of the\nbattle he would have compassion upon him.  Whereat Pantagruel said unto\nhim, After that thou hast delivered all unto the king, put thy whole\nconfidence in God, and he will not forsake thee; because, although for my\npart I be mighty, as thou mayst see, and have an infinite number of men in\narms, I do nevertheless trust neither in my force nor in mine industry, but\nall my confidence is in God my protector, who doth never forsake those that\nin him do put their trust and confidence.  This done, the prisoner\nrequested him that he would afford him some reasonable composition for his\nransom.  To which Pantagruel answered, that his end was not to rob nor\nransom men, but to enrich them and reduce them to total liberty.  Go thy\nway, said he, in the peace of the living God, and never follow evil\ncompany, lest some mischief befall thee.  The prisoner being gone,\nPantagruel said to his men, Gentlemen, I have made this prisoner believe\nthat we have an army at sea; as also that we will not assault them till\nto-morrow at noon, to the end that they, doubting of the great arrival of\nour men, may spend this night in providing and strengthening themselves,\nbut in the meantime my intention is that we charge them about the hour\nof the first sleep.\n\nLet us leave Pantagruel here with his apostles, and speak of King Anarchus\nand his army.  When the prisoner was come he went unto the king and told\nhim how there was a great giant come, called Pantagruel, who had overthrown\nand made to be cruelly roasted all the six hundred and nine and fifty\nhorsemen, and he alone escaped to bring the news.  Besides that, he was\ncharged by the said giant to tell him that the next day, about noon, he\nmust make a dinner ready for him, for at that hour he was resolved to set\nupon him.  Then did he give him that box wherein were those confitures.\nBut as soon as he had swallowed down one spoonful of them, he was taken\nwith such a heat in the throat, together with an ulceration in the flap of\nthe top of the windpipe, that his tongue peeled with it in such sort that,\nfor all they could do unto him, he found no ease at all but by drinking\nonly without cessation; for as soon as ever he took the goblet from his\nhead, his tongue was on a fire, and therefore they did nothing but still\npour in wine into his throat with a funnel.  Which when his captains,\nbashaws, and guard of his body did see, they tasted of the same drugs to\ntry whether they were so thirst-procuring and alterative or no.  But it so\nbefell them as it had done their king, and they plied the flagon so well\nthat the noise ran throughout all the camp, how the prisoner was returned;\nthat the next day they were to have an assault; that the king and his\ncaptains did already prepare themselves for it, together with his guards,\nand that with carousing lustily and quaffing as hard as they could.  Every\nman, therefore, in the army began to tipple, ply the pot, swill and guzzle\nit as fast as they could.  In sum, they drunk so much, and so long, that\nthey fell asleep like pigs, all out of order throughout the whole camp.\n\nLet us now return to the good Pantagruel, and relate how he carried himself\nin this business.  Departing from the place of the trophies, he took the\nmast of their ship in his hand like a pilgrim's staff, and put within the\ntop of it two hundred and seven and thirty puncheons of white wine of\nAnjou, the rest was of Rouen, and tied up to his girdle the bark all full\nof salt, as easily as the lansquenets carry their little panniers, and so\nset onward on his way with his fellow-soldiers.  When he was come near to\nthe enemy's camp, Panurge said unto him, Sir, if you would do well, let\ndown this white wine of Anjou from the scuttle of the mast of the ship,\nthat we may all drink thereof, like Bretons.\n\nHereunto Pantagruel very willingly consented, and they drank so neat that\nthere was not so much as one poor drop left of two hundred and seven and\nthirty puncheons, except one boracho or leathern bottle of Tours which\nPanurge filled for himself, for he called that his vademecum, and some\nscurvy lees of wine in the bottom, which served him instead of vinegar.\nAfter they had whittled and curried the can pretty handsomely, Panurge gave\nPantagruel to eat some devilish drugs compounded of lithotripton, which is\na stone-dissolving ingredient, nephrocatarticon, that purgeth the reins,\nthe marmalade of quinces, called codiniac, a confection of cantharides,\nwhich are green flies breeding on the tops of olive-trees, and other kinds\nof diuretic or piss-procuring simples.  This done, Pantagruel said to\nCarpalin, Go into the city, scrambling like a cat against the wall, as you\ncan well do, and tell them that now presently they come out and charge\ntheir enemies as rudely as they can, and having said so, come down, taking\na lighted torch with you, wherewith you shall set on fire all the tents and\npavilions in the camp; then cry as loud as you are able with your great\nvoice, and then come away from thence.  Yea but, said Carpalin, were it not\ngood to cloy all their ordnance?  No, no, said Pantagruel, only blow up all\ntheir powder.  Carpalin, obeying him, departed suddenly and did as he was\nappointed by Pantagruel, and all the combatants came forth that were in the\ncity, and when he had set fire in the tents and pavilions, he passed so\nlightly through them, and so highly and profoundly did they snort and\nsleep, that they never perceived him.  He came to the place where their\nartillery was, and set their munition on fire.  But here was the danger.\nThe fire was so sudden that poor Carpalin had almost been burnt.  And had\nit not been for his wonderful agility he had been fried like a roasting\npig.  But he departed away so speedily that a bolt or arrow out of a\ncrossbow could not have had a swifter motion.  When he was clear of their\ntrenches, he shouted aloud, and cried out so dreadfully, and with such\namazement to the hearers, that it seemed all the devils of hell had been\nlet loose.  At which noise the enemies awaked, but can you tell how?  Even\nno less astonished than are monks at the ringing of the first peal to\nmatins, which in Lusonnois is called rub-ballock.\n\nIn the meantime Pantagruel began to sow the salt that he had in his bark,\nand because they slept with an open gaping mouth, he filled all their\nthroats with it, so that those poor wretches were by it made to cough like\nfoxes.  Ha, Pantagruel, how thou addest greater heat to the firebrand that\nis in us!  Suddenly Pantagruel had will to piss, by means of the drugs\nwhich Panurge had given him, and pissed amidst the camp so well and so\ncopiously that he drowned them all, and there was a particular deluge ten\nleagues round about, of such considerable depth that the history saith, if\nhis father's great mare had been there, and pissed likewise, it would\nundoubtedly have been a more enormous deluge than that of Deucalion; for\nshe did never piss but she made a river greater than is either the Rhone or\nthe Danube.  Which those that were come out of the city seeing, said, They\nare all cruelly slain; see how the blood runs along.  But they were\ndeceived in thinking Pantagruel's urine had been the blood of their\nenemies, for they could not see but by the light of the fire of the\npavilions and some small light of the moon.\n\nThe enemies, after that they were awaked, seeing on one side the fire in\nthe camp, and on the other the inundation of the urinal deluge, could not\ntell what to say nor what to think.  Some said that it was the end of the\nworld and the final judgment, which ought to be by fire.  Others again\nthought that the sea-gods, Neptune, Proteus, Triton, and the rest of them,\ndid persecute them, for that indeed they found it to be like sea-water and\nsalt.\n\nO who were able now condignly to relate how Pantagruel did demean himself\nagainst the three hundred giants!  O my Muse, my Calliope, my Thalia,\ninspire me at this time, restore unto me my spirits; for this is the\nlogical bridge of asses!  Here is the pitfall, here is the difficulty, to\nhave ability enough to express the horrible battle that was fought.  Ah,\nwould to God that I had now a bottle of the best wine that ever those drank\nwho shall read this so veridical history!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel discomfited the three hundred giants armed with free-stone,\nand Loupgarou their captain.\n\nThe giants, seeing all their camp drowned, carried away their king Anarchus\nupon their backs as well as they could out of the fort, as Aeneas did to\nhis father Anchises, in the time of the conflagration of Troy.  When\nPanurge perceived them, he said to Pantagruel, Sir, yonder are the giants\ncoming forth against you; lay on them with your mast gallantly, like an old\nfencer; for now is the time that you must show yourself a brave man and an\nhonest.  And for our part we will not fail you.  I myself will kill to you\na good many boldly enough; for why, David killed Goliath very easily; and\nthen this great lecher, Eusthenes, who is stronger than four oxen, will not\nspare himself.  Be of good courage, therefore, and valiant; charge amongst\nthem with point and edge, and by all manner of means.  Well, said\nPantagruel, of courage I have more than for fifty francs, but let us be\nwise, for Hercules first never undertook against two.  That is well cacked,\nwell scummered, said Panurge; do you compare yourself with Hercules?  You\nhave, by G--, more strength in your teeth, and more scent in your bum, than\never Hercules had in all his body and soul.  So much is a man worth as he\nesteems himself.  Whilst they spake those words, behold! Loupgarou was come\nwith all his giants, who, seeing Pantagruel in a manner alone, was carried\naway with temerity and presumption, for hopes that he had to kill the good\nman.  Whereupon he said to his companions the giants, You wenchers of the\nlow country, by Mahoom! if any of you undertake to fight against these men\nhere, I will put you cruelly to death.  It is my will that you let me fight\nsingle.  In the meantime you shall have good sport to look upon us.\n\nThen all the other giants retired with their king to the place where the\nflagons stood, and Panurge and his comrades with them, who counterfeited\nthose that have had the pox, for he wreathed about his mouth, shrunk up his\nfingers, and with a harsh and hoarse voice said unto them, I forsake -od,\nfellow-soldiers, if I would have it to be believed that we make any war at\nall.  Give us somewhat to eat with you whilest our masters fight against\none another.  To this the king and giants jointly condescended, and\naccordingly made them to banquet with them.  In the meantime Panurge told\nthem the follies of Turpin, the examples of St. Nicholas, and the tale of a\ntub.  Loupgarou then set forward towards Pantagruel, with a mace all of\nsteel, and that of the best sort, weighing nine thousand seven hundred\nquintals and two quarterons, at the end whereof were thirteen pointed\ndiamonds, the least whereof was as big as the greatest bell of Our Lady's\nChurch at Paris--there might want perhaps the thickness of a nail, or at\nmost, that I may not lie, of the back of those knives which they call\ncutlugs or earcutters, but for a little off or on, more or less, it is no\nmatter--and it was enchanted in such sort that it could never break, but,\ncontrarily, all that it did touch did break immediately.  Thus, then, as he\napproached with great fierceness and pride of heart, Pantagruel, casting up\nhis eyes to heaven, recommended himself to God with all his soul, making\nsuch a vow as followeth.\n\nO thou Lord God, who hast always been my protector and my saviour! thou\nseest the distress wherein I am at this time.  Nothing brings me hither but\na natural zeal, which thou hast permitted unto mortals, to keep and defend\nthemselves, their wives and children, country and family, in case thy own\nproper cause were not in question, which is the faith; for in such a\nbusiness thou wilt have no coadjutors, only a catholic confession and\nservice of thy word, and hast forbidden us all arming and defence.  For\nthou art the Almighty, who in thine own cause, and where thine own business\nis taken to heart, canst defend it far beyond all that we can conceive,\nthou who hast thousand thousands of hundreds of millions of legions of\nangels, the least of which is able to kill all mortal men, and turn about\nthe heavens and earth at his pleasure, as heretofore it very plainly\nappeared in the army of Sennacherib.  If it may please thee, therefore, at\nthis time to assist me, as my whole trust and confidence is in thee alone,\nI vow unto thee, that in all countries whatsoever wherein I shall have any\npower or authority, whether in this of Utopia or elsewhere, I will cause\nthy holy gospel to be purely, simply, and entirely preached, so that the\nabuses of a rabble of hypocrites and false prophets, who by human\nconstitutions and depraved inventions have empoisoned all the world, shall\nbe quite exterminated from about me.\n\nThis vow was no sooner made, but there was heard a voice from heaven\nsaying, Hoc fac et vinces; that is to say, Do this, and thou shalt\novercome.  Then Pantagruel, seeing that Loupgarou with his mouth wide open\nwas drawing near to him, went against him boldly, and cried out as loud as\nhe was able, Thou diest, villain, thou diest! purposing by his horrible cry\nto make him afraid, according to the discipline of the Lacedaemonians.\nWithal, he immediately cast at him out of his bark, which he wore at his\ngirdle, eighteen cags and four bushels of salt, wherewith he filled both\nhis mouth, throat, nose, and eyes.  At this Loupgarou was so highly\nincensed that, most fiercely setting upon him, he thought even then with a\nblow of his mace to have beat out his brains.  But Pantagruel was very\nnimble, and had always a quick foot and a quick eye, and therefore with his\nleft foot did he step back one pace, yet not so nimbly but that the blow,\nfalling upon the bark, broke it in four thousand four score and six pieces,\nand threw all the rest of the salt about the ground.  Pantagruel, seeing\nthat, most gallantly displayed the vigour of his arms, and, according to\nthe art of the axe, gave him with the great end of his mast a homethrust a\nlittle above the breast; then, bringing along the blow to the left side,\nwith a slash struck him between the neck and shoulders.  After that,\nadvancing his right foot, he gave him a push upon the couillons with the\nupper end of his said mast, wherewith breaking the scuttle on the top\nthereof, he spilt three or four puncheons of wine that were left therein.\n\nUpon that Loupgarou thought that he had pierced his bladder, and that the\nwine that came forth had been his urine.  Pantagruel, being not content\nwith this, would have doubled it by a side-blow; but Loupgarou, lifting\nup his mace, advanced one step upon him, and with all his force would\nhave dashed it upon Pantagruel, wherein, to speak the truth, he so\nsprightfully carried himself, that, if God had not succoured the good\nPantagruel, he had been cloven from the top of his head to the bottom of\nhis milt.  But the blow glanced to the right side by the brisk nimbleness\nof Pantagruel, and his mace sank into the ground above threescore and\nthirteen foot, through a huge rock, out of which the fire did issue greater\nthan nine thousand and six tons.  Pantagruel, seeing him busy about\nplucking out his mace, which stuck in the ground between the rocks, ran\nupon him, and would have clean cut off his head, if by mischance his mast\nhad not touched a little against the stock of Loupgarou's mace, which was\nenchanted, as we have said before.  By this means his mast broke off about\nthree handfuls above his hand, whereat he stood amazed like a bell-founder,\nand cried out, Ah, Panurge, where art thou?  Panurge, seeing that, said to\nthe king and the giants, By G--, they will hurt one another if they be not\nparted.  But the giants were as merry as if they had been at a wedding.\nThen Carpalin would have risen from thence to help his master; but one of\nthe giants said unto him, By Golfarin, the nephew of Mahoom, if thou stir\nhence I will put thee in the bottom of my breeches instead of a\nsuppository, which cannot choose but do me good.  For in my belly I am very\ncostive, and cannot well cagar without gnashing my teeth and making many\nfilthy faces.  Then Pantagruel, thus destitute of a staff, took up the end\nof his mast, striking athwart and alongst upon the giant, but he did him no\nmore hurt than you would do with a fillip upon a smith's anvil.  In the\n(mean) time Loupgarou was drawing his mace out of the ground, and, having\nalready plucked it out, was ready therewith to have struck Pantagruel, who,\nbeing very quick in turning, avoided all his blows in taking only the\ndefensive part in hand, until on a sudden he saw that Loupgarou did\nthreaten him with these words, saying, Now, villain, will not I fail to\nchop thee as small as minced meat, and keep thee henceforth from ever\nmaking any more poor men athirst!  For then, without any more ado,\nPantagruel struck him such a blow with his foot against the belly that he\nmade him fall backwards, his heels over his head, and dragged him thus\nalong at flay-buttock above a flight-shot.  Then Loupgarou cried out,\nbleeding at the throat, Mahoom, Mahoom, Mahoom! at which noise all the\ngiants arose to succour him.  But Panurge said unto them, Gentlemen, do not\ngo, if will believe me, for our master is mad, and strikes athwart and\nalongst, he cares not where; he will do you a mischief.  But the giants\nmade no account of it, seeing that Pantagruel had never a staff.\n\nAnd when Pantagruel saw those giants approach very near unto him, he took\nLoupgarou by the two feet, and lift up his body like a pike in the air,\nwherewith, it being harnessed with anvils, he laid such heavy load amongst\nthose giants armed with free-stone, that, striking them down as a mason\ndoth little knobs of stones, there was not one of them that stood before\nhim whom he threw not flat to the ground.  And by the breaking of this\nstony armour there was made such a horrible rumble as put me in mind of the\nfall of the butter-tower of St. Stephen's at Bourges when it melted before\nthe sun.  Panurge, with Carpalin and Eusthenes, did cut in the mean time\nthe throats of those that were struck down, in such sort that there escaped\nnot one.  Pantagruel to any man's sight was like a mower, who with his\nscythe, which was Loupgarou, cut down the meadow grass, to wit, the giants;\nbut with this fencing of Pantagruel's Loupgarou lost his head, which\nhappened when Pantagruel struck down one whose name was Riflandouille, or\nPudding-plunderer, who was armed cap-a-pie with Grison stones, one chip\nwhereof splintering abroad cut off Epistemon's neck clean and fair.  For\notherwise the most part of them were but lightly armed with a kind of sandy\nbrittle stone, and the rest with slates.  At last, when he saw that they\nwere all dead, he threw the body of Loupgarou as hard as he could against\nthe city, where falling like a frog upon his belly in the great Piazza\nthereof, he with the said fall killed a singed he-cat, a wet she-cat, a\nfarting duck, and a bridled goose.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Epistemon, who had his head cut off, was finely healed by Panurge, and\nof the news which he brought from the devils, and of the damned people in\nhell.\n\nThis gigantal victory being ended, Pantagruel withdrew himself to the place\nof the flagons, and called for Panurge and the rest, who came unto him safe\nand sound, except Eusthenes, whom one of the giants had scratched a little\nin the face whilst he was about the cutting of his throat, and Epistemon,\nwho appeared not at all.  Whereat Pantagruel was so aggrieved that he would\nhave killed himself.  But Panurge said unto him, Nay, sir, stay a while,\nand we will search for him amongst the dead, and find out the truth of all.\nThus as they went seeking after him, they found him stark dead, with his\nhead between his arms all bloody.  Then Eusthenes cried out, Ah, cruel\ndeath! hast thou taken from me the perfectest amongst men?  At which words\nPantagruel rose up with the greatest grief that ever any man did see, and\nsaid to Panurge, Ha, my friend! the prophecy of your two glasses and the\njavelin staff was a great deal too deceitful.  But Panurge answered, My\ndear bullies all, weep not one drop more, for, he being yet all hot, I will\nmake him as sound as ever he was.  In saying this, he took the head and\nheld it warm foregainst his codpiece, that the wind might not enter into\nit.  Eusthenes and Carpalin carried the body to the place where they had\nbanqueted, not out of any hope that ever he would recover, but that\nPantagruel might see it.\n\nNevertheless Panurge gave him very good comfort, saying, If I do not heal\nhim, I will be content to lose my head, which is a fool's wager.  Leave\noff, therefore, crying, and help me.  Then cleansed he his neck very well\nwith pure white wine, and, after that, took his head, and into it synapised\nsome powder of diamerdis, which he always carried about him in one of his\nbags.  Afterwards he anointed it with I know not what ointment, and set it\non very just, vein against vein, sinew against sinew, and spondyle against\nspondyle, that he might not be wry-necked--for such people he mortally\nhated.  This done, he gave it round about some fifteen or sixteen stitches\nwith a needle that it might not fall off again; then, on all sides and\neverywhere, he put a little ointment on it, which he called resuscitative.\n\nSuddenly Epistemon began to breathe, then opened his eyes, yawned, sneezed,\nand afterwards let a great household fart.  Whereupon Panurge said, Now,\ncertainly, he is healed,--and therefore gave him to drink a large full\nglass of strong white wine, with a sugared toast.  In this fashion was\nEpistemon finely healed, only that he was somewhat hoarse for above three\nweeks together, and had a dry cough of which he could not be rid but by the\nforce of continual drinking.  And now he began to speak, and said that he\nhad seen the devil, had spoken with Lucifer familiarly, and had been very\nmerry in hell and in the Elysian fields, affirming very seriously before\nthem all that the devils were boon companions and merry fellows.  But, in\nrespect of the damned, he said he was very sorry that Panurge had so soon\ncalled him back into this world again; for, said he, I took wonderful\ndelight to see them.  How so? said Pantagruel.  Because they do not use\nthem there, said Epistemon, so badly as you think they do.  Their estate\nand condition of living is but only changed after a very strange manner;\nfor I saw Alexander the Great there amending and patching on clouts upon\nold breeches and stockings, whereby he got but a very poor living.\n\nXerxes was a crier of mustard.\nRomulus, a salter and patcher of pattens.\nNuma, a nailsmith.\nTarquin, a porter.\nPiso, a clownish swain.\nSylla, a ferryman.\nCyrus, a cowherd.\nThemistocles, a glass-maker.\nEpaminondas, a maker of mirrors or looking-glasses.\nBrutus and Cassius, surveyors or measurers of land.\nDemosthenes, a vine-dresser.\nCicero, a fire-kindler.\nFabius, a threader of beads.\nArtaxerxes, a rope-maker.\nAeneas, a miller.\nAchilles was a scaldpated maker of hay-bundles.\nAgamemnon, a lick-box.\nUlysses, a hay-mower.\nNestor, a door-keeper or forester.\nDarius, a gold-finder or jakes-farmer.\nAncus Martius, a ship-trimmer.\nCamillus, a foot-post.\nMarcellus, a sheller of beans.\nDrusus, a taker of money at the doors of playhouses.\nScipio Africanus, a crier of lee in a wooden slipper.\nAsdrubal, a lantern-maker.\nHannibal, a kettlemaker and seller of eggshells.\nPriamus, a seller of old clouts.\nLancelot of the Lake was a flayer of dead horses.\n\nAll the Knights of the Round Table were poor day-labourers, employed to row\nover the rivers of Cocytus, Phlegeton, Styx, Acheron, and Lethe, when my\nlords the devils had a mind to recreate themselves upon the water, as in\nthe like occasion are hired the boatmen at Lyons, the gondoliers of Venice,\nand oars at London.  But with this difference, that these poor knights have\nonly for their fare a bob or flirt on the nose, and in the evening a morsel\nof coarse mouldy bread.\n\nTrajan was a fisher of frogs.\nAntoninus, a lackey.\nCommodus, a jet-maker.\nPertinax, a peeler of walnuts.\nLucullus, a maker of rattles and hawks'-bells.\nJustinian, a pedlar.\nHector, a snap-sauce scullion.\nParis was a poor beggar.\nCambyses, a mule-driver.\n\nNero, a base blind fiddler, or player on that instrument which is called a\nwindbroach.  Fierabras was his serving-man, who did him a thousand\nmischievous tricks, and would make him eat of the brown bread and drink of\nthe turned wine when himself did both eat and drink of the best.\n\nJulius Caesar and Pompey were boat-wrights and tighters of ships.\n\nValentine and Orson did serve in the stoves of hell, and were sweat-rubbers\nin hot houses.\n\nGiglan and Govian (Gauvin) were poor swineherds.\n\nGeoffrey with the great tooth was a tinder-maker and seller of matches.\n\nGodfrey de Bouillon, a hood-maker.\nJason was a bracelet-maker.\nDon Pietro de Castille, a carrier of indulgences.\nMorgan, a beer-brewer.\nHuon of Bordeaux, a hooper of barrels.\nPyrrhus, a kitchen-scullion.\nAntiochus, a chimney-sweeper.\nOctavian, a scraper of parchment.\nNerva, a mariner.\n\nPope Julius was a crier of pudding-pies, but he left off wearing there his\ngreat buggerly beard.\n\nJohn of Paris was a greaser of boots.\nArthur of Britain, an ungreaser of caps.\nPerce-Forest, a carrier of faggots.\nPope Boniface the Eighth, a scummer of pots.\nPope Nicholas the Third, a maker of paper.\nPope Alexander, a ratcatcher.\nPope Sixtus, an anointer of those that have the pox.\n\nWhat, said Pantagruel, have they the pox there too?  Surely, said\nEpistemon, I never saw so many:  there are there, I think, above a hundred\nmillions; for believe, that those who have not had the pox in this world\nmust have it in the other.\n\nCotsbody, said Panurge, then I am free; for I have been as far as the hole\nof Gibraltar, reached unto the outmost bounds of Hercules, and gathered of\nthe ripest.\n\nOgier the Dane was a furbisher of armour.\nThe King Tigranes, a mender of thatched houses.\nGalien Restored, a taker of moldwarps.\nThe four sons of Aymon were all toothdrawers.\nPope Calixtus was a barber of a woman's sine qua non.\nPope Urban, a bacon-picker.\nMelusina was a kitchen drudge-wench.\nMatabrune, a laundress.\nCleopatra, a crier of onions.\nHelen, a broker for chambermaids.\nSemiramis, the beggars' lice-killer.\nDido did sell mushrooms.\nPenthesilea sold cresses.\nLucretia was an alehouse-keeper.\nHortensia, a spinstress.\nLivia, a grater of verdigris.\n\nAfter this manner, those that had been great lords and ladies here, got but\na poor scurvy wretched living there below.  And, on the contrary, the\nphilosophers and others, who in this world had been altogether indigent and\nwanting, were great lords there in their turn.  I saw Diogenes there strut\nit out most pompously, and in great magnificence, with a rich purple gown\non him, and a golden sceptre in his right hand.  And, which is more, he\nwould now and then make Alexander the Great mad, so enormously would he\nabuse him when he had not well patched his breeches; for he used to pay his\nskin with sound bastinadoes.  I saw Epictetus there, most gallantly\napparelled after the French fashion, sitting under a pleasant arbour, with\nstore of handsome gentlewomen, frolicking, drinking, dancing, and making\ngood cheer, with abundance of crowns of the sun.  Above the lattice were\nwritten these verses for his device:\n\n  To leap and dance, to sport and play,\n    And drink good wine both white and brown,\n  Or nothing else do all the day\n    But tell bags full of many a crown.\n\nWhen he saw me, he invited me to drink with him very courteously, and I\nbeing willing to be entreated, we tippled and chopined together most\ntheologically.  In the meantime came Cyrus to beg one farthing of him for\nthe honour of Mercury, therewith to buy a few onions for his supper.  No,\nno, said Epictetus, I do not use in my almsgiving to bestow farthings.\nHold, thou varlet, there's a crown for thee; be an honest man.  Cyrus was\nexceeding glad to have met with such a booty; but the other poor rogues,\nthe kings that are there below, as Alexander, Darius, and others, stole it\naway from him by night.  I saw Pathelin, the treasurer of Rhadamanthus,\nwho, in cheapening the pudding-pies that Pope Julius cried, asked him how\nmuch a dozen.  Three blanks, said the Pope.  Nay, said Pathelin, three\nblows with a cudgel.  Lay them down here, you rascal, and go fetch more.\nThe poor Pope went away weeping, who, when he came to his master, the\npie-maker, told him that they had taken away his pudding-pies.  Whereupon\nhis master gave him such a sound lash with an eel-skin, that his own would\nhave been worth nothing to make bag-pipe-bags of.  I saw Master John Le\nMaire there personate the Pope in such fashion that he made all the poor\nkings and popes of this world kiss his feet, and, taking great state upon\nhim, gave them his benediction, saying, Get the pardons, rogues, get the\npardons; they are good cheap.  I absolve you of bread and pottage, and\ndispense with you to be never good for anything.  Then, calling Caillet and\nTriboulet to him, he spoke these words, My lords the cardinals, despatch\ntheir bulls, to wit, to each of them a blow with a cudgel upon the reins.\nWhich accordingly was forthwith performed.  I heard Master Francis Villon\nask Xerxes, How much the mess of mustard?  A farthing, said Xerxes.  To\nwhich the said Villon answered, The pox take thee for a villain!  As much of\nsquare-eared wheat is not worth half that price, and now thou offerest to\nenhance the price of victuals.  With this he pissed in his pot, as the\nmustard-makers of Paris used to do.  I saw the trained bowman of the bathing\ntub, known by the name of the Francarcher de Baignolet, who, being one of\nthe trustees of the Inquisition, when he saw Perce-Forest making water\nagainst a wall in which was painted the fire of St. Anthony, declared him\nheretic, and would have caused him to be burnt alive had it not been for\nMorgant, who, for his proficiat and other small fees, gave him nine tuns of\nbeer.\n\nWell, said Pantagruel, reserve all these fair stories for another time,\nonly tell us how the usurers are there handled.  I saw them, said\nEpistemon, all very busily employed in seeking of rusty pins and old nails\nin the kennels of the streets, as you see poor wretched rogues do in this\nworld.  But the quintal, or hundredweight, of this old ironware is there\nvalued but at the price of a cantle of bread, and yet they have but a very\nbad despatch and riddance in the sale of it.  Thus the poor misers are\nsometimes three whole weeks without eating one morsel or crumb of bread,\nand yet work both day and night, looking for the fair to come.\nNevertheless, of all this labour, toil, and misery, they reckon nothing, so\ncursedly active they are in the prosecution of that their base calling, in\nhopes, at the end of the year, to earn some scurvy penny by it.\n\nCome, said Pantagruel, let us now make ourselves merry one bout, and drink,\nmy lads, I beseech you, for it is very good drinking all this month.  Then\ndid they uncase their flagons by heaps and dozens, and with their\nleaguer-provision made excellent good cheer.  But the poor King Anarchus\ncould not all this while settle himself towards any fit of mirth; whereupon\nPanurge said, Of what trade shall we make my lord the king here, that he may\nbe skilful in the art when he goes thither to sojourn amongst all the devils\nof hell?  Indeed, said Pantagruel, that was well advised of thee.  Do with\nhim what thou wilt, I give him to thee.  Gramercy, said Panurge, the present\nis not to be refused, and I love it from you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel entered into the city of the Amaurots, and how Panurge\nmarried King Anarchus to an old lantern-carrying hag, and made him a crier\nof green sauce.\n\nAfter this wonderful victory, Pantagruel sent Carpalin unto the city of the\nAmaurots to declare and signify unto them how the King Anarchus was taken\nprisoner and all the enemies of the city overthrown.  Which news when they\nheard all the inhabitants of the city came forth to meet him in good order,\nand with a great triumphant pomp, conducting him with a heavenly joy into\nthe city, where innumerable bonfires were set on through all the parts\nthereof, and fair round tables, which were furnished with store of good\nvictuals, set out in the middle of the streets.  This was a renewing of the\ngolden age in the time of Saturn, so good was the cheer which then they\nmade.\n\nBut Pantagruel, having assembled the whole senate and common councilmen of\nthe town, said, My masters, we must now strike the iron whilst it is hot.\nIt is therefore my will that, before we frolic it any longer, we advise how\nto assault and take the whole kingdom of the Dipsodes.  To which effect let\nthose that will go with me provide themselves against to-morrow after\ndrinking, for then will I begin to march.  Not that I need any more men\nthan I have to help me to conquer it, for I could make it as sure that way\nas if I had it already; but I see this city is so full of inhabitants that\nthey scarce can turn in the streets.  I will, therefore, carry them as a\ncolony into Dipsody, and will give them all that country, which is fair,\nwealthy, fruitful, and pleasant, above all other countries in the world, as\nmany of you can tell who have been there heretofore.  Everyone of you,\ntherefore, that will go along, let him provide himself as I have said.\nThis counsel and resolution being published in the city, the next morning\nthere assembled in the piazza before the palace to the number of eighteen\nhundred fifty-six thousand and eleven, besides women and little children.\nThus began they to march straight into Dipsody, in such good order as did\nthe people of Israel when they departed out of Egypt to pass over the Red\nSea.\n\nBut before we proceed any further in this purpose, I will tell you how\nPanurge handled his prisoner the King Anarchus; for, having remembered that\nwhich Epistemon had related, how the kings and rich men in this world were\nused in the Elysian fields, and how they got their living there by base and\nignoble trades, he, therefore, one day apparelled his king in a pretty\nlittle canvas doublet, all jagged and pinked like the tippet of a light\nhorseman's cap, together with a pair of large mariner's breeches, and\nstockings without shoes,--For, said he, they would but spoil his sight,\n--and a little peach-coloured bonnet with a great capon's feather in it--I\nlie, for I think he had two--and a very handsome girdle of a sky-colour and\ngreen (in French called pers et vert), saying that such a livery did become\nhim well, for that he had always been perverse, and in this plight bringing\nhim before Pantagruel, said unto him, Do you know this roister?  No,\nindeed, said Pantagruel.  It is, said Panurge, my lord the king of the\nthree batches, or threadbare sovereign.  I intend to make him an honest\nman.  These devilish kings which we have here are but as so many calves;\nthey know nothing and are good for nothing but to do a thousand mischiefs\nto their poor subjects, and to trouble all the world with war for their\nunjust and detestable pleasure.  I will put him to a trade, and make him a\ncrier of green sauce.  Go to, begin and cry, Do you lack any green sauce?\nand the poor devil cried.  That is too low, said Panurge; then took him by\nthe ear, saying, Sing higher in Ge, sol, re, ut.  So, so poor devil, thou\nhast a good throat; thou wert never so happy as to be no longer king.  And\nPantagruel made himself merry with all this; for I dare boldly say that he\nwas the best little gaffer that was to be seen between this and the end of\na staff.  Thus was Anarchus made a good crier of green sauce.  Two days\nthereafter Panurge married him with an old lantern-carrying hag, and he\nhimself made the wedding with fine sheep's heads, brave haslets with\nmustard, gallant salligots with garlic, of which he sent five horseloads\nunto Pantagruel, which he ate up all, he found them so appetizing.\nAnd for their drink they had a kind of small well-watered wine, and some\nsorbapple-cider.  And, to make them dance, he hired a blind man that\nmade music to them with a wind-broach.\n\nAfter dinner he led them to the palace and showed them to Pantagruel, and\nsaid, pointing to the married woman, You need not fear that she will crack.\nWhy? said Pantagruel.  Because, said Panurge, she is well slit and broke up\nalready.  What do you mean by that? said Pantagruel.  Do not you see, said\nPanurge, that the chestnuts which are roasted in the fire, if they be whole\nthey crack as if they were mad, and, to keep them from cracking, they make\nan incision in them and slit them?  So this new bride is in her lower parts\nwell slit before, and therefore will not crack behind.\n\nPantagruel gave them a little lodge near the lower street and a mortar of\nstone wherein to bray and pound their sauce, and in this manner did they do\ntheir little business, he being as pretty a crier of green sauce as ever\nwas seen in the country of Utopia.  But I have been told since that his\nwife doth beat him like plaister, and the poor sot dare not defend himself,\nhe is so simple.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel with his tongue covered a whole army, and what the author\nsaw in his mouth.\n\nThus, as Pantagruel with all his army had entered into the country of the\nDipsodes, everyone was glad of it, and incontinently rendered themselves\nunto him, bringing him out of their own good wills the keys of all the\ncities where he went, the Almirods only excepted, who, being resolved to\nhold out against him, made answer to his heralds that they would not yield\nbut upon very honourable and good conditions.\n\nWhat! said Pantagruel, do they ask any better terms than the hand at the\npot and the glass in their fist?  Come, let us go sack them, and put them\nall to the sword.  Then did they put themselves in good order, as being\nfully determined to give an assault, but by the way, passing through a\nlarge field, they were overtaken with a great shower of rain, whereat they\nbegan to shiver and tremble, to crowd, press, and thrust close to one\nanother.  When Pantagruel saw that, he made their captains tell them that\nit was nothing, and that he saw well above the clouds that it would be\nnothing but a little dew; but, howsoever, that they should put themselves\nin order, and he would cover them.  Then did they put themselves in a close\norder, and stood as near to (each) other as they could, and Pantagruel drew\nout his tongue only half-way and covered them all, as a hen doth her\nchickens.  In the meantime, I, who relate to you these so veritable\nstories, hid myself under a burdock-leaf, which was not much less in\nlargeness than the arch of the bridge of Montrible, but when I saw them\nthus covered, I went towards them to shelter myself likewise; which I could\nnot do, for that they were so, as the saying is, At the yard's end there is\nno cloth left.  Then, as well as I could, I got upon it, and went along\nfull two leagues upon his tongue, and so long marched that at last I came\ninto his mouth.  But, O gods and goddesses! what did I see there?  Jupiter\nconfound me with his trisulc lightning if I lie!  I walked there as they do\nin Sophia (at) Constantinople, and saw there great rocks, like the\nmountains in Denmark--I believe that those were his teeth.  I saw also fair\nmeadows, large forests, great and strong cities not a jot less than Lyons\nor Poictiers.  The first man I met with there was a good honest fellow\nplanting coleworts, whereat being very much amazed, I asked him, My friend,\nwhat dost thou make here?  I plant coleworts, said he.  But how, and\nwherewith? said I.  Ha, sir, said he, everyone cannot have his ballocks as\nheavy as a mortar, neither can we be all rich.  Thus do I get my poor\nliving, and carry them to the market to sell in the city which is here\nbehind.  Jesus! said I, is there here a new world?  Sure, said he, it is\nnever a jot new, but it is commonly reported that, without this, there is\nan earth, whereof the inhabitants enjoy the light of a sun and a moon, and\nthat it is full of and replenished with very good commodities; but yet this\nis more ancient than that.  Yea but, said I, my friend, what is the name of\nthat city whither thou carriest thy coleworts to sell?  It is called\nAspharage, said he, and all the indwellers are Christians, very honest men,\nand will make you good cheer.  To be brief, I resolved to go thither.  Now,\nin my way, I met with a fellow that was lying in wait to catch pigeons, of\nwhom I asked, My friend, from whence come these pigeons?  Sir, said he,\nthey come from the other world.  Then I thought that, when Pantagruel\nyawned, the pigeons went into his mouth in whole flocks, thinking that it\nhad been a pigeon-house.\n\nThen I went into the city, which I found fair, very strong, and seated in a\ngood air; but at my entry the guard demanded of me my pass or ticket.\nWhereat I was much astonished, and asked them, My masters, is there any\ndanger of the plague here?  O Lord! said they, they die hard by here so\nfast that the cart runs about the streets.  Good God! said I, and where?\nWhereunto they answered that it was in Larynx and Pharynx, which are two\ngreat cities such as Rouen and Nantes, rich and of great trading.  And the\ncause of the plague was by a stinking and infectious exhalation which\nlately vapoured out of the abysms, whereof there have died above two and\ntwenty hundred and threescore thousand and sixteen persons within this\nsevennight.  Then I considered, calculated, and found that it was a rank\nand unsavoury breathing which came out of Pantagruel's stomach when he did\neat so much garlic, as we have aforesaid.\n\nParting from thence, I passed amongst the rocks, which were his teeth, and\nnever left walking till I got up on one of them; and there I found the\npleasantest places in the world, great large tennis-courts, fair galleries,\nsweet meadows, store of vines, and an infinite number of banqueting summer\nouthouses in the fields, after the Italian fashion, full of pleasure and\ndelight, where I stayed full four months, and never made better cheer in my\nlife as then.  After that I went down by the hinder teeth to come to the\nchaps.  But in the way I was robbed by thieves in a great forest that is in\nthe territory towards the ears.  Then, after a little further travelling, I\nfell upon a pretty petty village--truly I have forgot the name of it--where\nI was yet merrier than ever, and got some certain money to live by.  Can\nyou tell how?  By sleeping.  For there they hire men by the day to sleep,\nand they get by it sixpence a day, but they that can snort hard get at\nleast ninepence.  How I had been robbed in the valley I informed the\nsenators, who told me that, in very truth, the people of that side were bad\nlivers and naturally thievish, whereby I perceived well that, as we have\nwith us the countries Cisalpine and Transalpine, that is, behither and\nbeyond the mountains, so have they there the countries Cidentine and\nTradentine, that is, behither and beyond the teeth.  But it is far better\nliving on this side, and the air is purer.  Then I began to think that it\nis very true which is commonly said, that the one half of the world knoweth\nnot how the other half liveth; seeing none before myself had ever written\nof that country, wherein are above five-and-twenty kingdoms inhabited,\nbesides deserts, and a great arm of the sea.  Concerning which purpose I\nhave composed a great book, entitled, The History of the Throttias, because\nthey dwell in the throat of my master Pantagruel.\n\nAt last I was willing to return, and, passing by his beard, I cast myself\nupon his shoulders, and from thence slid down to the ground, and fell\nbefore him.  As soon as I was perceived by him, he asked me, Whence comest\nthou, Alcofribas?  I answered him, Out of your mouth, my lord.  And how\nlong hast thou been there? said he.  Since the time, said I, that you went\nagainst the Almirods.  That is about six months ago, said he.  And\nwherewith didst thou live?  What didst thou drink?  I answered, My lord, of\nthe same that you did, and of the daintiest morsels that passed through\nyour throat I took toll.  Yea but, said he, where didst thou shite?  In\nyour throat, my lord, said I.  Ha, ha! thou art a merry fellow, said he.\nWe have with the help of God conquered all the land of the Dipsodes; I will\ngive thee the Chastelleine, or Lairdship of Salmigondin.  Gramercy, my\nlord, said I, you gratify me beyond all that I have deserved of you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel became sick, and the manner how he was recovered.\n\nA while after this the good Pantagruel fell sick, and had such an\nobstruction in his stomach that he could neither eat nor drink; and,\nbecause mischief seldom comes alone, a hot piss seized on him, which\ntormented him more than you would believe.  His physicians nevertheless\nhelped him very well, and with store of lenitives and diuretic drugs made\nhim piss away his pain.  His urine was so hot that since that time it is\nnot yet cold, and you have of it in divers places of France, according to\nthe course that it took, and they are called the hot baths, as--\n\n    At Coderets.\n    At Limous.\n    At Dast.\n    At Ballervie (Balleruc).\n    At Neric.\n  At Bourbonansie, and elsewhere in Italy.\n    At Mongros.\n    At Appone.\n  At Sancto Petro de Padua.\n    At St. Helen.\n    At Casa Nuova.\n  At St. Bartholomew, in the county of Boulogne.\n  At the Porrette, and a thousand other places.\n\nAnd I wonder much at a rabble of foolish philosophers and physicians, who\nspend their time in disputing whence the heat of the said waters cometh,\nwhether it be by reason of borax, or sulphur, or alum, or saltpetre, that\nis within the mine.  For they do nothing but dote, and better were it for\nthem to rub their arse against a thistle than to waste away their time thus\nin disputing of that whereof they know not the original; for the resolution\nis easy, neither need we to inquire any further than that the said baths\ncame by a hot piss of the good Pantagruel.\n\nNow to tell you after what manner he was cured of his principal disease.  I\nlet pass how for a minorative or gentle potion he took four hundred pound\nweight of colophoniac scammony, six score and eighteen cartloads of cassia,\nan eleven thousand and nine hundred pound weight of rhubarb, besides other\nconfuse jumblings of sundry drugs.  You must understand that by the advice\nof the physicians it was ordained that what did offend his stomach should\nbe taken away; and therefore they made seventeen great balls of copper,\neach whereof was bigger than that which is to be seen on the top of St.\nPeter's needle at Rome, and in such sort that they did open in the midst\nand shut with a spring.  Into one of them entered one of his men carrying a\nlantern and a torch lighted, and so Pantagruel swallowed him down like a\nlittle pill.  Into seven others went seven country-fellows, having every\none of them a shovel on his neck.  Into nine others entered nine\nwood-carriers, having each of them a basket hung at his neck, and so were\nthey swallowed down like pills.  When they were in his stomach, every one\nundid his spring, and came out of their cabins.  The first whereof was he\nthat carried the lantern, and so they fell more than half a league into a\nmost horrible gulf, more stinking and infectious than ever was Mephitis, or\nthe marshes of the Camerina, or the abominably unsavoury lake of Sorbona,\nwhereof Strabo maketh mention.  And had it not been that they had very well\nantidoted their stomach, heart, and wine-pot, which is called the noddle,\nthey had been altogether suffocated and choked with these detestable\nvapours.  O what a perfume!  O what an evaporation wherewith to bewray the\nmasks or mufflers of young mangy queans.  After that, with groping and\nsmelling they came near to the faecal matter and the corrupted humours.\nFinally, they found a montjoy or heap of ordure and filth.  Then fell the\npioneers to work to dig it up, and the rest with their shovels filled the\nbaskets; and when all was cleansed every one retired himself into his ball.\n\nThis done, Pantagruel enforcing himself to vomit, very easily brought them\nout, and they made no more show in his mouth than a fart in yours.  But,\nwhen they came merrily out of their pills, I thought upon the Grecians\ncoming out of the Trojan horse.  By this means was he healed and brought\nunto his former state and convalescence; and of these brazen pills, or\nrather copper balls, you have one at Orleans, upon the steeple of the Holy\nCross Church.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe conclusion of this present book, and the excuse of the author.\n\nNow, my masters, you have heard a beginning of the horrific history of my\nlord and master Pantagruel.  Here will I make an end of the first book.  My\nhead aches a little, and I perceive that the registers of my brain are\nsomewhat jumbled and disordered with this Septembral juice.  You shall have\nthe rest of the history at Frankfort mart next coming, and there shall you\nsee how Panurge was married and made a cuckold within a month after his\nwedding; how Pantagruel found out the philosopher's stone, the manner how\nhe found it, and the way how to use it; how he passed over the Caspian\nmountains, and how he sailed through the Atlantic sea, defeated the\nCannibals, and conquered the isles of Pearls; how he married the daughter\nof the King of India, called Presthan; how he fought against the devil and\nburnt up five chambers of hell, ransacked the great black chamber, threw\nProserpina into the fire, broke five teeth to Lucifer, and the horn that\nwas in his arse; how he visited the regions of the moon to know whether\nindeed the moon were not entire and whole, or if the women had three\nquarters of it in their heads, and a thousand other little merriments all\nveritable.  These are brave things truly.  Good night, gentlemen.\nPerdonate mi, and think not so much upon my faults that you forget your\nown.\n\nIf you say to me, Master, it would seem that you were not very wise in\nwriting to us these flimflam stories and pleasant fooleries; I answer you,\nthat you are not much wiser to spend your time in reading them.\nNevertheless, if you read them to make yourselves merry, as in manner of\npastime I wrote them, you and I both are far more worthy of pardon than a\ngreat rabble of squint-minded fellows, dissembling and counterfeit saints,\ndemure lookers, hypocrites, pretended zealots, tough friars, buskin-monks,\nand other such sects of men, who disguise themselves like masquers to\ndeceive the world.  For, whilst they give the common people to understand\nthat they are busied about nothing but contemplation and devotion in\nfastings and maceration of their sensuality--and that only to sustain and\naliment the small frailty of their humanity--it is so far otherwise that,\non the contrary, God knows what cheer they make; Et Curios simulant, sed\nBacchanalia vivunt.  You may read it in great letters in the colouring of\ntheir red snouts, and gulching bellies as big as a tun, unless it be when\nthey perfume themselves with sulphur.  As for their study, it is wholly\ntaken up in reading of Pantagruelian books, not so much to pass the time\nmerrily as to hurt someone or other mischievously, to wit, in articling,\nsole-articling, wry-neckifying, buttock-stirring, ballocking, and\ndiabliculating, that is, calumniating.  Wherein they are like unto the poor\nrogues of a village that are busy in stirring up and scraping in the ordure\nand filth of little children, in the season of cherries and guinds, and\nthat only to find the kernels, that they may sell them to the druggists to\nmake thereof pomander oil.  Fly from these men, abhor and hate them as much\nas I do, and upon my faith you will find yourselves the better for it.  And\nif you desire to be good Pantagruelists, that is to say, to live in peace,\njoy, health, making yourselves always merry, never trust those men that\nalways peep out at one hole.\n\nEnd of Book II.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK III.\n\n\nTHE THIRD BOOK\n\n\nFrancois Rabelais to the Soul of the Deceased Queen of Navarre.\n\n  Abstracted soul, ravished with ecstasies,\n  Gone back, and now familiar in the skies,\n  Thy former host, thy body, leaving quite,\n  Which to obey thee always took delight,--\n  Obsequious, ready,--now from motion free,\n  Senseless, and as it were in apathy,\n  Wouldst thou not issue forth for a short space,\n  From that divine, eternal, heavenly place,\n  To see the third part, in this earthy cell,\n  Of the brave acts of good Pantagruel?\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Author's Prologue.\n\nGood people, most illustrious drinkers, and you, thrice precious gouty\ngentlemen, did you ever see Diogenes, and cynic philosopher?  If you have\nseen him, you then had your eyes in your head, or I am very much out of my\nunderstanding and logical sense.  It is a gallant thing to see the\nclearness of (wine, gold,) the sun.  I'll be judged by the blind born so\nrenowned in the sacred Scriptures, who, having at his choice to ask\nwhatever he would from him who is Almighty, and whose word in an instant is\neffectually performed, asked nothing else but that he might see.  Item, you\nare not young, which is a competent quality for you to philosophate more\nthan physically in wine, not in vain, and henceforwards to be of the\nBacchic Council; to the end that, opining there, you may give your opinion\nfaithfully of the substance, colour, excellent odour, eminency, propriety,\nfaculty, virtue, and effectual dignity of the said blessed and desired\nliquor.\n\nIf you have not seen him, as I am easily induced to believe that you have\nnot, at least you have heard some talk of him.  For through the air, and\nthe whole extent of this hemisphere of the heavens, hath his report and\nfame, even until this present time, remained very memorable and renowned.\nThen all of you are derived from the Phrygian blood, if I be not deceived.\nIf you have not so many crowns as Midas had, yet have you something, I know\nnot what, of him, which the Persians of old esteemed more of in all their\notacusts, and which was more desired by the Emperor Antonine, and gave\noccasion thereafter to the Basilico at Rohan to be surnamed Goodly Ears.\nIf you have not heard of him, I will presently tell you a story to make\nyour wine relish.  Drink then,--so, to the purpose.  Hearken now whilst I\ngive you notice, to the end that you may not, like infidels, be by your\nsimplicity abused, that in his time he was a rare philosopher and the\ncheerfullest of a thousand.  If he had some imperfection, so have you, so\nhave we; for there is nothing, but God, that is perfect.  Yet so it was,\nthat by Alexander the Great, although he had Aristotle for his instructor\nand domestic, was he held in such estimation, that he wished, if he had not\nbeen Alexander, to have been Diogenes the Sinopian.\n\nWhen Philip, King of Macedon, enterprised the siege and ruin of Corinth,\nthe Corinthians having received certain intelligence by their spies that he\nwith a numerous army in battle-rank was coming against them, were all of\nthem, not without cause, most terribly afraid; and therefore were not\nneglective of their duty in doing their best endeavours to put themselves\nin a fit posture to resist his hostile approach and defend their own city.\n\nSome from the fields brought into the fortified places their movables,\nbestial, corn, wine, fruit, victuals, and other necessary provision.\n\nOthers did fortify and rampire their walls, set up little fortresses,\nbastions, squared ravelins, digged trenches, cleansed countermines, fenced\nthemselves with gabions, contrived platforms, emptied casemates, barricaded\nthe false brays, erected the cavaliers, repaired the counterscarps,\nplastered the curtains, lengthened ravelins, stopped parapets, morticed\nbarbacans, assured the portcullises, fastened the herses, sarasinesques,\nand cataracts, placed their sentries, and doubled their patrol.  Everyone\ndid watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying the basket.\nSome polished corslets, varnished backs and breasts, cleaned the\nheadpieces, mail-coats, brigandines, salads, helmets, morions, jacks,\ngushets, gorgets, hoguines, brassars, and cuissars, corslets, haubergeons,\nshields, bucklers, targets, greaves, gauntlets, and spurs.  Others made\nready bows, slings, crossbows, pellets, catapults, migrains or fire-balls,\nfirebrands, balists, scorpions, and other such warlike engines expugnatory\nand destructive to the Hellepolides.  They sharpened and prepared spears,\nstaves, pikes, brown bills, halberds, long hooks, lances, zagayes,\nquarterstaves, eelspears, partisans, troutstaves, clubs, battle-axes,\nmaces, darts, dartlets, glaives, javelins, javelots, and truncheons.  They\nset edges upon scimitars, cutlasses, badelairs, backswords, tucks, rapiers,\nbayonets, arrow-heads, dags, daggers, mandousians, poniards, whinyards,\nknives, skeans, shables, chipping knives, and raillons.\n\nEvery man exercised his weapon, every man scoured off the rust from his\nnatural hanger; nor was there a woman amongst them, though never so\nreserved or old, who made not her harness to be well furbished; as you know\nthe Corinthian women of old were reputed very courageous combatants.\n\nDiogenes seeing them all so warm at work, and himself not employed by the\nmagistrates in any business whatsoever, he did very seriously, for many\ndays together, without speaking one word, consider and contemplate the\ncountenance of his fellow-citizens.\n\nThen on a sudden, as if he had been roused up and inspired by a martial\nspirit, he girded his cloak scarfwise about his left arm, tucked up his\nsleeves to the elbow, trussed himself like a clown gathering apples, and,\ngiving to one of his old acquaintance his wallet, books, and opistographs,\naway went he out of town towards a little hill or promontory of Corinth\ncalled (the) Cranie; and there on the strand, a pretty level place, did he\nroll his jolly tub, which served him for a house to shelter him from the\ninjuries of the weather:  there, I say, in a great vehemency of spirit, did\nhe turn it, veer it, wheel it, whirl it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it,\nhuddle it, tumble it, hurry it, jolt it, justle it, overthrow it, evert it,\ninvert it, subvert it, overturn it, beat it, thwack it, bump it, batter it,\nknock it, thrust it, push it, jerk it, shock it, shake it, toss it, throw\nit, overthrow it, upside down, topsy-turvy, arsiturvy, tread it, trample\nit, stamp it, tap it, ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it,\nresound it, stop it, shut it, unbung it, close it, unstopple it.  And then\nagain in a mighty bustle he bandied it, slubbered it, hacked it, whittled\nit, wayed it, darted it, hurled it, staggered it, reeled it, swinged it,\nbrangled it, tottered it, lifted it, heaved it, transformed it,\ntransfigured it, transposed it, transplaced it, reared it, raised it,\nhoised it, washed it, dighted it, cleansed it, rinsed it, nailed it,\nsettled it, fastened it, shackled it, fettered it, levelled it, blocked it,\ntugged it, tewed it, carried it, bedashed it, bewrayed it, parched it,\nmounted it, broached it, nicked it, notched it, bespattered it, decked it,\nadorned it, trimmed it, garnished it, gauged it, furnished it, bored it,\npierced it, trapped it, rumbled it, slid it down the hill, and precipitated\nit from the very height of the Cranie; then from the foot to the top (like\nanother Sisyphus with his stone) bore it up again, and every way so banged\nit and belaboured it that it was ten thousand to one he had not struck the\nbottom of it out.\n\nWhich when one of his friends had seen, and asked him why he did so toil\nhis body, perplex his spirit, and torment his tub, the philosopher's answer\nwas that, not being employed in any other charge by the Republic, he\nthought it expedient to thunder and storm it so tempestuously upon his tub,\nthat amongst a people so fervently busy and earnest at work he alone might\nnot seem a loitering slug and lazy fellow.  To the same purpose may I say\nof myself,\n\n  Though I be rid from fear,\n  I am not void of care.\n\nFor, perceiving no account to be made of me towards the discharge of a\ntrust of any great concernment, and considering that through all the parts\nof this most noble kingdom of France, both on this and on the other side of\nthe mountains, everyone is most diligently exercised and busied, some in\nthe fortifying of their own native country for its defence, others in the\nrepulsing of their enemies by an offensive war; and all this with a policy\nso excellent and such admirable order, so manifestly profitable for the\nfuture, whereby France shall have its frontiers most magnifically enlarged,\nand the French assured of a long and well-grounded peace, that very little\nwithholds me from the opinion of good Heraclitus, which affirmeth war to be\nthe father of all good things; and therefore do I believe that war is in\nLatin called bellum, not by antiphrasis, as some patchers of old rusty\nLatin would have us to think, because in war there is little beauty to be\nseen, but absolutely and simply; for that in war appeareth all that is good\nand graceful, and that by the wars is purged out all manner of wickedness\nand deformity.  For proof whereof the wise and pacific Solomon could no\nbetter represent the unspeakable perfection of the divine wisdom, than by\ncomparing it to the due disposure and ranking of an army in battle array,\nwell provided and ordered.\n\nTherefore, by reason of my weakness and inability, being reputed by my\ncompatriots unfit for the offensive part of warfare; and on the other side,\nbeing no way employed in matter of the defensive, although it had been but\nto carry burthens, fill ditches, or break clods, either whereof had been to\nme indifferent, I held it not a little disgraceful to be only an idle\nspectator of so many valorous, eloquent, and warlike persons, who in the\nview and sight of all Europe act this notable interlude or tragi-comedy,\nand not make some effort towards the performance of this, nothing at all\nremains for me to be done ('And not exert myself, and contribute thereto\nthis nothing, my all, which remained for me to do.'--Ozell.).  In my\nopinion, little honour is due to such as are mere lookers-on, liberal of\ntheir eyes, and of their crowns, and hide their silver; scratching their\nhead with one finger like grumbling puppies, gaping at the flies like tithe\ncalves; clapping down their ears like Arcadian asses at the melody of\nmusicians, who with their very countenances in the depth of silence express\ntheir consent to the prosopopoeia.  Having made this choice and election,\nit seemed to me that my exercise therein would be neither unprofitable nor\ntroublesome to any, whilst I should thus set a-going my Diogenical tub,\nwhich is all that is left me safe from the shipwreck of my former\nmisfortunes.\n\nAt this dingle dangle wagging of my tub, what would you have me to do?  By\nthe Virgin that tucks up her sleeve, I know not as yet.  Stay a little,\ntill I suck up a draught of this bottle; it is my true and only Helicon; it\nis my Caballine fountain; it is my sole enthusiasm.  Drinking thus, I\nmeditate, discourse, resolve, and conclude.  After that the epilogue is\nmade, I laugh, I write, I compose, and drink again.  Ennius drinking wrote,\nand writing drank.  Aeschylus, if Plutarch in his Symposiacs merit any\nfaith, drank composing, and drinking composed.  Homer never wrote fasting,\nand Cato never wrote till after he had drunk.  These passages I have\nbrought before you to the end you may not say that I lived without the\nexample of men well praised and better prized.  It is good and fresh\nenough, even as if you would say it is entering upon the second degree.\nGod, the good God Sabaoth, that is to say, the God of armies, be praised\nfor it eternally!  If you after the same manner would take one great\ndraught, or two little ones, whilst you have your gown about you, I truly\nfind no kind of inconveniency in it, provided you send up to God for all\nsome small scantling of thanks.\n\nSince then my luck or destiny is such as you have heard--for it is not for\neverybody to go to Corinth--I am fully resolved to be so little idle and\nunprofitable, that I will set myself to serve the one and the other sort of\npeople.  Amongst the diggers, pioneers, and rampire-builders, I will do as\ndid Neptune and Apollo at Troy under Laomedon, or as did Renault of\nMontauban in his latter days:  I will serve the masons, I'll set on the pot\nto boil for the bricklayers; and, whilst the minced meat is making ready at\nthe sound of my small pipe, I'll measure the muzzle of the musing dotards.\nThus did Amphion with the melody of his harp found, build, and finish the\ngreat and renowned city of Thebes.\n\nFor the use of the warriors I am about to broach of new my barrel to give\nthem a taste (which by two former volumes of mine, if by the deceitfulness\nand falsehood of printers they had not been jumbled, marred, and spoiled,\nyou would have very well relished), and draw unto them, of the growth of\nour own trippery pastimes, a gallant third part of a gallon, and\nconsequently a jolly cheerful quart of Pantagruelic sentences, which you\nmay lawfully call, if you please, Diogenical:  and shall have me, seeing I\ncannot be their fellow-soldier, for their faithful butler, refreshing and\ncheering, according to my little power, their return from the alarms of the\nenemy; as also for an indefatigable extoller of their martial exploits and\nglorious achievements.  I shall not fail therein, par lapathium acutum de\ndieu; if Mars fail not in Lent, which the cunning lecher, I warrant you,\nwill be loth to do.\n\nI remember nevertheless to have read, that Ptolemy, the son of Lagus, one\nday, amongst the many spoils and booties which by his victories he had\nacquired, presenting to the Egyptians, in the open view of the people, a\nBactrian camel all black, and a party-coloured slave, in such sort as that\nthe one half of his body was black and the other white, not in partition of\nbreadth by the diaphragma, as was that woman consecrated to the Indian\nVenus whom the Tyanean philosopher did see between the river Hydaspes and\nMount Caucasus, but in a perpendicular dimension of altitude; which were\nthings never before that seen in Egypt.  He expected by the show of these\nnovelties to win the love of the people.  But what happened thereupon?  At\nthe production of the camel they were all affrighted, and offended at the\nsight of the party-coloured man--some scoffed at him as a detestable\nmonster brought forth by the error of nature; in a word, of the hope which\nhe had to please these Egyptians, and by such means to increase the\naffection which they naturally bore him, he was altogether frustrate and\ndisappointed; understanding fully by their deportments that they took more\npleasure and delight in things that were proper, handsome, and perfect,\nthan in misshapen, monstrous, and ridiculous creatures.  Since which time\nhe had both the slave and the camel in such dislike, that very shortly\nthereafter, either through negligence, or for want of ordinary sustenance,\nthey did exchange their life with death.\n\nThis example putteth me in a suspense between hope and fear, misdoubting\nthat, for the contentment which I aim at, I will but reap what shall be\nmost distasteful to me:  my cake will be dough, and for my Venus I shall\nhave but some deformed puppy:  instead of serving them, I shall but vex\nthem, and offend them whom I purpose to exhilarate; resembling in this\ndubious adventure Euclion's cook, so renowned by Plautus in his Pot, and by\nAusonius in his Griphon, and by divers others; which cook, for having by\nhis scraping discovered a treasure, had his hide well curried.  Put the\ncase I get no anger by it, though formerly such things fell out, and the\nlike may occur again.  Yet, by Hercules! it will not.  So I perceive in\nthem all one and the same specifical form, and the like individual\nproperties, which our ancestors called Pantagruelism; by virtue whereof\nthey will bear with anything that floweth from a good, free, and loyal\nheart.  I have seen them ordinarily take goodwill in part of payment, and\nremain satisfied therewith when one was not able to do better.  Having\ndespatched this point, I return to my barrel.\n\nUp, my lads, to this wine, spare it not!  Drink, boys, and trowl it off at\nfull bowls!  If you do not think it good, let it alone.  I am not like\nthose officious and importunate sots, who by force, outrage, and violence,\nconstrain an easy good-natured fellow to whiffle, quaff, carouse, and what\nis worse.  All honest tipplers, all honest gouty men, all such as are\na-dry, coming to this little barrel of mine, need not drink thereof if it\nplease them not; but if they have a mind to it, and that the wine prove\nagreeable to the tastes of their worshipful worships, let them drink,\nfrankly, freely, and boldly, without paying anything, and welcome.  This is\nmy decree, my statute and ordinance.\n\nAnd let none fear there shall be any want of wine, as at the marriage of\nCana in Galilee; for how much soever you shall draw forth at the faucet, so\nmuch shall I tun in at the bung.  Thus shall the barrel remain\ninexhaustible; it hath a lively spring and perpetual current.  Such was the\nbeverage contained within the cup of Tantalus, which was figuratively\nrepresented amongst the Brachman sages.  Such was in Iberia the mountain of\nsalt so highly written of by Cato.  Such was the branch of gold consecrated\nto the subterranean goddess, which Virgil treats of so sublimely.  It is a\ntrue cornucopia of merriment and raillery.  If at any time it seem to you\nto be emptied to the very lees, yet shall it not for all that be drawn\nwholly dry.  Good hope remains there at the bottom, as in Pandora's bottle;\nand not despair, as in the puncheon of the Danaids.  Remark well what I\nhave said, and what manner of people they be whom I do invite; for, to the\nend that none be deceived, I, in imitation of Lucilius, who did protest\nthat he wrote only to his own Tarentines and Consentines, have not pierced\nthis vessel for any else but you honest men, who are drinkers of the first\nedition, and gouty blades of the highest degree.  The great dorophages,\nbribe-mongers, have on their hands occupation enough, and enough on the\nhooks for their venison.  There may they follow their prey; here is no\ngarbage for them.  You pettifoggers, garblers, and masters of chicanery,\nspeak not to me, I beseech you, in the name of, and for the reverence you\nbear to the four hips that engendered you and to the quickening peg which\nat that time conjoined them.  As for hypocrites, much less; although they\nwere all of them unsound in body, pockified, scurvy, furnished with\nunquenchable thirst and insatiable eating.  (And wherefore?)  Because\nindeed they are not of good but of evil, and of that evil from which we\ndaily pray to God to deliver us.  And albeit we see them sometimes\ncounterfeit devotion, yet never did old ape make pretty moppet.  Hence,\nmastiffs; dogs in a doublet, get you behind; aloof, villains, out of my\nsunshine; curs, to the devil!  Do you jog hither, wagging your tails, to\npant at my wine, and bepiss my barrel?  Look, here is the cudgel which\nDiogenes, in his last will, ordained to be set by him after his death, for\nbeating away, crushing the reins, and breaking the backs of these bustuary\nhobgoblins and Cerberian hellhounds.  Pack you hence, therefore, you\nhypocrites, to your sheep-dogs; get you gone, you dissemblers, to the\ndevil!  Hay!  What, are you there yet?  I renounce my part of Papimanie, if\nI snatch you, Grr, Grrr, Grrrrrr.  Avaunt, avaunt!  Will you not be gone?\nMay you never shit till you be soundly lashed with stirrup leather, never\npiss but by the strapado, nor be otherwise warmed than by the bastinado.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel transported a colony of Utopians into Dipsody.\n\nPantagruel, having wholly subdued the land of Dipsody, transported\nthereunto a colony of Utopians, to the number of 9,876,543,210 men, besides\nthe women and little children, artificers of all trades, and professors of\nall sciences, to people, cultivate, and improve that country, which\notherwise was ill inhabited, and in the greatest part thereof but a mere\ndesert and wilderness; and did transport them (not) so much for the\nexcessive multitude of men and women, which were in Utopia multiplied, for\nnumber, like grasshoppers upon the face of the land.  You understand well\nenough, nor is it needful further to explain it to you, that the Utopian\nmen had so rank and fruitful genitories, and that the Utopian women carried\nmatrixes so ample, so gluttonous, so tenaciously retentive, and so\narchitectonically cellulated, that at the end of every ninth month seven\nchildren at the least, what male what female, were brought forth by every\nmarried woman, in imitation of the people of Israel in Egypt, if Anthony\n(Nicholas) de Lyra be to be trusted.  Nor yet was this transplantation made\nso much for the fertility of the soil, the wholesomeness of the air, or\ncommodity of the country of Dipsody, as to retain that rebellious people\nwithin the bounds of their duty and obedience, by this new transport of his\nancient and most faithful subjects, who, from all time out of mind, never\nknew, acknowledged, owned, or served any other sovereign lord but him; and\nwho likewise, from the very instant of their birth, as soon as they were\nentered into this world, had, with the milk of their mothers and nurses,\nsucked in the sweetness, humanity, and mildness of his government, to which\nthey were all of them so nourished and habituated, that there was nothing\nsurer than that they would sooner abandon their lives than swerve from this\nsingular and primitive obedience naturally due to their prince,\nwhithersoever they should be dispersed or removed.\n\nAnd not only should they, and their children successively descending from\ntheir blood, be such, but also would keep and maintain in this same fealty\nand obsequious observance all the nations lately annexed to his empire;\nwhich so truly came to pass that therein he was not disappointed of his\nintent.  For if the Utopians were before their transplantation thither\ndutiful and faithful subjects, the Dipsodes, after some few days conversing\nwith them, were every whit as, if not more, loyal than they; and that by\nvirtue of I know not what natural fervency incident to all human creatures\nat the beginning of any labour wherein they take delight:  solemnly\nattesting the heavens and supreme intelligences of their being only sorry\nthat no sooner unto their knowledge had arrived the great renown of the\ngood Pantagruel.\n\nRemark therefore here, honest drinkers, that the manner of preserving and\nretaining countries newly conquered in obedience is not, as hath been the\nerroneous opinion of some tyrannical spirits to their own detriment and\ndishonour, to pillage, plunder, force, spoil, trouble, oppress, vex,\ndisquiet, ruin and destroy the people, ruling, governing and keeping them\nin awe with rods of iron; and, in a word, eating and devouring them, after\nthe fashion that Homer calls an unjust and wicked king, Demoboron, that is\nto say, a devourer of his people.\n\nI will not bring you to this purpose the testimony of ancient writers.  It\nshall suffice to put you in mind of what your fathers have seen thereof,\nand yourselves too, if you be not very babes.  Newborn, they must be given\nsuck to, rocked in a cradle, and dandled.  Trees newly planted must be\nsupported, underpropped, strengthened and defended against all tempests,\nmischiefs, injuries, and calamities.  And one lately saved from a long and\ndangerous sickness, and new upon his recovery, must be forborn, spared, and\ncherished, in such sort that they may harbour in their own breasts this\nopinion, that there is not in the world a king or a prince who does not\ndesire fewer enemies and more friends.  Thus Osiris, the great king of the\nEgyptians, conquered almost the whole earth, not so much by force of arms\nas by easing the people of their troubles, teaching them how to live well,\nand honestly giving them good laws, and using them with all possible\naffability, courtesy, gentleness, and liberality.  Therefore was he by all\nmen deservedly entitled the Great King Euergetes, that is to say,\nBenefactor, which style he obtained by virtue of the command of Jupiter to\n(one) Pamyla.\n\nAnd in effect, Hesiod, in his Hierarchy, placed the good demons (call them\nangels if you will, or geniuses,) as intercessors and mediators betwixt the\ngods and men, they being of a degree inferior to the gods, but superior to\nmen.  And for that through their hands the riches and benefits we get from\nheaven are dealt to us, and that they are continually doing us good and\nstill protecting us from evil, he saith that they exercise the offices of\nkings; because to do always good, and never ill, is an act most singularly\nroyal.\n\nJust such another was the emperor of the universe, Alexander the\nMacedonian.  After this manner was Hercules sovereign possessor of the\nwhole continent, relieving men from monstrous oppressions, exactions, and\ntyrannies; governing them with discretion, maintaining them in equity and\njustice, instructing them with seasonable policies and wholesome laws,\nconvenient for and suitable to the soil, climate, and disposition of the\ncountry, supplying what was wanting, abating what was superfluous, and\npardoning all that was past, with a sempiternal forgetfulness of all\npreceding offences, as was the amnesty of the Athenians, when by the\nprowess, valour, and industry of Thrasybulus the tyrants were\nexterminated; afterwards at Rome by Cicero exposed, and renewed under the\nEmperor Aurelian.  These are the philtres, allurements, iynges,\ninveiglements, baits, and enticements of love, by the means whereof that\nmay be peaceably revived which was painfully acquired.  Nor can a\nconqueror reign more happily, whether he be a monarch, emperor, king,\nprince, or philosopher, than by making his justice to second his valour.\nHis valour shows itself in victory and conquest; his justice will appear\nin the goodwill and affection of the people, when he maketh laws,\npublisheth ordinances, establisheth religion, and doth what is right to\neveryone, as the noble poet Virgil writes of Octavian Augustus:\n\n    Victorque volentes\n  Per populos dat jura.\n\nTherefore is it that Homer in his Iliads calleth a good prince and great\nking Kosmetora laon, that is, the ornament of the people.\n\nSuch was the consideration of Numa Pompilius, the second king of the\nRomans, a just politician and wise philosopher, when he ordained that to\ngod Terminus, on the day of his festival called Terminales, nothing should\nbe sacrificed that had died; teaching us thereby that the bounds, limits,\nand frontiers of kingdoms should be guarded, and preserved in peace, amity,\nand meekness, without polluting our hands with blood and robbery.  Who doth\notherwise, shall not only lose what he hath gained, but also be loaded with\nthis scandal and reproach, that he is an unjust and wicked purchaser, and\nhis acquests perish with him; Juxta illud, male parta, male dilabuntur.\nAnd although during his whole lifetime he should have peaceable possession\nthereof, yet if what hath been so acquired moulder away in the hands of his\nheirs, the same opprobry, scandal, and imputation will be charged upon the\ndefunct, and his memory remain accursed for his unjust and unwarrantable\nconquest; Juxta illud, de male quaesitis vix gaudet tertius haeres.\n\nRemark, likewise, gentlemen, you gouty feoffees, in this main point worthy\nof your observation, how by these means Pantagruel of one angel made two,\nwhich was a contingency opposite to the counsel of Charlemagne, who made\ntwo devils of one when he transplanted the Saxons into Flanders and the\nFlemings into Saxony.  For, not being able to keep in such subjection the\nSaxons, whose dominion he had joined to the empire, but that ever and anon\nthey would break forth into open rebellion if he should casually be drawn\ninto Spain or other remote kingdoms, he caused them to be brought unto his\nown country of Flanders, the inhabitants whereof did naturally obey him,\nand transported the Hainaults and Flemings, his ancient loving subjects,\ninto Saxony, not mistrusting their loyalty now that they were transplanted\ninto a strange land.  But it happened that the Saxons persisted in their\nrebellion and primitive obstinacy, and the Flemings dwelling in Saxony did\nimbibe the stubborn manners and conditions of the Saxons.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge was made Laird of Salmigondin in Dipsody, and did waste his\nrevenue before it came in.\n\nWhilst Pantagruel was giving order for the government of all Dipsody, he\nassigned to Panurge the lairdship of Salmigondin, which was yearly worth\n6,789,106,789 reals of certain rent, besides the uncertain revenue of the\nlocusts and periwinkles, amounting, one year with another, to the value of\n435,768, or 2,435,769 French crowns of Berry.  Sometimes it did amount to\n1,230,554,321 seraphs, when it was a good year, and that locusts and\nperiwinkles were in request; but that was not every year.\n\nNow his worship, the new laird, husbanded this his estate so providently\nwell and prudently, that in less than fourteen days he wasted and\ndilapidated all the certain and uncertain revenue of his lairdship for\nthree whole years.  Yet did not he properly dilapidate it, as you might\nsay, in founding of monasteries, building of churches, erecting of\ncolleges, and setting up of hospitals, or casting his bacon-flitches to the\ndogs; but spent it in a thousand little banquets and jolly collations,\nkeeping open house for all comers and goers; yea, to all good fellows,\nyoung girls, and pretty wenches; felling timber, burning great logs for the\nsale of the ashes, borrowing money beforehand, buying dear, selling cheap,\nand eating his corn, as it were, whilst it was but grass.\n\nPantagruel, being advertised of this his lavishness, was in good sooth no\nway offended at the matter, angry nor sorry; for I once told you, and again\ntell it you, that he was the best, little, great goodman that ever girded a\nsword to his side.  He took all things in good part, and interpreted every\naction to the best sense.  He never vexed nor disquieted himself with the\nleast pretence of dislike to anything, because he knew that he must have\nmost grossly abandoned the divine mansion of reason if he had permitted his\nmind to be never so little grieved, afflicted, or altered at any occasion\nwhatsoever.  For all the goods that the heaven covereth, and that the earth\ncontaineth, in all their dimensions of height, depth, breadth, and length,\nare not of so much worth as that we should for them disturb or disorder our\naffections, trouble or perplex our senses or spirits.\n\nHe drew only Panurge aside, and then, making to him a sweet remonstrance\nand mild admonition, very gently represented before him in strong\narguments, that, if he should continue in such an unthrifty course of\nliving, and not become a better mesnagier, it would prove altogether\nimpossible for him, or at least hugely difficult, at any time to make him\nrich.  Rich! answered Panurge; have you fixed your thoughts there?  Have\nyou undertaken the task to enrich me in this world?  Set your mind to live\nmerrily, in the name of God and good folks; let no other cark nor care be\nharboured within the sacrosanctified domicile of your celestial brain.  May\nthe calmness and tranquillity thereof be never incommodated with, or\novershadowed by any frowning clouds of sullen imaginations and displeasing\nannoyance!  For if you live joyful, merry, jocund, and glad, I cannot be\nbut rich enough.  Everybody cries up thrift, thrift, and good husbandry.\nBut many speak of Robin Hood that never shot in his bow, and talk of that\nvirtue of mesnagery who know not what belongs to it.  It is by me that they\nmust be advised.  From me, therefore, take this advertisement and\ninformation, that what is imputed to me for a vice hath been done in\nimitation of the university and parliament of Paris, places in which is to\nbe found the true spring and source of the lively idea of Pantheology and\nall manner of justice.  Let him be counted a heretic that doubteth thereof,\nand doth not firmly believe it.  Yet they in one day eat up their bishop,\nor the revenue of the bishopric--is it not all one?--for a whole year, yea,\nsometimes for two.  This is done on the day he makes his entry, and is\ninstalled.  Nor is there any place for an excuse; for he cannot avoid it,\nunless he would be hooted at and stoned for his parsimony.\n\nIt hath been also esteemed an act flowing from the habit of the four\ncardinal virtues.  Of prudence in borrowing money beforehand; for none\nknows what may fall out.  Who is able to tell if the world shall last yet\nthree years?  But although it should continue longer, is there any man so\nfoolish as to have the confidence to promise himself three years?\n\n  What fool so confident to say,\n  That he shall live one other day?\n\nOf commutative justice, in buying dear, I say, upon trust, and selling\ngoods cheap, that is, for ready money.  What says Cato in his Book of\nHusbandry to this purpose?  The father of a family, says he, must be a\nperpetual seller; by which means it is impossible but that at last he shall\nbecome rich, if he have of vendible ware enough still ready for sale.\n\nOf distributive justice it doth partake, in giving entertainment to good\n--remark, good--and gentle fellows, whom fortune had shipwrecked, like\nUlysses, upon the rock of a hungry stomach without provision of sustenance;\nand likewise to the good--remark, the good--and young wenches.  For,\naccording to the sentence of Hippocrates, Youth is impatient of hunger,\nchiefly if it be vigorous, lively, frolic, brisk, stirring, and bouncing.\nWhich wanton lasses willingly and heartily devote themselves to the\npleasure of honest men; and are in so far both Platonic and Ciceronian,\nthat they do acknowledge their being born into this world not to be for\nthemselves alone, but that in their proper persons their acquaintance may\nclaim one share, and their friends another.\n\nThe virtue of fortitude appears therein by the cutting down and\noverthrowing of the great trees, like a second Milo making havoc of the\ndark forest, which did serve only to furnish dens, caves, and shelter to\nwolves, wild boars, and foxes, and afford receptacles, withdrawing corners,\nand refuges to robbers, thieves, and murderers, lurking holes and skulking\nplaces for cutthroat assassinators, secret obscure shops for coiners of\nfalse money, and safe retreats for heretics, laying them even and level\nwith the plain champaign fields and pleasant heathy ground, at the sound of\nthe hautboys and bagpipes playing reeks with the high and stately timber,\nand preparing seats and benches for the eve of the dreadful day of\njudgment.\n\nI gave thereby proof of my temperance in eating my corn whilst it was but\ngrass, like a hermit feeding upon salads and roots, that, so affranchising\nmyself from the yoke of sensual appetites to the utter disclaiming of their\nsovereignty, I might the better reserve somewhat in store for the relief of\nthe lame, blind, crippled, maimed, needy, poor, and wanting wretches.\n\nIn taking this course I save the expense of the weed-grubbers, who gain\nmoney,--of the reapers in harvest-time, who drink lustily, and without\nwater,--of gleaners, who will expect their cakes and bannocks,--of\nthreshers, who leave no garlic, scallions, leeks, nor onions in our\ngardens, by the authority of Thestilis in Virgil,--and of the millers, who\nare generally thieves,--and of the bakers, who are little better.  Is this\nsmall saving or frugality?  Besides the mischief and damage of the\nfield-mice, the decay of barns, and the destruction usually made by\nweasels and other vermin.\n\nOf corn in the blade you may make good green sauce of a light concoction\nand easy digestion, which recreates the brain and exhilarates the animal\nspirits, rejoiceth the sight, openeth the appetite, delighteth the taste,\ncomforteth the heart, tickleth the tongue, cheereth the countenance,\nstriking a fresh and lively colour, strengthening the muscles, tempers the\nblood, disburdens the midriff, refresheth the liver, disobstructs the\nspleen, easeth the kidneys, suppleth the reins, quickens the joints of the\nback, cleanseth the urine-conduits, dilates the spermatic vessels, shortens\nthe cremasters, purgeth the bladder, puffeth up the genitories, correcteth\nthe prepuce, hardens the nut, and rectifies the member.  It will make you\nhave a current belly to trot, fart, dung, piss, sneeze, cough, spit, belch,\nspew, yawn, snuff, blow, breathe, snort, sweat, and set taut your Robin,\nwith a thousand other rare advantages.  I understand you very well, says\nPantagruel; you would thereby infer that those of a mean spirit and shallow\ncapacity have not the skill to spend much in a short time.  You are not the\nfirst in whose conceit that heresy hath entered.  Nero maintained it, and\nabove all mortals admired most his uncle Caius Caligula, for having in a\nfew days, by a most wonderfully pregnant invention, totally spent all the\ngoods and patrimony which Tiberius had left him.\n\nBut, instead of observing the sumptuous supper-curbing laws of the Romans\n--to wit, the Orchia, the Fannia, the Didia, the Licinia, the Cornelia,\nthe Lepidiana, the Antia, and of the Corinthians--by the which they were\ninhibited, under pain of great punishment, not to spend more in one year\nthan their annual revenue did amount to, you have offered up the oblation\nof Protervia, which was with the Romans such a sacrifice as the paschal\nlamb was amongst the Jews, wherein all that was eatable was to be eaten,\nand the remainder to be thrown into the fire, without reserving anything\nfor the next day.  I may very justly say of you, as Cato did of Albidius,\nwho after that he had by a most extravagant expense wasted all the means\nand possessions he had to one only house, he fairly set it on fire, that he\nmight the better say, Consummatum est.  Even just as since his time St.\nThomas Aquinas did, when he had eaten up the whole lamprey, although there\nwas no necessity in it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge praiseth the debtors and borrowers.\n\nBut, quoth Pantagruel, when will you be out of debt?  At the next ensuing\nterm of the Greek kalends, answered Panurge, when all the world shall be\ncontent, and that it be your fate to become your own heir.  The Lord forbid\nthat I should be out of debt, as if, indeed, I could not be trusted.  Who\nleaves not some leaven over night, will hardly have paste the next morning.\n\nBe still indebted to somebody or other, that there may be somebody always\nto pray for you, that the giver of all good things may grant unto you a\nblessed, long, and prosperous life; fearing, if fortune should deal crossly\nwith you, that it might be his chance to come short of being paid by you,\nhe will always speak good of you in every company, ever and anon purchase\nnew creditors unto you; to the end, that through their means you may make a\nshift by borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, and with other folk's earth fill\nup his ditch.  When of old, in the region of the Gauls, by the institution\nof the Druids, the servants, slaves, and bondmen were burnt quick at the\nfunerals and obsequies of their lords and masters, had not they fear\nenough, think you, that their lords and masters should die?  For, perforce,\nthey were to die with them for company.  Did not they incessantly send up\ntheir supplications to their great god Mercury, as likewise unto Dis, the\nfather of wealth, to lengthen out their days, and to preserve them long in\nhealth?  Were not they very careful to entertain them well, punctually to\nlook unto them, and to attend them faithfully and circumspectly?  For by\nthose means were they to live together at least until the hour of death.\nBelieve me, your creditors with a more fervent devotion will beseech\nAlmighty God to prolong your life, they being of nothing more afraid than\nthat you should die; for that they are more concerned for the sleeve than\nthe arm, and love silver better than their own lives.  As it evidently\nappeareth by the usurers of Landerousse, who not long since hanged\nthemselves because the price of the corn and wines was fallen by the return\nof a gracious season.  To this Pantagruel answering nothing, Panurge went\non in his discourse, saying, Truly and in good sooth, sir, when I ponder my\ndestiny aright, and think well upon it, you put me shrewdly to my plunges,\nand have me at a bay in twitting me with the reproach of my debts and\ncreditors.  And yet did I, in this only respect and consideration of being\na debtor, esteem myself worshipful, reverend, and formidable.  For against\nthe opinion of most philosophers, that of nothing ariseth nothing, yet,\nwithout having bottomed on so much as that which is called the First\nMatter, did I out of nothing become such (a) maker and creator, that I have\ncreated--what?--a gay number of fair and jolly creditors.  Nay, creditors,\nI will maintain it, even to the very fire itself exclusively, are fair and\ngoodly creatures.  Who lendeth nothing is an ugly and wicked creature, and\nan accursed imp of the infernal Old Nick.  And there is made--what?  Debts.\nA thing most precious and dainty, of great use and antiquity.  Debts, I\nsay, surmounting the number of syllables which may result from the\ncombinations of all the consonants, with each of the vowels heretofore\nprojected, reckoned, and calculated by the noble Xenocrates.  To judge of\nthe perfection of debtors by the numerosity of their creditors is the\nreadiest way for entering into the mysteries of practical arithmetic.\n\nYou can hardly imagine how glad I am, when every morning I perceive myself\nenvironed and surrounded with brigades of creditors--humble, fawning, and\nfull of their reverences.  And whilst I remark that, as I look more\nfavourably upon and give a cheerfuller countenance to one than to another,\nthe fellow thereupon buildeth a conceit that he shall be the first\ndespatched and the foremost in the date of payment, and he valueth my\nsmiles at the rate of ready money, it seemeth unto me that I then act and\npersonate the god of the passion of Saumure, accompanied with his angels\nand cherubims.\n\nThese are my flatterers, my soothers, my clawbacks, my smoothers, my\nparasites, my saluters, my givers of good-morrows, and perpetual orators;\nwhich makes me verily think that the supremest height of heroic virtue\ndescribed by Hesiod consisteth in being a debtor, wherein I held the first\ndegree in my commencement.  Which dignity, though all human creatures seem\nto aim at and aspire thereto, few nevertheless, because of the difficulties\nin the way and encumbrances of hard passages, are able to reach it, as is\neasily perceivable by the ardent desire and vehement longing harboured in\nthe breast of everyone to be still creating more debts and new creditors.\n\nYet doth it not lie in the power of everyone to be a debtor.  To acquire\ncreditors is not at the disposure of each man's arbitrament.  You\nnevertheless would deprive me of this sublime felicity.  You ask me when I\nwill be out of debt.  Well, to go yet further on, and possibly worse in\nyour conceit, may Saint Bablin, the good saint, snatch me, if I have not\nall my lifetime held debt to be as a union or conjunction of the heavens\nwith the earth, and the whole cement whereby the race of mankind is kept\ntogether; yea, of such virtue and efficacy that, I say, the whole progeny\nof Adam would very suddenly perish without it.  Therefore, perhaps, I do\nnot think amiss, when I repute it to be the great soul of the universe,\nwhich, according to the opinion of the Academics, vivifieth all manner of\nthings.  In confirmation whereof, that you may the better believe it to be\nso, represent unto yourself, without any prejudicacy of spirit, in a clear\nand serene fancy, the idea and form of some other world than this; take, if\nyou please, and lay hold on the thirtieth of those which the philosopher\nMetrodorus did enumerate, wherein it is to be supposed there is no debtor\nor creditor, that is to say, a world without debts.\n\nThere amongst the planets will be no regular course, all will be in\ndisorder.  Jupiter, reckoning himself to be nothing indebted unto Saturn,\nwill go near to detrude him out of his sphere, and with the Homeric chain\nwill be like to hang up the intelligences, gods, heavens, demons, heroes,\ndevils, earth and sea, together with the other elements.  Saturn, no doubt,\ncombining with Mars will reduce that so disturbed world into a chaos of\nconfusion.\n\nMercury then would be no more subjected to the other planets; he would\nscorn to be any longer their Camillus, as he was of old termed in the\nEtrurian tongue.  For it is to be imagined that he is no way a debtor to\nthem.\n\nVenus will be no more venerable, because she shall have lent nothing.  The\nmoon will remain bloody and obscure.  For to what end should the sun impart\nunto her any of his light?  He owed her nothing.  Nor yet will the sun\nshine upon the earth, nor the stars send down any good influence, because\nthe terrestrial globe hath desisted from sending up their wonted\nnourishment by vapours and exhalations, wherewith Heraclitus said, the\nStoics proved, Cicero maintained, they were cherished and alimented.  There\nwould likewise be in such a world no manner of symbolization, alteration,\nnor transmutation amongst the elements; for the one will not esteem itself\nobliged to the other, as having borrowed nothing at all from it.  Earth\nthen will not become water, water will not be changed into air, of air will\nbe made no fire, and fire will afford no heat unto the earth; the earth\nwill produce nothing but monsters, Titans, giants; no rain will descend\nupon it, nor light shine thereon; no wind will blow there, nor will there\nbe in it any summer or harvest.  Lucifer will break loose, and issuing\nforth of the depth of hell, accompanied with his furies, fiends, and horned\ndevils, will go about to unnestle and drive out of heaven all the gods, as\nwell of the greater as of the lesser nations.  Such a world without lending\nwill be no better than a dog-kennel, a place of contention and wrangling,\nmore unruly and irregular than that of the rector of Paris; a devil of an\nhurlyburly, and more disordered confusion than that of the plagues of\nDouay.  Men will not then salute one another; it will be but lost labour to\nexpect aid or succour from any, or to cry fire, water, murder, for none\nwill put to their helping hand.  Why?  He lent no money, there is nothing\ndue to him.  Nobody is concerned in his burning, in his shipwreck, in his\nruin, or in his death; and that because he hitherto had lent nothing, and\nwould never thereafter have lent anything.  In short, Faith, Hope, and\nCharity would be quite banished from such a world--for men are born to\nrelieve and assist one another; and in their stead should succeed and be\nintroduced Defiance, Disdain, and Rancour, with the most execrable troop of\nall evils, all imprecations, and all miseries.  Whereupon you will think,\nand that not amiss, that Pandora had there spilt her unlucky bottle.  Men\nunto men will be wolves, hobthrushers, and goblins (as were Lycaon,\nBellerophon, Nebuchodonosor), plunderers, highway robbers, cutthroats,\nrapparees, murderers, poisoners, assassinators, lewd, wicked, malevolent,\npernicious haters, set against everybody, like to Ishmael, Metabus, or\nTimon the Athenian, who for that cause was named Misanthropos, in such\nsort that it would prove much more easy in nature to have fish entertained\nin the air and bullocks fed in the bottom of the ocean, than to support or\ntolerate a rascally rabble of people that will not lend.  These fellows, I\nvow, do I hate with a perfect hatred; and if, conform to the pattern of\nthis grievous, peevish, and perverse world which lendeth nothing, you\nfigure and liken the little world, which is man, you will find in him a\nterrible justling coil and clutter.  The head will not lend the sight of\nhis eyes to guide the feet and hands; the legs will refuse to bear up the\nbody; the hands will leave off working any more for the rest of the\nmembers; the heart will be weary of its continual motion for the beating of\nthe pulse, and will no longer lend his assistance; the lungs will withdraw\nthe use of their bellows; the liver will desist from convoying any more\nblood through the veins for the good of the whole; the bladder will not be\nindebted to the kidneys, so that the urine thereby will be totally stopped.\nThe brains, in the interim, considering this unnatural course, will fall\ninto a raving dotage, and withhold all feeling from the sinews and motion\nfrom the muscles.  Briefly, in such a world without order and array, owing\nnothing, lending nothing, and borrowing nothing, you would see a more\ndangerous conspiration than that which Aesop exposed in his Apologue.  Such\na world will perish undoubtedly; and not only perish, but perish very\nquickly.  Were it Aesculapius himself, his body would immediately rot, and\nthe chafing soul, full of indignation, take its flight to all the devils of\nhell after my money.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPanurge continueth his discourse in the praise of borrowers and lenders.\n\nOn the contrary, be pleased to represent unto your fancy another world,\nwherein everyone lendeth and everyone oweth, all are debtors and all\ncreditors.  O how great will that harmony be, which shall thereby result\nfrom the regular motions of the heavens!  Methinks I hear it every whit as\nwell as ever Plato did.  What sympathy will there be amongst the elements!\nO how delectable then unto nature will be our own works and productions!\nWhilst Ceres appeareth laden with corn, Bacchus with wines, Flora with\nflowers, Pomona with fruits, and Juno fair in a clear air, wholesome and\npleasant.  I lose myself in this high contemplation.\n\nThen will among the race of mankind peace, love, benevolence, fidelity,\ntranquillity, rest, banquets, feastings, joy, gladness, gold, silver,\nsingle money, chains, rings, with other ware and chaffer of that nature be\nfound to trot from hand to hand.  No suits at law, no wars, no strife,\ndebate, nor wrangling; none will be there a usurer, none will be there a\npinch-penny, a scrape-good wretch, or churlish hard-hearted refuser.  Good\nGod!  Will not this be the golden age in the reign of Saturn? the true idea\nof the Olympic regions, wherein all (other) virtues cease, charity alone\nruleth, governeth, domineereth, and triumpheth?  All will be fair and\ngoodly people there, all just and virtuous.\n\nO happy world!  O people of that world most happy!  Yea, thrice and four\ntimes blessed is that people!  I think in very deed that I am amongst them,\nand swear to you, by my good forsooth, that if this glorious aforesaid\nworld had a pope, abounding with cardinals, that so he might have the\nassociation of a sacred college, in the space of very few years you should\nbe sure to see the saints much thicker in the roll, more numerous,\nwonder-working and mirific, more services, more vows, more staves and\nwax-candles than are all those in the nine bishoprics of Britany, St. Yves\nonly excepted.  Consider, sir, I pray you, how the noble Patelin, having a\nmind to deify and extol even to the third heavens the father of William\nJosseaulme, said no more but this, And he did lend his goods to those who\nwere desirous of them.\n\nO the fine saying!  Now let our microcosm be fancied conform to this model\nin all its members; lending, borrowing, and owing, that is to say,\naccording to its own nature.  For nature hath not to any other end created\nman, but to owe, borrow, and lend; no greater is the harmony amongst the\nheavenly spheres than that which shall be found in its well-ordered policy.\nThe intention of the founder of this microcosm is, to have a soul therein\nto be entertained, which is lodged there, as a guest with its host, (that)\nit may live there for a while.  Life consisteth in blood, blood is the seat\nof the soul; therefore the chiefest work of the microcosm is, to be making\nblood continually.\n\nAt this forge are exercised all the members of the body; none is exempted\nfrom labour, each operates apart, and doth its proper office.  And such is\ntheir heirarchy, that perpetually the one borrows from the other, the one\nlends the other, and the one is the other's debtor.  The stuff and matter\nconvenient, which nature giveth to be turned into blood, is bread and wine.\nAll kind of nourishing victuals is understood to be comprehended in these\ntwo, and from hence in the Gothish tongue is called companage.  To find out\nthis meat and drink, to prepare and boil it, the hands are put to work, the\nfeet do walk and bear up the whole bulk of the corporal mass; the eyes\nguide and conduct all; the appetite in the orifice of the stomach, by means\nof (a) little sourish black humour, called melancholy, which is transmitted\nthereto from the milt, giveth warning to shut in the food.  The tongue doth\nmake the first essay, and tastes it; the teeth do chew it, and the stomach\ndoth receive, digest, and chylify it.  The mesaraic veins suck out of it\nwhat is good and fit, leaving behind the excrements, which are, through\nspecial conduits for that purpose, voided by an expulsive faculty.\nThereafter it is carried to the liver, where it being changed again, it by\nthe virtue of that new transmutation becomes blood.  What joy, conjecture\nyou, will then be found amongst those officers when they see this rivulet\nof gold, which is their sole restorative?  No greater is the joy of\nalchemists, when after long travail, toil, and expense they see in their\nfurnaces the transmutation.  Then is it that every member doth prepare\nitself, and strive anew to purify and to refine this treasure.  The kidneys\nthrough the emulgent veins draw that aquosity from thence which you call\nurine, and there send it away through the ureters to be slipped downwards;\nwhere, in a lower receptacle, and proper for it, to wit, the bladder, it is\nkept, and stayeth there until an opportunity to void it out in his due\ntime.  The spleen draweth from the blood its terrestrial part, viz., the\ngrounds, lees, or thick substance settled in the bottom thereof, which you\nterm melancholy.  The bottle of the gall subtracts from thence all the\nsuperfluous choler; whence it is brought to another shop or work-house to\nbe yet better purified and fined, that is, the heart, which by its\nagitation of diastolic and systolic motions so neatly subtilizeth and\ninflames it, that in the right side ventricle it is brought to perfection,\nand through the veins is sent to all the members.  Each parcel of the body\ndraws it then unto itself, and after its own fashion is cherished and\nalimented by it.  Feet, hands, thighs, arms, eyes, ears, back, breast, yea,\nall; and then it is, that who before were lenders, now become debtors.  The\nheart doth in its left side ventricle so thinnify the blood, that it\nthereby obtains the name of spiritual; which being sent through the\narteries to all the members of the body, serveth to warm and winnow the\nother blood which runneth through the veins.  The lights never cease with\nits lappets and bellows to cool and refresh it, in acknowledgment of which\ngood the heart, through the arterial vein, imparts unto it the choicest of\nits blood.  At last it is made so fine and subtle within the rete mirabile,\nthat thereafter those animal spirits are framed and composed of it, by\nmeans whereof the imagination, discourse, judgment, resolution,\ndeliberation, ratiocination, and memory have their rise, actings, and\noperations.\n\nCops body, I sink, I drown, I perish, I wander astray, and quite fly out of\nmyself when I enter into the consideration of the profound abyss of this\nworld, thus lending, thus owing.  Believe me, it is a divine thing to\nlend,--to owe, an heroic virtue.  Yet is not this all.  This little world\nthus lending, owing, and borrowing, is so good and charitable, that no\nsooner is the above-specified alimentation finished, but that it forthwith\nprojecteth, and hath already forecast, how it shall lend to those who are\nnot as yet born, and by that loan endeavour what it may to eternize itself,\nand multiply in images like the pattern, that is, children.  To this end\nevery member doth of the choicest and most precious of its nourishment pare\nand cut off a portion, then instantly despatcheth it downwards to that\nplace where nature hath prepared for it very fit vessels and receptacles,\nthrough which descending to the genitories by long ambages, circuits, and\nflexuosities, it receiveth a competent form, and rooms apt enough both in\nman and woman for the future conservation and perpetuating of human kind.\nAll this is done by loans and debts of the one unto the other; and hence\nhave we this word, the debt of marriage.  Nature doth reckon pain to the\nrefuser, with a most grievous vexation to his members and an outrageous\nfury amidst his senses.  But, on the other part, to the lender a set\nreward, accompanied with pleasure, joy, solace, mirth, and merry glee.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel altogether abhorreth the debtors and borrowers.\n\nI understand you very well, quoth Pantagruel, and take you to be very good\nat topics, and thoroughly affectioned to your own cause.  But preach it up,\nand patrocinate it, prattle on it, and defend it as much as you will, even\nfrom hence to the next Whitsuntide, if you please so to do, yet in the end\nyou will be astonished to find how you shall have gained no ground at all\nupon me, nor persuaded me by your fair speeches and smooth talk to enter\nnever so little into the thraldom of debt.  You shall owe to none, saith\nthe holy Apostle, anything save love, friendship, and a mutual benevolence.\n\nYou serve me here, I confess, with fine graphides and diatyposes,\ndescriptions and figures, which truly please me very well.  But let me tell\nyou, if you will represent unto your fancy an impudent blustering bully and\nan importunate borrower, entering afresh and newly into a town already\nadvertised of his manners, you shall find that at his ingress the citizens\nwill be more hideously affrighted and amazed, and in a greater terror and\nfear, dread, and trembling, than if the pest itself should step into it in\nthe very same garb and accoutrement wherein the Tyanean philosopher found\nit within the city of Ephesus.  And I am fully confirmed in the opinion,\nthat the Persians erred not when they said that the second vice was to lie,\nthe first being that of owing money.  For, in very truth, debts and lying\nare ordinarily joined together.  I will nevertheless not from hence infer\nthat none must owe anything or lend anything.  For who so rich can be that\nsometimes may not owe, or who can be so poor that sometimes may not lend?\n\nLet the occasion, notwithstanding, in that case, as Plato very wisely\nsayeth and ordaineth in his laws, be such that none be permitted to draw\nany water out of his neighbour's well until first they by continual digging\nand delving into their own proper ground shall have hit upon a kind of\npotter's earth, which is called ceramite, and there had found no source or\ndrop of water; for that sort of earth, by reason of its substance, which is\nfat, strong, firm, and close, so retaineth its humidity, that it doth not\neasily evaporate it by any outward excursion or evaporation.\n\nIn good sooth, it is a great shame to choose rather to be still borrowing\nin all places from everyone, than to work and win.  Then only in my\njudgment should one lend, when the diligent, toiling, and industrious\nperson is no longer able by his labour to make any purchase unto himself,\nor otherwise, when by mischance he hath suddenly fallen into an unexpected\nloss of his goods.\n\nHowsoever, let us leave this discourse, and from henceforwards do not hang\nupon creditors, nor tie yourself to them.  I make account for the time past\nto rid you freely of them, and from their bondage to deliver you.  The\nleast I should in this point, quoth Panurge, is to thank you, though it be\nthe most I can do.  And if gratitude and thanksgiving be to be estimated\nand prized by the affection of the benefactor, that is to be done\ninfinitely and sempiternally; for the love which you bear me of your own\naccord and free grace, without any merit of mine, goeth far beyond the\nreach of any price or value.  It transcends all weight, all number, all\nmeasure; it is endless and everlasting; therefore, should I offer to\ncommensurate and adjust it, either to the size and proportion of your own\nnoble and gracious deeds, or yet to the contentment and delight of the\nobliged receivers, I would come off but very faintly and flaggingly.  You\nhave verily done me a great deal of good, and multiplied your favours on me\nmore frequently than was fitting to one of my condition.  You have been\nmore bountiful towards me than I have deserved, and your courtesies have by\nfar surpassed the extent of my merits, I must needs confess it.  But it is\nnot, as you suppose, in the proposed matter.  For there it is not where I\nitch, it is not there where it fretteth, hurts, or vexeth me; for,\nhenceforth being quit and out of debt, what countenance will I be able to\nkeep?  You may imagine that it will become me very ill for the first month,\nbecause I have never hitherto been brought up or accustomed to it.  I am\nvery much afraid of it.  Furthermore, there shall not one hereafter, native\nof the country of Salmigondy, but he shall level the shot towards my nose.\nAll the back-cracking fellows of the world, in discharging of their postern\npetarades, use commonly to say, Voila pour les quittes, that is, For the\nquit.  My life will be of very short continuance, I do foresee it.  I\nrecommend to you the making of my epitaph; for I perceive I will die\nconfected in the very stench of farts.  If, at any time to come, by way of\nrestorative to such good women as shall happen to be troubled with the\ngrievous pain of the wind-colic, the ordinary medicaments prove nothing\neffectual, the mummy of all my befarted body will straight be as a present\nremedy appointed by the physicians; whereof they, taking any small modicum,\nit will incontinently for their ease afford them a rattle of bumshot, like\na sal of muskets.\n\nTherefore would I beseech you to leave me some few centuries of debts; as\nKing Louis the Eleventh, exempting from suits in law the Reverend Miles\nd'Illiers, Bishop of Chartres, was by the said bishop most earnestly\nsolicited to leave him some few for the exercise of his mind.  I had rather\ngive them all my revenue of the periwinkles, together with the other\nincomes of the locusts, albeit I should not thereby have any parcel abated\nfrom off the principal sums which I owe.  Let us waive this matter, quoth\nPantagruel, I have told it you over again.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhy new married men were privileged from going to the wars.\n\nBut, in the interim, asked Panurge, by what law was it constituted,\nordained, and established, that such as should plant a new vineyard, those\nthat should build a new house, and the new married men, should be exempted\nand discharged from the duty of warfare for the first year?  By the law,\nanswered Pantagruel, of Moses.  Why, replied Panurge, the lately married?\nAs for the vine-planters, I am now too old to reflect on them; my\ncondition, at this present, induceth me to remain satisfied with the care\nof vintage, finishing and turning the grapes into wine.  Nor are these\npretty new builders of dead stones written or pricked down in my Book of\nLife.  It is all with live stones that I set up and erect the fabrics of my\narchitecture, to wit, men.  It was, according to my opinion, quoth\nPantagruel, to the end, first, that the fresh married folks should for the\nfirst year reap a full and complete fruition of their pleasures in their\nmutual exercise of the act of love, in such sort, that in waiting more at\nleisure on the production of posterity and propagating of their progeny,\nthey might the better increase their race and make provision of new heirs.\nThat if, in the years thereafter, the men should, upon their undergoing of\nsome military adventure, happen to be killed, their names and coats-of-arms\nmight continue with their children in the same families.  And next, that,\nthe wives thereby coming to know whether they were barren or fruitful--for\none year's trial, in regard of the maturity of age wherein of old they\nmarried, was held sufficient for the discovery--they might pitch the more\nsuitably, in case of their first husband's decease, upon a second match.\nThe fertile women to be wedded to those who desire to multiply their issue;\nand the sterile ones to such other mates, as, misregarding the storing of\ntheir own lineage, choose them only for their virtues, learning, genteel\nbehaviour, domestic consolation, management of the house, and matrimonial\nconveniences and comforts, and such like.  The preachers of Varennes, saith\nPanurge, detest and abhor the second marriages, as altogether foolish and\ndishonest.\n\nFoolish and dishonest? quoth Pantagruel.  A plague take such preachers!\nYea but, quoth Panurge, the like mischief also befall the Friar Charmer,\nwho, in a full auditory making a sermon at Pereilly, and therein\nabominating the reiteration of marriage and the entering again in the bonds\nof a nuptial tie, did swear and heartily give himself to the swiftest devil\nin hell, if he had not rather choose, and would much more willingly\nundertake the unmaidening or depucelating of a hundred virgins, than the\nsimple drudgery of one widow.  Truly I find your reason in that point right\ngood and strongly grounded.\n\nBut what would you think, if the cause why this exemption or immunity was\ngranted had no other foundation but that, during the whole space of the\nsaid first year, they so lustily bobbed it with their female consorts, as\nboth reason and equity require they should do, that they had drained and\nevacuated their spermatic vessels; and were become thereby altogether\nfeeble, weak, emasculated, drooping, and flaggingly pithless; yea, in such\nsort that they in the day of battle, like ducks which plunge over head and\nears, would sooner hide themselves behind the baggage, than, in the company\nof valiant fighters and daring military combatants, appear where stern\nBellona deals her blows and moves a bustling noise of thwacks and thumps?\nNor is it to be thought that, under the standard of Mars, they will so much\nas once strike a fair stroke, because their most considerable knocks have\nbeen already jerked and whirrited within the curtains of his sweetheart\nVenus.\n\nIn confirmation whereof, amongst other relics and monuments of antiquity,\nwe now as yet often see, that in all great houses, after the expiring of\nsome few days, these young married blades are readily sent away to visit\ntheir uncles, that in the absence of their wives reposing themselves a\nlittle they may recover their decayed strength by the recruit of a fresh\nsupply, the more vigorous to return again and face about to renew the\nduelling shock and conflict of an amorous dalliance, albeit for the greater\npart they have neither uncle nor aunt to go to.\n\nJust so did the King Crackart, after the battle of the Cornets, not cashier\nus (speaking properly), I mean me and the Quail-caller, but for our\nrefreshment remanded us to our houses; and he is as yet seeking after his\nown.  My grandfather's godmother was wont to say to me when I was a boy,--\n\n  Patenostres et oraisons\n  Sont pour ceux-la, qui les retiennent.\n  Ung fiffre en fenaisons\n  Est plus fort que deux qui en viennent.\n\n  Not orisons nor patenotres\n  Shall ever disorder my brain.\n  One cadet, to the field as he flutters,\n  Is worth two, when they end the campaign.\n\nThat which prompteth me to that opinion is, that the vine-planters did\nseldom eat of the grapes, or drink of the wine of their labour, till the\nfirst year was wholly elapsed.  During all which time also the builders did\nhardly inhabit their new-structured dwelling-places, for fear of dying\nsuffocated through want of respiration; as Galen hath most learnedly\nremarked, in the second book of the Difficulty of Breathing.  Under favour,\nsir, I have not asked this question without cause causing and reason truly\nvery ratiocinant.  Be not offended, I pray you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge had a flea in his ear, and forbore to wear any longer his\nmagnificent codpiece.\n\nPanurge, the day thereafter, caused pierce his right ear after the Jewish\nfashion, and thereto clasped a little gold ring, of a ferny-like kind of\nworkmanship, in the beazil or collet whereof was set and enchased a flea;\nand, to the end you may be rid of all doubts, you are to know that the flea\nwas black.  O, what a brave thing it is, in every case and circumstance of\na matter, to be thoroughly well informed!  The sum of the expense hereof,\nbeing cast up, brought in, and laid down upon his council-board carpet, was\nfound to amount to no more quarterly than the charge of the nuptials of a\nHircanian tigress; even, as you would say, 600,000 maravedis.  At these\nvast costs and excessive disbursements, as soon as he perceived himself to\nbe out of debt, he fretted much; and afterwards, as tyrants and lawyers use\nto do, he nourished and fed her with the sweat and blood of his subjects\nand clients.\n\nHe then took four French ells of a coarse brown russet cloth, and therein\napparelling himself, as with a long, plain-seamed, and single-stitched\ngown, left off the wearing of his breeches, and tied a pair of spectacles\nto his cap.  In this equipage did he present himself before Pantagruel; to\nwhom this disguise appeared the more strange, that he did not, as before,\nsee that goodly, fair, and stately codpiece, which was the sole anchor of\nhope wherein he was wonted to rely, and last refuge he had midst all the\nwaves and boisterous billows which a stormy cloud in a cross fortune would\nraise up against him.  Honest Pantagruel, not understanding the mystery,\nasked him, by way of interrogatory, what he did intend to personate in that\nnew-fangled prosopopoeia.  I have, answered Panurge, a flea in mine ear,\nand have a mind to marry.  In a good time, quoth Pantagruel, you have told\nme joyful tidings.  Yet would not I hold a red-hot iron in my hand for all\nthe gladness of them.  But it is not the fashion of lovers to be accoutred\nin such dangling vestments, so as to have their shirts flagging down over\ntheir knees, without breeches, and with a long robe of a dark brown mingled\nhue, which is a colour never used in Talarian garments amongst any persons\nof honour, quality, or virtue.  If some heretical persons and schismatical\nsectaries have at any time formerly been so arrayed and clothed (though\nmany have imputed such a kind of dress to cosenage, cheat, imposture, and\nan affectation of tyranny upon credulous minds of the rude multitude), I\nwill nevertheless not blame them for it, nor in that point judge rashly or\nsinistrously of them.  Everyone overflowingly aboundeth in his own sense\nand fancy; yea, in things of a foreign consideration, altogether\nextrinsical and indifferent, which in and of themselves are neither\ncommendable nor bad, because they proceed not from the interior of the\nthoughts and heart, which is the shop of all good and evil; of goodness, if\nit be upright, and that its affections be regulated by the pure and clean\nspirit of righteousness; and, on the other side, of wickedness, if its\ninclinations, straying beyond the bounds of equity, be corrupted and\ndepraved by the malice and suggestions of the devil.  It is only the\nnovelty and new-fangledness thereof which I dislike, together with the\ncontempt of common custom and the fashion which is in use.\n\nThe colour, answered Panurge, is convenient, for it is conform to that\nof my council-board carpet; therefore will I henceforth hold me with it,\nand more narrowly and circumspectly than ever hitherto I have done look to\nmy affairs and business.  Seeing I am once out of debt, you never yet saw\nman more unpleasing than I will be, if God help me not.  Lo, here be my\nspectacles.  To see me afar off, you would readily say that it were Friar\n(John) Burgess.  I believe certainly that in the next ensuing year I shall\nonce more preach the Crusade.  Bounce, buckram.  Do you see this russet?\nDoubt not but there lurketh under it some hid property and occult virtue\nknown to very few in the world.  I did not take it on before this morning,\nand, nevertheless, am already in a rage of lust, mad after a wife, and\nvehemently hot upon untying the codpiece-point; I itch, I tingle, I\nwriggle, and long exceedingly to be married, that, without the danger of\ncudgel-blows, I may labour my female copes-mate with the hard push of a\nbull-horned devil.  O the provident and thrifty husband that I then will\nbe!  After my death, with all honour and respect due to my frugality, will\nthey burn the sacred bulk of my body, of purpose to preserve the ashes\nthereof, in memory of the choicest pattern that ever was of a perfectly\nwary and complete householder.  Cops body, this is not the carpet whereon\nmy treasurer shall be allowed to play false in his accounts with me, by\nsetting down an X for a V, or an L for an S.  For in that case should I\nmake a hail of fisticuffs to fly into his face.  Look upon me, sir, both\nbefore and behind,--it is made after the manner of a toga, which was the\nancient fashion of the Romans in time of peace.  I took the mode, shape,\nand form thereof in Trajan's Column at Rome, as also in the Triumphant Arch\nof Septimus Severus.  I am tired of the wars, weary of wearing buff-coats,\ncassocks, and hoquetons.  My shoulders are pitifully worn and bruised with\nthe carrying of harness.  Let armour cease, and the long robe bear sway!\nAt least it must be so for the whole space of the succeeding year, if I be\nmarried; as yesterday, by the Mosaic law, you evidenced.  In what\nconcerneth the breeches, my great-aunt Laurence did long ago tell me, that\nthe breeches were only ordained for the use of the codpiece, and to no\nother end; which I, upon a no less forcible consequence, give credit to\nevery whit, as well as to the saying of the fine fellow Galen, who in his\nninth book, Of the Use and Employment of our Members, allegeth that the\nhead was made for the eyes.  For nature might have placed our heads in our\nknees or elbows, but having beforehand determined that the eyes should\nserve to discover things from afar, she for the better enabling them to\nexecute their designed office, fixed them in the head, as on the top of a\nlong pole, in the most eminent part of all the body--no otherwise than we\nsee the phares, or high towers erected in the mouths of havens, that\nnavigators may the further off perceive with ease the lights of the nightly\nfires and lanterns.  And because I would gladly, for some short while, a\nyear at least, take a little rest and breathing time from the toilsome\nlabour of the military profession, that is to say, be married, I have\ndesisted from wearing any more a codpiece, and consequently have laid aside\nmy breeches.  For the codpiece is the principal and most especial piece of\narmour that a warrior doth carry; and therefore do I maintain even to the\nfire (exclusively, understand you me), that no Turks can properly be said\nto be armed men, in regard that codpieces are by their law forbidden to be\nworn.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhy the codpiece is held to be the chief piece of armour amongst warriors.\n\nWill you maintain, quoth Pantagruel, that the codpiece is the chief piece\nof a military harness?  It is a new kind of doctrine, very paradoxical; for\nwe say, At spurs begins the arming of a man.  Sir, I maintain it, answered\nPanurge, and not wrongfully do I maintain it.  Behold how nature, having a\nfervent desire, after its production of plants, trees, shrubs, herbs,\nsponges, and plant-animals, to eternize and continue them unto all\nsuccession of ages (in their several kinds or sorts, at least, although the\nindividuals perish) unruinable, and in an everlasting being, hath most\ncuriously armed and fenced their buds, sprouts, shoots, and seeds, wherein\nthe above-mentioned perpetuity consisteth, by strengthening, covering,\nguarding, and fortifying them with an admirable industry, with husks,\ncases, scurfs and swads, hulls, cods, stones, films, cartels, shells, ears,\nrinds, barks, skins, ridges, and prickles, which serve them instead of\nstrong, fair, and natural codpieces.  As is manifestly apparent in pease,\nbeans, fasels, pomegranates, peaches, cottons, gourds, pumpions, melons,\ncorn, lemons, almonds, walnuts, filberts, and chestnuts; as likewise in all\nplants, slips, or sets whatsoever, wherein it is plainly and evidently\nseen, that the sperm and semence is more closely veiled, overshadowed,\ncorroborated, and thoroughly harnessed, than any other part, portion, or\nparcel of the whole.\n\nNature, nevertheless, did not after that manner provide for the\nsempiternizing of (the) human race; but, on the contrary, created man\nnaked, tender, and frail, without either offensive or defensive arms; and\nthat in the estate of innocence, in the first age of all, which was the\ngolden season; not as a plant, but living creature, born for peace, not\nwar, and brought forth into the world with an unquestionable right and\ntitle to the plenary fruition and enjoyment of all fruits and vegetables,\nas also to a certain calm and gentle rule and dominion over all kinds of\nbeasts, fowls, fishes, reptiles, and insects.  Yet afterwards it happening\nin the time of the iron age, under the reign of Jupiter, when, to the\nmultiplication of mischievous actions, wickedness and malice began to take\nroot and footing within the then perverted hearts of men, that the earth\nbegan to bring forth nettles, thistles, thorns, briars, and such other\nstubborn and rebellious vegetables to the nature of man.  Nor scarce was\nthere any animal which by a fatal disposition did not then revolt from him,\nand tacitly conspire and covenant with one another to serve him no longer,\nnor, in case of their ability to resist, to do him any manner of obedience,\nbut rather, to the uttermost of their power, to annoy him with all the hurt\nand harm they could.  The man, then, that he might maintain his primitive\nright and prerogative, and continue his sway and dominion over all, both\nvegetable and sensitive creatures, and knowing of a truth that he could not\nbe well accommodated as he ought without the servitude and subjection of\nseveral animals, bethought himself that of necessity he must needs put on\narms, and make provision of harness against wars and violence.  By the holy\nSaint Babingoose, cried out Pantagruel, you are become, since the last\nrain, a great lifrelofre,--philosopher, I should say.  Take notice, sir,\nquoth Panurge, when Dame Nature had prompted him to his own arming, what\npart of the body it was, where, by her inspiration, he clapped on the first\nharness.  It was forsooth by the double pluck of my little dog the ballock\nand good Senor Don Priapos Stabo-stando--which done, he was content, and\nsought no more.  This is certified by the testimony of the great Hebrew\ncaptain (and) philosopher Moses, who affirmeth that he fenced that member\nwith a brave and gallant codpiece, most exquisitely framed, and by right\ncurious devices of a notably pregnant invention made up and composed of\nfig-tree leaves, which by reason of their solid stiffness, incisory\nnotches, curled frizzling, sleeked smoothness, large ampleness, together\nwith their colour, smell, virtue, and faculty, were exceeding proper and\nfit for the covering and arming of the satchels of generation--the\nhideously big Lorraine cullions being from thence only excepted, which,\nswaggering down to the lowermost bottom of the breeches, cannot abide, for\nbeing quite out of all order and method, the stately fashion of the high\nand lofty codpiece; as is manifest by the noble Valentine Viardiere, whom I\nfound at Nancy, on the first day of May--the more flauntingly to\ngallantrize it afterwards--rubbing his ballocks, spread out upon a table\nafter the manner of a Spanish cloak.  Wherefore it is, that none should\nhenceforth say, who would not speak improperly, when any country bumpkin\nhieth to the wars, Have a care, my roister, of the wine-pot, that is, the\nskull, but, Have a care, my roister, of the milk-pot, that is, the\ntesticles.  By the whole rabble of the horned fiends of hell, the head\nbeing cut off, that single person only thereby dieth.  But, if the ballocks\nbe marred, the whole race of human kind would forthwith perish, and be lost\nfor ever.\n\nThis was the motive which incited the goodly writer Galen, Lib. 1. De\nSpermate, to aver with boldness that it were better, that is to say, a less\nevil, to have no heart at all than to be quite destitute of genitories; for\nthere is laid up, conserved, and put in store, as in a secessive repository\nand sacred warehouse, the semence and original source of the whole\noffspring of mankind.  Therefore would I be apt to believe, for less than a\nhundred francs, that those are the very same stones by means whereof\nDeucalion and Pyrrha restored the human race, in peopling with men and\nwomen the world, which a little before that had been drowned in the\noverflowing waves of a poetical deluge.  This stirred up the valiant\nJustinian, L. 4. De Cagotis tollendis, to collocate his Summum Bonum, in\nBraguibus, et Braguetis.  For this and other causes, the Lord Humphrey de\nMerville, following of his king to a certain warlike expedition, whilst he\nwas in trying upon his own person a new suit of armour, for of his old\nrusty harness he could make no more use, by reason that some few years\nsince the skin of his belly was a great way removed from his kidneys, his\nlady thereupon, in the profound musing of a contemplative spirit, very\nmaturely considering that he had but small care of the staff of love and\npacket of marriage, seeing he did no otherwise arm that part of the body\nthan with links of mail, advised him to shield, fence, and gabionate it\nwith a big tilting helmet which she had lying in her closet, to her\notherwise utterly unprofitable.  On this lady were penned these subsequent\nverses, which are extant in the third book of the Shitbrana of Paltry\nWenches.\n\n  When Yoland saw her spouse equipp'd for fight,\n  And, save the codpiece, all in armour dight,\n  My dear, she cried, why, pray, of all the rest\n  Is that exposed, you know I love the best?\n  Was she to blame for an ill-managed fear,--\n  Or rather pious, conscionable care?\n  Wise lady, she!  In hurlyburly fight,\n  Can any tell where random blows may light?\n\nLeave off then, sir, from being astonished, and wonder no more at this new\nmanner of decking and trimming up of myself as you now see me.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge asketh counsel of Pantagruel whether he should marry, yea, or\nno.\n\nTo this Pantagruel replying nothing, Panurge prosecuted the discourse he\nhad already broached, and therewithal fetching, as from the bottom of his\nheart, a very deep sigh, said, My lord and master, you have heard the\ndesign I am upon, which is to marry, if by some disastrous mischance all\nthe holes in the world be not shut up, stopped, closed, and bushed.  I\nhumbly beseech you, for the affection which of a long time you have borne\nme, to give me your best advice therein.  Then, answered Pantagruel, seeing\nyou have so decreed, taken deliberation thereon, and that the matter is\nfully determined, what need is there of any further talk thereof, but\nforthwith to put it into execution what you have resolved?  Yea but, quoth\nPanurge, I would be loth to act anything therein without your counsel had\nthereto.  It is my judgment also, quoth Pantagruel, and I advise you to it.\nNevertheless, quoth Panurge, if I understood aright that it were much\nbetter for me to remain a bachelor as I am, than to run headlong upon new\nhairbrained undertakings of conjugal adventure, I would rather choose not\nto marry.  Quoth Pantagruel, Then do not marry.  Yea but, quoth Panurge,\nwould you have me so solitarily drive out the whole course of my life,\nwithout the comfort of a matrimonial consort?  You know it is written, Vae\nsoli! and a single person is never seen to reap the joy and solace that is\nfound with married folks.  Then marry, in the name of God, quoth\nPantagruel.  But if, quoth Panurge, my wife should make me a cuckold--as it\nis not unknown unto you, how this hath been a very plentiful year in the\nproduction of that kind of cattle--I would fly out, and grow impatient\nbeyond all measure and mean.  I love cuckolds with my heart, for they seem\nunto me to be of a right honest conversation, and I truly do very willingly\nfrequent their company; but should I die for it, I would not be one of\ntheir number.  That is a point for me of a too sore prickling point.  Then\ndo not marry, quoth Pantagruel, for without all controversy this sentence\nof Seneca is infallibly true, What thou to others shalt have done, others\nwill do the like to thee.  Do you, quoth Panurge, aver that without all\nexception?  Yes, truly, quoth Pantagruel, without all exception.  Ho, ho,\nsays Panurge, by the wrath of a little devil, his meaning is, either in\nthis world or in the other which is to come.  Yet seeing I can no more want\na wife than a blind man his staff--(for) the funnel must be in agitation,\nwithout which manner of occupation I cannot live--were it not a great deal\nbetter for me to apply and associate myself to some one honest, lovely, and\nvirtuous woman, than as I do, by a new change of females every day, run a\nhazard of being bastinadoed, or, which is worse, of the great pox, if not\nof both together.  For never--be it spoken by their husbands' leave and\nfavour--had I enjoyment yet of an honest woman.  Marry then, in God's name,\nquoth Pantagruel.  But if, quoth Panurge, it were the will of God, and that\nmy destiny did unluckily lead me to marry an honest woman who should beat\nme, I would be stored with more than two third parts of the patience of\nJob, if I were not stark mad by it, and quite distracted with such rugged\ndealings.  For it hath been told me that those exceeding honest women have\nordinarily very wicked head-pieces; therefore is it that their family\nlacketh not for good vinegar.  Yet in that case should it go worse with me,\nif I did not then in such sort bang her back and breast, so thumpingly\nbethwack her gillets, to wit, her arms, legs, head, lights, liver, and\nmilt, with her other entrails, and mangle, jag, and slash her coats so\nafter the cross-billet fashion that the greatest devil of hell should wait\nat the gate for the reception of her damnel soul.  I could make a shift for\nthis year to waive such molestation and disquiet, and be content to lay\naside that trouble, and not to be engaged in it.\n\nDo not marry then, answered Pantagruel.  Yea but, quoth Panurge,\nconsidering the condition wherein I now am, out of debt and unmarried; mark\nwhat I say, free from all debt, in an ill hour, for, were I deeply on the\nscore, my creditors would be but too careful of my paternity, but being\nquit, and not married, nobody will be so regardful of me, or carry towards\nme a love like that which is said to be in a conjugal affection.  And if by\nsome mishap I should fall sick, I would be looked to very waywardly.  The\nwise man saith, Where there is no woman--I mean the mother of a family and\nwife in the union of a lawful wedlock--the crazy and diseased are in danger\nof being ill used and of having much brabbling and strife about them; as by\nclear experience hath been made apparent in the persons of popes, legates,\ncardinals, bishops, abbots, priors, priests, and monks; but there, assure\nyourself, you shall not find me.  Marry then, in the name of God, answered\nPantagruel.  But if, quoth Panurge, being ill at ease, and possibly through\nthat distemper made unable to discharge the matrimonial duty that is\nincumbent to an active husband, my wife, impatient of that drooping\nsickness and faint-fits of a pining languishment, should abandon and\nprostitute herself to the embraces of another man, and not only then not\nhelp and assist me in my extremity and need, but withal flout at and make\nsport of that my grievous distress and calamity; or peradventure, which is\nworse, embezzle my goods and steal from me, as I have seen it oftentimes\nbefall unto the lot of many other men, it were enough to undo me utterly,\nto fill brimful the cup of my misfortune, and make me play the mad-pate\nreeks of Bedlam.  Do not marry then, quoth Pantagruel.  Yea but, said\nPanurge, I shall never by any other means come to have lawful sons and\ndaughters, in whom I may harbour some hope of perpetuating my name and\narms, and to whom also I may leave and bequeath my inheritances and\npurchased goods (of which latter sort you need not doubt but that in some\none or other of these mornings I will make a fair and goodly show), that so\nI may cheer up and make merry when otherwise I should be plunged into a\npeevish sullen mood of pensive sullenness, as I do perceive daily by the\ngentle and loving carriage of your kind and gracious father towards you; as\nall honest folks use to do at their own homes and private dwelling-houses.\nFor being free from debt, and yet not married, if casually I should fret\nand be angry, although the cause of my grief and displeasure were never so\njust, I am afraid, instead of consolation, that I should meet with nothing\nelse but scoffs, frumps, gibes, and mocks at my disastrous fortune.  Marry\nthen, in the name of God, quoth Pantagruel.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel representeth unto Panurge the difficulty of giving advice in\nthe matter of marriage; and to that purpose mentioneth somewhat of the\nHomeric and Virgilian lotteries.\n\nYour counsel, quoth Panurge, under your correction and favour, seemeth unto\nme not unlike to the song of Gammer Yea-by-nay.  It is full of sarcasms,\nmockeries, bitter taunts, nipping bobs, derisive quips, biting jerks, and\ncontradictory iterations, the one part destroying the other.  I know not,\nquoth Pantagruel, which of all my answers to lay hold on; for your\nproposals are so full of ifs and buts, that I can ground nothing on them,\nnor pitch upon any solid and positive determination satisfactory to what is\ndemanded by them.  Are not you assured within yourself of what you have a\nmind to?  The chief and main point of the whole matter lieth there.  All\nthe rest is merely casual, and totally dependeth upon the fatal disposition\nof the heavens.\n\nWe see some so happy in the fortune of this nuptial encounter, that their\nfamily shineth as it were with the radiant effulgency of an idea, model, or\nrepresentation of the joys of paradise; and perceive others, again, to be\nso unluckily matched in the conjugal yoke, that those very basest of devils\nwhich tempt the hermits that inhabit the deserts of Thebais and Montserrat\nare not more miserable than they.  It is therefore expedient, seeing you\nare resolved for once to take a trial of the state of marriage, that, with\nshut eyes, bowing your head, and kissing the ground, you put the business\nto a venture, and give it a fair hazard, in recommending the success of the\nresidue to the disposure of Almighty God.  It lieth not in my power to give\nyou any other manner of assurance, or otherwise to certify you of what\nshall ensue on this your undertaking.  Nevertheless, if it please you, this\nyou may do.  Bring hither Virgil's poems, that after having opened the\nbook, and with our fingers severed the leaves thereof three several times,\nwe may, according to the number agreed upon betwixt ourselves, explore the\nfuture hap of your intended marriage.  For frequently by a Homeric lottery\nhave many hit upon their destinies; as is testified in the person of\nSocrates, who, whilst he was in prison, hearing the recitation of this\nverse of Homer, said of Achilles in the Ninth of the Iliads--\n\n  Emati ke tritato Phthien eribolon ikoimen,\n\n  We, the third day, to fertile Pthia came--\n\nthereby foresaw that on the third subsequent day he was to die.  Of the\ntruth whereof he assured Aeschines; as Plato, in Critone, Cicero, in Primo,\nde Divinatione, Diogenes Laertius, and others, have to the full recorded in\ntheir works.  The like is also witnessed by Opilius Macrinus, to whom,\nbeing desirous to know if he should be the Roman emperor, befell, by chance\nof lot, this sentence in the Eighth of the Iliads--\n\n  O geron, e mala de se neoi teirousi machetai,\n  Ze de bin lelutai, chalepon de se geras opazei.\n\n  Dotard, new warriors urge thee to be gone.\n  Thy life decays, and old age weighs thee down.\n\nIn fact, he, being then somewhat ancient, had hardly enjoyed the\nsovereignty of the empire for the space of fourteen months, when by\nHeliogabalus, then both young and strong, he was dispossessed thereof,\nthrust out of all, and killed.  Brutus doth also bear witness of another\nexperiment of this nature, who willing, through this exploratory way by\nlot, to learn what the event and issue should be of the Pharsalian battle\nwherein he perished, he casually encountered on this verse, said of\nPatroclus in the Sixteenth of the Iliads--\n\n  Alla me moir oloe, kai Letous ektanen uios.\n\n  Fate, and Latona's son have shot me dead.\n\nAnd accordingly Apollo was the field-word in the dreadful day of that\nfight.  Divers notable things of old have likewise been foretold and known\nby casting of Virgilian lots; yea, in matters of no less importance than\nthe obtaining of the Roman empire, as it happened to Alexander Severus,\nwho, trying his fortune at the said kind of lottery, did hit upon this\nverse written in the Sixth of the Aeneids--\n\n  Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento.\n\n  Know, Roman, that thy business is to reign.\n\nHe, within very few years thereafter, was effectually and in good earnest\ncreated and installed Roman emperor.  A semblable story thereto is related\nof Adrian, who, being hugely perplexed within himself out of a longing\nhumour to know in what account he was with the Emperor Trajan, and how\nlarge the measure of that affection was which he did bear unto him, had\nrecourse, after the manner above specified, to the Maronian lottery, which\nby haphazard tendered him these lines out of the Sixth of the Aeneids--\n\n  Quis procul ille autem, ramis insignis olivae\n  Sacra ferens?  Nosco crines incanaque menta\n  Regis Romani.\n\n  But who is he, conspicuous from afar,\n  With olive boughs, that doth his offerings bear?\n  By the white hair and beard I know him plain,\n  The Roman king.\n\nShortly thereafter was he adopted by Trajan, and succeeded to him in the\nempire.  Moreover, to the lot of the praiseworthy Emperor Claudius befell\nthis line of Virgil, written in the Sixth of his Aeneids--\n\n  Tertia dum Latio regnantem viderit aestas.\n\n  Whilst the third summer saw him reign, a king\n  In Latium.\n\nAnd in effect he did not reign above two years.  To the said Claudian also,\ninquiring concerning his brother Quintilius, whom he proposed as a\ncolleague with himself in the empire, happened the response following in\nthe Sixth of the Aeneids--\n\n  Ostendent terris hunc tantum fata.\n\n    Whom Fate let us see,\n  And would no longer suffer him to be.\n\nAnd it so fell out; for he was killed on the seventeenth day after he had\nattained unto the management of the imperial charge.  The very same lot,\nalso, with the like misluck, did betide the Emperor Gordian the younger.\nTo Claudius Albinus, being very solicitous to understand somewhat of his\nfuture adventures, did occur this saying, which is written in the Sixth of\nthe Aeneids--\n\n  Hic rem Romanam magno turbante tumultu\n  Sistet Eques, &c.\n\n  The Romans, boiling with tumultuous rage,\n  This warrior shall the dangerous storm assuage:\n  With victories he the Carthaginian mauls,\n  And with strong hand shall crush the rebel Gauls.\n\nLikewise, when the Emperor D. Claudius, Aurelian's predecessor, did with\ngreat eagerness research after the fate to come of his posterity, his hap\nwas to alight on this verse in the First of the Aeneids--\n\n  Hic ego nec metas rerum, nec tempora pono.\n\n  No bounds are to be set, no limits here.\n\nWhich was fulfilled by the goodly genealogical row of his race.  When Mr.\nPeter Amy did in like manner explore and make trial if he should escape the\nambush of the hobgoblins who lay in wait all-to-bemaul him, he fell upon\nthis verse in the Third of the Aeneids--\n\n  Heu! fuge crudeles terras, fuge littus avarum!\n\n  Oh, flee the bloody land, the wicked shore!\n\nWhich counsel he obeying, safe and sound forthwith avoided all these\nambuscades.\n\nWere it not to shun prolixity, I could enumerate a thousand such like\nadventures, which, conform to the dictate and verdict of the verse, have by\nthat manner of lot-casting encounter befallen to the curious researchers of\nthem.  Do not you nevertheless imagine, lest you should be deluded, that I\nwould upon this kind of fortune-flinging proof infer an uncontrollable and\nnot to be gainsaid infallibility of truth.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel showeth the trial of one's fortune by the throwing of dice\nto be unlawful.\n\nIt would be sooner done, quoth Panurge, and more expeditely, if we should\ntry the matter at the chance of three fair dice.  Quoth Pantagruel, That\nsort of lottery is deceitful, abusive, illicitous, and exceedingly\nscandalous.  Never trust in it.  The accursed book of the Recreation of\nDice was a great while ago excogitated in Achaia, near Bourre, by that\nancient enemy of mankind, the infernal calumniator, who, before the statue\nor massive image of the Bourraic Hercules, did of old, and doth in several\nplaces of the world as yet, make many simple souls to err and fall into his\nsnares.  You know how my father Gargantua hath forbidden it over all his\nkingdoms and dominions; how he hath caused burn the moulds and draughts\nthereof, and altogether suppressed, abolished, driven forth, and cast it\nout of the land, as a most dangerous plague and infection to any\nwell-polished state or commonwealth.  What I have told you of dice, I say\nthe same of the play at cockall.  It is a lottery of the like guile and\ndeceitfulness; and therefore do not for convincing of me allege in\nopposition to this my opinion, or bring in the example of the fortunate cast\nof Tiberius, within the fountain of Aponus, at the oracle of Gerion. These\nare the baited hooks by which the devil attracts and draweth unto him the\nfoolish souls of silly people into eternal perdition.\n\nNevertheless, to satisfy your humour in some measure, I am content you\nthrow three dice upon this table, that, according to the number of the\nblots which shall happen to be cast up, we may hit upon a verse of that\npage which in the setting open of the book you shall have pitched upon.\n\nHave you any dice in your pocket?  A whole bagful, answered Panurge.  That\nis provision against the devil, as is expounded by Merlin Coccaius, Lib.\n2. De Patria Diabolorum.  The devil would be sure to take me napping, and\nvery much at unawares, if he should find me without dice.  With this, the\nthree dice being taken out, produced, and thrown, they fell so pat upon the\nlower points that the cast was five, six, and five.  These are, quoth\nPanurge, sixteen in all.  Let us take the sixteenth line of the page.  The\nnumber pleaseth me very well; I hope we shall have a prosperous and happy\nchance.  May I be thrown amidst all the devils of hell, even as a great\nbowl cast athwart at a set of ninepins, or cannon-ball shot among a\nbattalion of foot, in case so many times I do not boult my future wife the\nfirst night of our marriage!  Of that, forsooth, I make no doubt at all,\nquoth Pantagruel.  You needed not to have rapped forth such a horrid\nimprecation, the sooner to procure credit for the performance of so small a\nbusiness, seeing possibly the first bout will be amiss, and that you know\nis usually at tennis called fifteen.  At the next justling turn you may\nreadily amend that fault, and so complete your reckoning of sixteen.  Is it\nso, quoth Panurge, that you understand the matter?  And must my words be\nthus interpreted?  Nay, believe me never yet was any solecism committed by\nthat valiant champion who often hath for me in Belly-dale stood sentry at\nthe hypogastrian cranny.  Did you ever hitherto find me in the\nconfraternity of the faulty?  Never, I trow; never, nor ever shall, for\never and a day.  I do the feat like a goodly friar or father confessor,\nwithout default.  And therein am I willing to be judged by the players.  He\nhad no sooner spoke these words than the works of Virgil were brought in.\nBut before the book was laid open, Panurge said to Pantagruel, My heart,\nlike the furch of a hart in a rut, doth beat within my breast.  Be pleased\nto feel and grope my pulse a little on this artery of my left arm. At its\nfrequent rise and fall you would say that they swinge and belabour me after\nthe manner of a probationer, posed and put to a peremptory trial in the\nexamination of his sufficiency for the discharge of the learned duty of a\ngraduate in some eminent degree in the college of the Sorbonists.\n\nBut would you not hold it expedient, before we proceed any further, that we\nshould invocate Hercules and the Tenetian goddesses who in the chamber of\nlots are said to rule, sit in judgment, and bear a presidential sway?\nNeither him nor them, answered Pantagruel; only open up the leaves of the\nbook with your fingers, and set your nails awork.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel doth explore by the Virgilian lottery what fortune Panurge\nshall have in his marriage.\n\nThen at the opening of the book in the sixteenth row of the lines of the\ndisclosed page did Panurge encounter upon this following verse:\n\n  Nec Deus hunc mensa, Dea nec dignata cubili est.\n\n  The god him from his table banished,\n  Nor would the goddess have him in her bed.\n\nThis response, quoth Pantagruel, maketh not very much for your benefit or\nadvantage; for it plainly signifies and denoteth that your wife shall be a\nstrumpet, and yourself by consequence a cuckold.  The goddess, whom you\nshall not find propitious nor favourable unto you, is Minerva, a most\nredoubtable and dreadful virgin, a powerful and fulminating goddess, an\nenemy to cuckolds and effeminate youngsters, to cuckold-makers and\nadulterers.  The god is Jupiter, a terrible and thunder-striking god from\nheaven.  And withal it is to be remarked, that, conform to the doctrine of\nthe ancient Etrurians, the manubes, for so did they call the darting hurls\nor slinging casts of the Vulcanian thunderbolts, did only appertain to her\nand to Jupiter her father capital.  This was verified in the conflagration\nof the ships of Ajax Oileus, nor doth this fulminating power belong to any\nother of the Olympic gods.  Men, therefore, stand not in such fear of them.\nMoreover, I will tell you, and you may take it as extracted out of the\nprofoundest mysteries of mythology, that, when the giants had enterprised\nthe waging of a war against the power of the celestial orbs, the gods at\nfirst did laugh at those attempts, and scorned such despicable enemies, who\nwere, in their conceit, not strong enough to cope in feats of warfare with\ntheir pages; but when they saw by the gigantine labour the high hill Pelion\nset on lofty Ossa, and that the mount Olympus was made shake to be erected\non the top of both, then was it that Jupiter held a parliament, or general\nconvention, wherein it was unanimously resolved upon and condescended to by\nall the gods, that they should worthily and valiantly stand to their\ndefence.  And because they had often seen battles lost by the cumbersome\nlets and disturbing encumbrances of women confusedly huddled in amongst\narmies, it was at that time decreed and enacted that they should expel and\ndrive out of heaven into Egypt and the confines of Nile that whole crew of\ngoddesses, disguised in the shapes of weasels, polecats, bats, shrew-mice,\nferrets, fulmarts, and other such like odd transformations; only Minerva\nwas reserved to participate with Jupiter in the horrific fulminating power,\nas being the goddess both of war and learning, of arts and arms, of counsel\nand despatch--a goddess armed from her birth, a goddess dreaded in heaven,\nin the air, by sea and land.  By the belly of Saint Buff, quoth Panurge,\nshould I be Vulcan, whom the poet blazons?  Nay, I am neither a cripple,\ncoiner of false money, nor smith, as he was.  My wife possibly will be as\ncomely and handsome as ever was his Venus, but not a whore like her, nor I\na cuckold like him.  The crook-legged slovenly slave made himself to be\ndeclared a cuckold by a definite sentence and judgment, in the open view of\nall the gods.  For this cause ought you to interpret the afore-mentioned\nverse quite contrary to what you have said.  This lot importeth that my\nwife will be honest, virtuous, chaste, loyal, and faithful; not armed,\nsurly, wayward, cross, giddy, humorous, heady, hairbrained, or extracted\nout of the brains, as was the goddess Pallas; nor shall this fair jolly\nJupiter be my co-rival.  He shall never dip his bread in my broth, though\nwe should sit together at one table.\n\nConsider his exploits and gallant actions.  He was the manifest ruffian,\nwencher, whoremonger, and most infamous cuckold-maker that ever breathed.\nHe did always lecher it like a boar, and no wonder, for he was fostered by\na sow in the Isle of Candia, if Agathocles the Babylonian be not a liar,\nand more rammishly lascivious than a buck; whence it is that he is said by\nothers to have been suckled and fed with the milk of the Amalthaean goat.\nBy the virtue of Acheron, he justled, bulled, and lastauriated in one day\nthe third part of the world, beasts and people, floods and mountains; that\nwas Europa.  For this grand subagitatory achievement the Ammonians caused\ndraw, delineate, and paint him in the figure and shape of a ram ramming,\nand horned ram.  But I know well enough how to shield and preserve myself\nfrom that horned champion.  He will not, trust me, have to deal in my\nperson with a sottish, dunsical Amphitryon, nor with a silly witless Argus,\nfor all his hundred spectacles, nor yet with the cowardly meacock Acrisius,\nthe simple goose-cap Lycus of Thebes, the doting blockhead Agenor, the\nphlegmatic pea-goose Aesop, rough-footed Lycaon, the luskish misshapen\nCorytus of Tuscany, nor with the large-backed and strong-reined Atlas.  Let\nhim alter, change, transform, and metamorphose himself into a hundred\nvarious shapes and figures, into a swan, a bull, a satyr, a shower of gold,\nor into a cuckoo, as he did when he unmaidened his sister Juno; into an\neagle, ram, or dove, as when he was enamoured of the virgin Phthia, who\nthen dwelt in the Aegean territory; into fire, a serpent, yea, even into a\nflea; into Epicurean and Democratical atoms, or, more\nMagistronostralistically, into those sly intentions of the mind, which in\nthe schools are called second notions,--I'll catch him in the nick, and\ntake him napping.  And would you know what I would do unto him?  Even that\nwhich to his father Coelum Saturn did--Seneca foretold it of me, and\nLactantius hath confirmed it--what the goddess Rhea did to Athis.  I would\nmake him two stone lighter, rid him of his Cyprian cymbals, and cut so\nclose and neatly by the breech, that there shall not remain thereof so much\nas one--, so cleanly would I shave him, and disable him for ever from being\nPope, for Testiculos non habet.  Hold there, said Pantagruel; ho, soft and\nfair, my lad!  Enough of that,--cast up, turn over the leaves, and try your\nfortune for the second time.  Then did he fall upon this ensuing verse:\n\n  Membra quatit, gelidusque coit formidine sanguis.\n\n  His joints and members quake, he becomes pale,\n  And sudden fear doth his cold blood congeal.\n\nThis importeth, quoth Pantagruel, that she will soundly bang your back and\nbelly.  Clean and quite contrary, answered Panurge; it is of me that he\nprognosticates, in saying that I will beat her like a tiger if she vex me.\nSir Martin Wagstaff will perform that office, and in default of a cudgel,\nthe devil gulp him, if I should not eat her up quick, as Candaul the Lydian\nking did his wife, whom he ravened and devoured.\n\nYou are very stout, says Pantagruel, and courageous; Hercules himself durst\nhardly adventure to scuffle with you in this your raging fury.  Nor is it\nstrange; for the Jan is worth two, and two in fight against Hercules are\ntoo too strong.  Am I a Jan? quoth Panurge.  No, no, answered Pantagruel.\nMy mind was only running upon the lurch and tricktrack.  Thereafter did he\nhit, at the third opening of the book, upon this verse:\n\n  Foemineo praedae, et spoliorum ardebat amore.\n\n  After the spoil and pillage, as in fire,\n  He burnt with a strong feminine desire.\n\nThis portendeth, quoth Pantagruel, that she will steal your goods, and rob\nyou.  Hence this, according to these three drawn lots, will be your future\ndestiny, I clearly see it,--you will be a cuckold, you will be beaten, and\nyou will be robbed.  Nay, it is quite otherwise, quoth Panurge; for it is\ncertain that this verse presageth that she will love me with a perfect\nliking.  Nor did the satyr-writing poet lie in proof hereof, when he\naffirmed that a woman, burning with extreme affection, takes sometimes\npleasure to steal from her sweetheart.  And what, I pray you?  A glove, a\npoint, or some such trifling toy of no importance, to make him keep a\ngentle kind of stirring in the research and quest thereof.  In like manner,\nthese small scolding debates and petty brabbling contentions, which\nfrequently we see spring up and for a certain space boil very hot betwixt a\ncouple of high-spirited lovers, are nothing else but recreative diversions\nfor their refreshment, spurs to and incentives of a more fervent amity than\never.  As, for example, we do sometimes see cutlers with hammers maul their\nfinest whetstones, therewith to sharpen their iron tools the better.  And\ntherefore do I think that these three lots make much for my advantage;\nwhich, if not, I from their sentence totally appeal.  There is no\nappellation, quoth Pantagruel, from the decrees of fate or destiny, of lot\nor chance; as is recorded by our ancient lawyers, witness Baldus, Lib. ult.\nCap. de Leg.  The reason hereof is, Fortune doth not acknowledge a\nsuperior, to whom an appeal may be made from her or any of her substitutes.\nAnd in this case the pupil cannot be restored to his right in full, as\nopenly by the said author is alleged in L. Ait Praetor, paragr. ult. ff. de\nminor.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel adviseth Panurge to try the future good or bad luck of his\nmarriage by dreams.\n\nNow, seeing we cannot agree together in the manner of expounding or\ninterpreting the sense of the Virgilian lots, let us bend our course\nanother way, and try a new sort of divination.  Of what kind? asked\nPanurge.  Of a good ancient and authentic fashion, answered Pantagruel; it\nis by dreams.  For in dreaming, such circumstances and conditions being\nthereto adhibited, as are clearly enough described by Hippocrates, in Lib.\nPeri ton enupnion, by Plato, Plotin, Iamblicus, Sinesius, Aristotle,\nXenophon, Galen, Plutarch, Artemidorus, Daldianus, Herophilus, Q. Calaber,\nTheocritus, Pliny, Athenaeus, and others, the soul doth oftentimes foresee\nwhat is to come.  How true this is, you may conceive by a very vulgar and\nfamiliar example; as when you see that at such a time as suckling babes,\nwell nourished, fed, and fostered with good milk, sleep soundly and\nprofoundly, the nurses in the interim get leave to sport themselves, and\nare licentiated to recreate their fancies at what range to them shall seem\nmost fitting and expedient, their presence, sedulity, and attendance on\nthe cradle being, during all that space, held unnecessary.  Even just so,\nwhen our body is at rest, that the concoction is everywhere accomplished,\nand that, till it awake, it lacks for nothing, our soul delighteth to\ndisport itself and is well pleased in that frolic to take a review of its\nnative country, which is the heavens, where it receiveth a most notable\nparticipation of its first beginning with an imbuement from its divine\nsource, and in contemplation of that infinite and intellectual sphere,\nwhereof the centre is everywhere, and the circumference in no place of the\nuniversal world, to wit, God, according to the doctrine of Hermes\nTrismegistus, to whom no new thing happeneth, whom nothing that is past\nescapeth, and unto whom all things are alike present, remarketh not only\nwhat is preterit and gone in the inferior course and agitation of sublunary\nmatters, but withal taketh notice what is to come; then bringing a relation\nof those future events unto the body of the outward senses and exterior\norgans, it is divulged abroad unto the hearing of others.  Whereupon the\nowner of that soul deserveth to be termed a vaticinator, or prophet.\nNevertheless, the truth is, that the soul is seldom able to report those\nthings in such sincerity as it hath seen them, by reason of the\nimperfection and frailty of the corporeal senses, which obstruct the\neffectuating of that office; even as the moon doth not communicate unto\nthis earth of ours that light which she receiveth from the sun with so much\nsplendour, heat, vigour, purity, and liveliness as it was given her.  Hence\nit is requisite for the better reading, explaining, and unfolding of these\nsomniatory vaticinations and predictions of that nature, that a dexterous,\nlearned, skilful, wise, industrious, expert, rational, and peremptory\nexpounder or interpreter be pitched upon, such a one as by the Greeks is\ncalled onirocrit, or oniropolist.  For this cause Heraclitus was wont to\nsay that nothing is by dreams revealed to us, that nothing is by dreams\nconcealed from us, and that only we thereby have a mystical signification\nand secret evidence of things to come, either for our own prosperous or\nunlucky fortune, or for the favourable or disastrous success of another.\nThe sacred Scriptures testify no less, and profane histories assure us of\nit, in both which are exposed to our view a thousand several kinds of\nstrange adventures, which have befallen pat according to the nature of the\ndream, and that as well to the party dreamer as to others.  The Atlantic\npeople, and those that inhabit the (is)land of Thasos, one of the Cyclades,\nare of this grand commodity deprived; for in their countries none yet ever\ndreamed.  Of this sort (were) Cleon of Daulia, Thrasymedes, and in our days\nthe learned Frenchman Villanovanus, neither of all which knew what dreaming\nwas.\n\nFail not therefore to-morrow, when the jolly and fair Aurora with her rosy\nfingers draweth aside the curtains of the night to drive away the sable\nshades of darkness, to bend your spirits wholly to the task of sleeping\nsound, and thereto apply yourself.  In the meanwhile you must denude your\nmind of every human passion or affection, such as are love and hatred, fear\nand hope, for as of old the great vaticinator, most famous and renowned\nprophet Proteus, was not able in his disguise or transformation into fire,\nwater, a tiger, a dragon, and other such like uncouth shapes and visors, to\npresage anything that was to come till he was restored to his own first\nnatural and kindly form; just so doth man; for, at his reception of the art\nof divination and faculty of prognosticating future things, that part in\nhim which is the most divine, to wit, the Nous, or Mens, must be calm,\npeaceable, untroubled, quiet, still, hushed, and not embusied or distracted\nwith foreign, soul-disturbing perturbations.  I am content, quoth Panurge.\nBut, I pray you, sir, must I this evening, ere I go to bed, eat much or\nlittle?  I do not ask this without cause.  For if I sup not well, large,\nround, and amply, my sleeping is not worth a forked turnip.  All the night\nlong I then but doze and rave, and in my slumbering fits talk idle\nnonsense, my thoughts being in a dull brown study, and as deep in their\ndumps as is my belly hollow.\n\nNot to sup, answered Pantagruel, were best for you, considering the state\nof your complexion and healthy constitution of your body.  A certain very\nancient prophet, named Amphiaraus, wished such as had a mind by dreams to\nbe imbued with any oracle, for four-and-twenty hours to taste no victuals,\nand to abstain from wine three days together.  Yet shall not you be put to\nsuch a sharp, hard, rigorous, and extreme sparing diet.  I am truly right\napt to believe that a man whose stomach is replete with various cheer, and\nin a manner surfeited with drinking, is hardly able to conceive aright of\nspiritual things; yet am not I of the opinion of those who, after long and\npertinacious fastings, think by such means to enter more profoundly into\nthe speculation of celestial mysteries.  You may very well remember how my\nfather Gargantua (whom here for honour sake I name) hath often told us that\nthe writings of abstinent, abstemious, and long-fasting hermits were every\nwhit as saltless, dry, jejune, and insipid as were their bodies when they\ndid compose them.  It is a most difficult thing for the spirits to be in a\ngood plight, serene and lively, when there is nothing in the body but a\nkind of voidness and inanity; seeing the philosophers with the physicians\njointly affirm that the spirits which are styled animal spring from, and\nhave their constant practice in and through the arterial blood, refined and\npurified to the life within the admirable net which, wonderfully framed,\nlieth under the ventricles and tunnels of the brain.  He gave us also the\nexample of the philosopher who, when he thought most seriously to have\nwithdrawn himself unto a solitary privacy, far from the rustling\nclutterments of the tumultuous and confused world, the better to improve\nhis theory, to contrive, comment, and ratiocinate, was, notwithstanding his\nuttermost endeavours to free himself from all untoward noises, surrounded\nand environed about so with the barking of curs, bawling of mastiffs,\nbleating of sheep, prating of parrots, tattling of jackdaws, grunting of\nswine, girning of boars, yelping of foxes, mewing of cats, cheeping of\nmice, squeaking of weasels, croaking of frogs, crowing of cocks, cackling\nof hens, calling of partridges, chanting of swans, chattering of jays,\npeeping of chickens, singing of larks, creaking of geese, chirping of\nswallows, clucking of moorfowls, cucking of cuckoos, bumbling of bees,\nrammage of hawks, chirming of linnets, croaking of ravens, screeching of\nowls, whicking of pigs, gushing of hogs, curring of pigeons, grumbling of\ncushat-doves, howling of panthers, curkling of quails, chirping of\nsparrows, crackling of crows, nuzzing of camels, wheening of whelps,\nbuzzing of dromedaries, mumbling of rabbits, cricking of ferrets, humming\nof wasps, mioling of tigers, bruzzing of bears, sussing of kitlings,\nclamouring of scarfs, whimpering of fulmarts, booing of buffaloes, warbling\nof nightingales, quavering of mavises, drintling of turkeys, coniating of\nstorks, frantling of peacocks, clattering of magpies, murmuring of\nstock-doves, crouting of cormorants, cigling of locusts, charming of\nbeagles, guarring of puppies, snarling of messens, rantling of rats,\nguerieting of apes, snuttering of monkeys, pioling of pelicans, quacking of\nducks, yelling of wolves, roaring of lions, neighing of horses, crying of\nelephants, hissing of serpents, and wailing of turtles, that he was much\nmore troubled than if he had been in the middle of the crowd at the fair of\nFontenay or Niort.  Just so is it with those who are tormented with the\ngrievous pangs of hunger.  The stomach begins to gnaw, and bark, as it were,\nthe eyes to look dim, and the veins, by greedily sucking some refection to\nthemselves from the proper substance of all the members of a fleshy\nconsistence, violently pull down and draw back that vagrant, roaming spirit,\ncareless and neglecting of his nurse and natural host, which is the body; as\nwhen a hawk upon the fist, willing to take her flight by a soaring aloft in\nthe open spacious air, is on a sudden drawn back by a leash tied to her\nfeet.\n\nTo this purpose also did he allege unto us the authority of Homer, the\nfather of all philosophy, who said that the Grecians did not put an end to\ntheir mournful mood for the death of Patroclus, the most intimate friend of\nAchilles, till hunger in a rage declared herself, and their bellies\nprotested to furnish no more tears unto their grief.  For from bodies\nemptied and macerated by long fasting there could not be such supply of\nmoisture and brackish drops as might be proper on that occasion.\n\nMediocrity at all times is commendable; nor in this case are you to abandon\nit.  You may take a little supper, but thereat must you not eat of a hare,\nnor of any other flesh.  You are likewise to abstain from beans, from the\npreak, by some called the polyp, as also from coleworts, cabbage, and all\nother such like windy victuals, which may endanger the troubling of your\nbrains and the dimming or casting a kind of mist over your animal spirits.\nFor, as a looking-glass cannot exhibit the semblance or representation of\nthe object set before it, and exposed to have its image to the life\nexpressed, if that the polished sleekedness thereof be darkened by gross\nbreathings, dampish vapours, and foggy, thick, infectious exhalations, even\nso the fancy cannot well receive the impression of the likeness of those\nthings which divination doth afford by dreams, if any way the body be\nannoyed or troubled with the fumish steam of meat which it had taken in a\nwhile before; because betwixt these two there still hath been a mutual\nsympathy and fellow-feeling of an indissolubly knit affection.  You shall\neat good Eusebian and Bergamot pears, one apple of the short-shank pippin\nkind, a parcel of the little plums of Tours, and some few cherries of the\ngrowth of my orchard.  Nor shall you need to fear that thereupon will ensue\ndoubtful dreams, fallacious, uncertain, and not to be trusted to, as by\nsome peripatetic philosophers hath been related; for that, say they, men do\nmore copiously in the season of harvest feed on fruitages than at any other\ntime.  The same is mystically taught us by the ancient prophets and poets,\nwho allege that all vain and deceitful dreams lie hid and in covert under\nthe leaves which are spread on the ground--by reason that the leaves fall\nfrom the trees in the autumnal quarter.  For the natural fervour which,\nabounding in ripe, fresh, recent fruits, cometh by the quickness of its\nebullition to be with ease evaporated into the animal parts of the dreaming\nperson--the experiment is obvious in most--is a pretty while before it be\nexpired, dissolved, and evanished.  As for your drink, you are to have it\nof the fair, pure water of my fountain.\n\nThe condition, quoth Panurge, is very hard.  Nevertheless, cost what price\nit will, or whatsoever come of it, I heartily condescend thereto;\nprotesting that I shall to-morrow break my fast betimes after my somniatory\nexercitations.  Furthermore, I recommend myself to Homer's two gates, to\nMorpheus, to Iselon, to Phantasus, and unto Phobetor.  If they in this my\ngreat need succour me and grant me that assistance which is fitting, I will\nin honour of them all erect a jolly, genteel altar, composed of the softest\ndown.  If I were now in Laconia, in the temple of Juno, betwixt Oetile and\nThalamis, she suddenly would disentangle my perplexity, resolve me of my\ndoubts, and cheer me up with fair and jovial dreams in a deep sleep.\n\nThen did he say thus unto Pantagruel:  Sir, were it not expedient for my\npurpose to put a branch or two of curious laurel betwixt the quilt and\nbolster of my bed, under the pillow on which my head must lean?  There is\nno need at all of that, quoth Pantagruel; for, besides that it is a thing\nvery superstitious, the cheat thereof hath been at large discovered unto us\nin the writings of Serapion, Ascalonites, Antiphon, Philochorus, Artemon,\nand Fulgentius Planciades.  I could say as much to you of the left shoulder\nof a crocodile, as also of a chameleon, without prejudice be it spoken to\nthe credit which is due to the opinion of old Democritus; and likewise of\nthe stone of the Bactrians, called Eumetrides, and of the Ammonian horn;\nfor so by the Aethiopians is termed a certain precious stone, coloured like\ngold, and in the fashion, shape, form, and proportion of a ram's horn, as\nthe horn of Jupiter Ammon is reported to have been:  they over and above\nassuredly affirming that the dreams of those who carry it about them are no\nless veritable and infallible than the truth of the divine oracles.  Nor is\nthis much unlike to what Homer and Virgil wrote of these two gates of\nsleep, to which you have been pleased to recommend the management of what\nyou have in hand.  The one is of ivory, which letteth in confused,\ndoubtful, and uncertain dreams; for through ivory, how small and slender\nsoever it be, we can see nothing, the density, opacity, and close\ncompactedness of its material parts hindering the penetration of the visual\nrays and the reception of the specieses of such things as are visible.  The\nother is of horn, at which an entry is made to sure and certain dreams,\neven as through horn, by reason of the diaphanous splendour and bright\ntransparency thereof, the species of all objects of the sight distinctly\npass, and so without confusion appear, that they are clearly seen.  Your\nmeaning is, and you would thereby infer, quoth Friar John, that the dreams\nof all horned cuckolds, of which number Panurge, by the help of God and his\nfuture wife, is without controversy to be one, are always true and\ninfallible.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPanurge's dream, with the interpretation thereof.\n\nAt seven o'clock of the next following morning Panurge did not fail to\npresent himself before Pantagruel, in whose chamber were at that time\nEpistemon, Friar John of the Funnels, Ponocrates, Eudemon, Carpalin, and\nothers, to whom, at the entry of Panurge, Pantagruel said, Lo! here cometh\nour dreamer.  That word, quoth Epistemon, in ancient times cost very much,\nand was dearly sold to the children of Jacob.  Then said Panurge, I have\nbeen plunged into my dumps so deeply, as if I had been lodged with Gaffer\nNoddy-cap.  Dreamed indeed I have, and that right lustily; but I could take\nalong with me no more thereof that I did goodly understand save only that I\nin my vision had a pretty, fair, young, gallant, handsome woman, who no\nless lovingly and kindly treated and entertained me, hugged, cherished,\ncockered, dandled, and made much of me, as if I had been another neat\ndilly-darling minion, like Adonis.  Never was man more glad than I was\nthen; my joy at that time was incomparable.  She flattered me, tickled me,\nstroked me, groped me, frizzled me, curled me, kissed me, embraced me, laid\nher hands about my neck, and now and then made jestingly pretty little\nhorns above my forehead.  I told her in the like disport, as I did play the\nfool with her, that she should rather place and fix them in a little below\nmine eyes, that I might see the better what I should stick at with them;\nfor, being so situated, Momus then would find no fault therewith, as he did\nonce with the position of the horns of bulls.  The wanton, toying girl,\nnotwithstanding any remonstrance of mine to the contrary, did always drive\nand thrust them further in; yet thereby, which to me seemed wonderful, she\ndid not do me any hurt at all.  A little after, though I know not how, I\nthought I was transformed into a tabor, and she into a chough.\n\nMy sleeping there being interrupted, I awaked in a start, angry,\ndispleased, perplexed, chafing, and very wroth.  There have you a large\nplatterful of dreams, make thereupon good cheer, and, if you please, spare\nnot to interpret them according to the understanding which you may have in\nthem.  Come, Carpalin, let us to breakfast.  To my sense and meaning, quoth\nPantagruel, if I have skill or knowledge in the art of divination by\ndreams, your wife will not really, and to the outward appearance of the\nworld, plant or set horns, and stick them fast in your forehead, after a\nvisible manner, as satyrs use to wear and carry them; but she will be so\nfar from preserving herself loyal in the discharge and observance of a\nconjugal duty, that, on the contrary, she will violate her plighted faith,\nbreak her marriage-oath, infringe all matrimonial ties, prostitute her body\nto the dalliance of other men, and so make you a cuckold.  This point is\nclearly and manifestly explained and expounded by Artemidorus just as I\nhave related it.  Nor will there be any metamorphosis or transmutation made\nof you into a drum or tabor, but you will surely be as soundly beaten as\never was tabor at a merry wedding.  Nor yet will she be changed into a\nchough, but will steal from you, chiefly in the night, as is the nature of\nthat thievish bird.  Hereby may you perceive your dreams to be in every jot\nconform and agreeable to the Virgilian lots.  A cuckold you will be, beaten\nand robbed.  Then cried out Father John with a loud voice, He tells the\ntruth; upon my conscience, thou wilt be a cuckold--an honest one, I warrant\nthee.  O the brave horns that will be borne by thee!  Ha, ha, ha!  Our good\nMaster de Cornibus.  God save thee, and shield thee!  Wilt thou be pleased\nto preach but two words of a sermon to us, and I will go through the parish\nchurch to gather up alms for the poor.\n\nYou are, quoth Panurge, very far mistaken in your interpretation; for the\nmatter is quite contrary to your sense thereof.  My dream presageth that I\nshall by marriage be stored with plenty of all manner of goods--the\nhornifying of me showing that I will possess a cornucopia, that Amalthaean\nhorn which is called the horn of abundance, whereof the fruition did still\nportend the wealth of the enjoyer.  You possibly will say that they are\nrather like to be satyr's horns; for you of these did make some mention.\nAmen, Amen, Fiat, fiatur, ad differentiam papae.  Thus shall I have my\ntouch-her-home still ready.  My staff of love, sempiternally in a good\ncase, will, satyr-like, be never toiled out--a thing which all men wish\nfor, and send up their prayers to that purpose, but such a thing as\nnevertheless is granted but to a few.  Hence doth it follow by a\nconsequence as clear as the sunbeams that I will never be in the danger of\nbeing made a cuckold, for the defect hereof is Causa sine qua non; yea, the\nsole cause, as many think, of making husbands cuckolds.  What makes poor\nscoundrel rogues to beg, I pray you?  Is it not because they have not\nenough at home wherewith to fill their bellies and their pokes?  What is it\nmakes the wolves to leave the woods?  Is it not the want of flesh meat?\nWhat maketh women whores?  You understand me well enough.  And herein may I\nvery well submit my opinion to the judgment of learned lawyers, presidents,\ncounsellors, advocates, procurers, attorneys, and other glossers and\ncommentators on the venerable rubric, De frigidis et maleficiatis.  You\nare, in truth, sir, as it seems to me (excuse my boldness if I have\ntransgressed), in a most palpable and absurd error to attribute my horns to\ncuckoldry.  Diana wears them on her head after the manner of a crescent.\nIs she a cucquean for that?  How the devil can she be cuckolded who never\nyet was married?  Speak somewhat more correctly, I beseech you, lest she,\nbeing offended, furnish you with a pair of horns shapen by the pattern of\nthose which she made for Actaeon.  The goodly Bacchus also carries horns,\n--Pan, Jupiter Ammon, with a great many others.  Are they all cuckolds?  If\nJove be a cuckold, Juno is a whore.  This follows by the figure metalepsis:\nas to call a child, in the presence of his father and mother, a bastard, or\nwhore's son, is tacitly and underboard no less than if he had said openly\nthe father is a cuckold and his wife a punk.  Let our discourse come nearer\nto the purpose.  The horns that my wife did make me are horns of abundance,\nplanted and grafted in my head for the increase and shooting up of all good\nthings.  This will I affirm for truth, upon my word, and pawn my faith and\ncredit both upon it.  As for the rest, I will be no less joyful, frolic,\nglad, cheerful, merry, jolly, and gamesome, than a well-bended tabor in the\nhands of a good drummer at a nuptial feast, still making a noise, still\nrolling, still buzzing and cracking.  Believe me, sir, in that consisteth\nnone of my least good fortunes.  And my wife will be jocund, feat, compt,\nneat, quaint, dainty, trim, tricked up, brisk, smirk, and smug, even as a\npretty little Cornish chough.  Who will not believe this, let hell or the\ngallows be the burden of his Christmas carol.\n\nI remark, quoth Pantagruel, the last point or particle which you did speak\nof, and, having seriously conferred it with the first, find that at the\nbeginning you were delighted with the sweetness of your dream; but in the\nend and final closure of it you startingly awaked, and on a sudden were\nforthwith vexed in choler and annoyed.  Yea, quoth Panurge, the reason of\nthat was because I had fasted too long.  Flatter not yourself, quoth\nPantagruel; all will go to ruin.  Know for a certain truth, that every\nsleep that endeth with a starting, and leaves the person irksome, grieved,\nand fretting, doth either signify a present evil, or otherwise presageth\nand portendeth a future imminent mishap.  To signify an evil, that is to\nsay, to show some sickness hardly curable, a kind of pestilentious or\nmalignant boil, botch, or sore, lying and lurking hid, occult, and latent\nwithin the very centre of the body, which many times doth by the means of\nsleep, whose nature is to reinforce and strengthen the faculty and virtue\nof concoction, being according to the theorems of physic to declare itself,\nand moves toward the outward superficies.  At this sad stirring is the\nsleeper's rest and ease disturbed and broken, whereof the first feeling and\nstinging smart admonisheth that he must patiently endure great pain and\ntrouble, and thereunto provide some remedy; as when we say proverbially, to\nincense hornets, to move a stinking puddle, and to awake a sleeping lion,\ninstead of these more usual expressions, and of a more familiar and plain\nmeaning, to provoke angry persons, to make a thing the worse by meddling\nwith it, and to irritate a testy choleric man when he is at quiet.  On the\nother part, to presage or foretell an evil, especially in what concerneth\nthe exploits of the soul in matter of somnial divinations, is as much to\nsay as that it giveth us to understand that some dismal fortune or\nmischance is destinated and prepared for us, which shortly will not fail to\ncome to pass.  A clear and evident example hereof is to be found in the\ndream and dreadful awaking of Hecuba, as likewise in that of Eurydice, the\nwife of Orpheus, neither of which was (no) sooner finished, saith Ennius,\nbut that incontinently thereafter they awaked in a start, and were\naffrighted horribly.  Thereupon these accidents ensued:  Hecuba had her\nhusband Priamus, together with her children, slain before her eyes, and saw\nthen the destruction of her country; and Eurydice died speedily thereafter\nin a most miserable manner.  Aeneas, dreaming that he spoke to Hector a\nlittle after his decease, did on a sudden in a great start awake, and was\nafraid.  Now hereupon did follow this event:  Troy that same night was\nspoiled, sacked, and burnt.  At another time the same Aeneas dreaming that\nhe saw his familiar geniuses and penates, in a ghastly fright and\nastonishment awaked, of which terror and amazement the issue was, that the\nvery next day subsequent, by a most horrible tempest on the sea, he was\nlike to have perished and been cast away.  Moreover, Turnus being prompted,\ninstigated, and stirred up by the fantastic vision of an infernal fury to\nenter into a bloody war against Aeneas, awaked in a start much troubled and\ndisquieted in spirit; in sequel whereof, after many notable and famous\nrouts, defeats, and discomfitures in open field, he came at last to be\nkilled in a single combat by the said Aeneas.  A thousand other instances I\ncould afford, if it were needful, of this matter.  Whilst I relate these\nstories of Aeneas, remark the saying of Fabius Pictor, who faithfully\naverred that nothing had at any time befallen unto, was done, or\nenterprised by him, whereof he preallably had not notice, and beforehand\nforeseen it to the full, by sure predictions altogether founded on the\noracles of somnial divination.  To this there is no want of pregnant\nreasons, no more than of examples.  For if repose and rest in sleeping be a\nspecial gift and favour of the gods, as is maintained by the philosophers,\nand by the poet attested in these lines,\n\n  Then sleep, that heavenly gift, came to refresh\n  Of human labourers the wearied flesh;\n\nsuch a gift or benefit can never finish or terminate in wrath and\nindignation without portending some unlucky fate and most disastrous\nfortune to ensue.  Otherwise it were a molestation, and not an ease; a\nscourge, and not a gift; at least, (not) proceeding from the gods above,\nbut from the infernal devils our enemies, according to the common vulgar\nsaying.\n\nSuppose the lord, father, or master of a family, sitting at a very\nsumptuous dinner, furnished with all manner of good cheer, and having at\nhis entry to the table his appetite sharp set upon his victuals, whereof\nthere was great plenty, should be seen rise in a start, and on a sudden\nfling out of his chair, abandoning his meat, frighted, appalled, and in a\nhorrid terror, who should not know the cause hereof would wonder, and be\nastonished exceedingly.  But what? he heard his male servants cry, Fire,\nfire, fire, fire! his serving-maids and women yell, Stop thief, stop thief!\nand all his children shout as loud as ever they could, Murder, O murder,\nmurder!  Then was it not high time for him to leave his banqueting, for\napplication of a remedy in haste, and to give speedy order for succouring\nof his distressed household?  Truly I remember that the Cabalists and\nMassorets, interpreters of the sacred Scriptures, in treating how with\nverity one might judge of evangelical apparitions (because oftentimes the\nangel of Satan is disguised and transfigured into an angel of light), said\nthat the difference of these two mainly did consist in this:  the\nfavourable and comforting angel useth in his appearing unto man at first to\nterrify and hugely affright him, but in the end he bringeth consolation,\nleaveth the person who hath seen him joyful, well-pleased, fully content,\nand satisfied; on the other side, the angel of perdition, that wicked,\ndevilish, and malignant spirit, at his appearance unto any person in the\nbeginning cheereth up the heart of his beholder, but at last forsakes him,\nand leaves him troubled, angry, and perplexed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPanurge's excuse and exposition of the monastic mystery concerning powdered\nbeef.\n\nThe Lord save those who see, and do not hear! quoth Panurge.  I see you\nwell enough, but know not what it is that you have said.  The\nhunger-starved belly wanteth ears.  For lack of victuals, before God, I\nroar, bray, yell, and fume as in a furious madness.  I have performed too\nhard a task to-day, an extraordinary work indeed.  He shall be craftier, and\ndo far greater wonders than ever did Mr. Mush, who shall be able any more\nthis year to bring me on the stage of preparation for a dreaming verdict.\nFie! not to sup at all, that is the devil.  Pox take that fashion!  Come,\nFriar John, let us go break our fast; for, if I hit on such a round\nrefection in the morning as will serve thoroughly to fill the mill-hopper\nand hogs-hide of my stomach, and furnish it with meat and drink sufficient,\nthen at a pinch, as in the case of some extreme necessity which presseth, I\ncould make a shift that day to forbear dining.  But not to sup!  A plague\nrot that base custom, which is an error offensive to Nature!  That lady made\nthe day for exercise, to travel, work, wait on and labour in each his\nnegotiation and employment; and that we may with the more fervency and\nardour prosecute our business, she sets before us a clear burning candle, to\nwit, the sun's resplendency; and at night, when she begins to take the light\nfrom us, she thereby tacitly implies no less than if she would have spoken\nthus unto us:  My lads and lasses, all of you are good and honest folks, you\nhave wrought well to-day, toiled and turmoiled enough,--the night\napproacheth,--therefore cast off these moiling cares of yours, desist from\nall your swinking painful labours, and set your minds how to refresh your\nbodies in the renewing of their vigour with good bread, choice wine, and\nstore of wholesome meats; then may you take some sport and recreation, and\nafter that lie down and rest yourselves, that you may strongly, nimbly,\nlustily, and with the more alacrity to-morrow attend on your affairs as\nformerly.\n\nFalconers, in like manner, when they have fed their hawks, will not suffer\nthem to fly on a full gorge, but let them on a perch abide a little, that\nthey may rouse, bait, tower, and soar the better.  That good pope who was\nthe first institutor of fasting understood this well enough; for he\nordained that our fast should reach but to the hour of noon; all the\nremainder of that day was at our disposure, freely to eat and feed at any\ntime thereof.  In ancient times there were but few that dined, as you would\nsay, some church men, monks and canons; for they have little other\noccupation.  Each day is a festival unto them, who diligently heed the\nclaustral proverb, De missa ad mensam.  They do not use to linger and defer\ntheir sitting down and placing of themselves at table, only so long as they\nhave a mind in waiting for the coming of the abbot; so they fell to without\nceremony, terms, or conditions; and everybody supped, unless it were some\nvain, conceited, dreaming dotard.  Hence was a supper called coena, which\nshoweth that it is common to all sorts of people.  Thou knowest it well,\nFriar John.  Come, let us go, my dear friend, in the name of all the devils\nof the infernal regions, let us go.  The gnawings of my stomach in this\nrage of hunger are so tearing, that they make it bark like a mastiff.  Let\nus throw some bread and beef into his throat to pacify him, as once the\nsibyl did to Cerberus.  Thou likest best monastical brewis, the prime, the\nflower of the pot.  I am for the solid, principal verb that comes after\n--the good brown loaf, always accompanied with a round slice of the\nnine-lecture-powdered labourer.  I know thy meaning, answered Friar John;\nthis metaphor is extracted out of the claustral kettle.  The labourer is the\nox that hath wrought and done the labour; after the fashion of nine\nlectures, that is to say, most exquisitely well and thoroughly boiled.\nThese holy religious fathers, by a certain cabalistic institution of the\nancients, not written, but carefully by tradition conveyed from hand to\nhand, rising betimes to go to morning prayers, were wont to flourish that\ntheir matutinal devotion with some certain notable preambles before their\nentry into the church, viz., they dunged in the dungeries, pissed in the\npisseries, spit in the spitteries, melodiously coughed in the cougheries,\nand doted in their dotaries, that to the divine service they might not bring\nanything that was unclean or foul.  These things thus done, they very\nzealously made their repair to the Holy Chapel, for so was in their canting\nlanguage termed the convent kitchen, where they with no small earnestness\nhad care that the beef-pot should be put on the crook for the breakfast of\nthe religious brothers of our Lord and Saviour; and the fire they would\nkindle under the pot themselves.  Now, the matins consisting of nine\nlessons, (it) it was so incumbent on them, that must have risen the rather\nfor the more expedite despatching of them all.  The sooner that they rose,\nthe sharper was their appetite and the barkings of their stomachs, and the\ngnawings increased in the like proportion, and consequently made these godly\nmen thrice more a-hungered and athirst than when their matins were hemmed\nover only with three lessons.  The more betimes they rose, by the said\ncabal, the sooner was the beef-pot put on; the longer that the beef was on\nthe fire, the better it was boiled; the more it boiled, it was the tenderer;\nthe tenderer that it was, the less it troubled the teeth, delighted more the\npalate, less charged the stomach, and nourished our good religious men the\nmore substantially; which is the only end and prime intention of the first\nfounders, as appears by this, that they eat not to live, but live to eat,\nand in this world have nothing but their life.  Let us go, Panurge.\n\nNow have I understood thee, quoth Panurge, my plushcod friar, my caballine\nand claustral ballock.  I freely quit the costs, interest, and charges,\nseeing you have so egregiously commented upon the most especial chapter of\nthe culinary and monastic cabal.  Come along, my Carpalin, and you, Friar\nJohn, my leather-dresser.  Good morrow to you all, my good lords; I have\ndreamed too much to have so little.  Let us go.  Panurge had no sooner done\nspeaking than Epistemon with a loud voice said these words:  It is a very\nordinary and common thing amongst men to conceive, foresee, know, and\npresage the misfortune, bad luck, or disaster of another; but to have the\nunderstanding, providence, knowledge, and prediction of a man's own mishap\nis very scarce and rare to be found anywhere.  This is exceeding\njudiciously and prudently deciphered by Aesop in his Apologues, who there\naffirmeth that every man in the world carrieth about his neck a wallet, in\nthe fore-bag whereof were contained the faults and mischances of others\nalways exposed to his view and knowledge; and in the other scrip thereof,\nwhich hangs behind, are kept the bearer's proper transgressions and\ninauspicious adventures, at no time seen by him, nor thought upon, unless\nhe be a person that hath a favourable aspect from the heavens.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel adviseth Panurge to consult with the Sibyl of Panzoust.\n\nA little while thereafter Pantagruel sent for Panurge and said unto him,\nThe affection which I bear you being now inveterate and settled in my mind\nby a long continuance of time, prompteth me to the serious consideration of\nyour welfare and profit; in order whereto, remark what I have thought\nthereon.  It hath been told me that at Panzoust, near Crouly, dwelleth a\nvery famous sibyl, who is endowed with the skill of foretelling all things\nto come.  Take Epistemon in your company, repair towards her, and hear what\nshe will say unto you.  She is possibly, quoth Epistemon, some Canidia,\nSagana, or Pythonissa, either whereof with us is vulgarly called a witch,\n--I being the more easily induced to give credit to the truth of this\ncharacter of her, that the place of her abode is vilely stained with the\nabominable repute of abounding more with sorcerers and witches than ever\ndid the plains of Thessaly.  I should not, to my thinking, go thither\nwillingly, for that it seems to me a thing unwarrantable, and altogether\nforbidden in the law of Moses.  We are not Jews, quoth Pantagruel, nor is\nit a matter judiciously confessed by her, nor authentically proved by\nothers that she is a witch.  Let us for the present suspend our judgment,\nand defer till after your return from thence the sifting and garbling of\nthose niceties.  Do we know but that she may be an eleventh sibyl or a\nsecond Cassandra?  But although she were neither, and she did not merit the\nname or title of any of these renowned prophetesses, what hazard, in the\nname of God, do you run by offering to talk and confer with her of the\ninstant perplexity and perturbation of your thoughts?  Seeing especially,\nand which is most of all, she is, in the estimation of those that are\nacquainted with her, held to know more, and to be of a deeper reach of\nunderstanding, than is either customary to the country wherein she liveth\nor to the sex whereof she is.  What hindrance, hurt, or harm doth the\nlaudable desire of knowledge bring to any man, were it from a sot, a pot, a\nfool, a stool, a winter mitten, a truckle for a pulley, the lid of a\ngoldsmith's crucible, an oil-bottle, or old slipper?  You may remember to\nhave read, or heard at least, that Alexander the Great, immediately after\nhis having obtained a glorious victory over the King Darius in Arbela,\nrefused, in the presence of the splendid and illustrious courtiers that\nwere about him, to give audience to a poor certain despicable-like fellow,\nwho through the solicitations and mediation of some of his royal attendants\nwas admitted humbly to beg that grace and favour of him.  But sore did he\nrepent, although in vain, a thousand and ten thousand times thereafter, the\nsurly state which he then took upon him to the denial of so just a suit,\nthe grant whereof would have been worth unto him the value of a brace of\npotent cities.  He was indeed victorious in Persia, but withal so far\ndistant from Macedonia, his hereditary kingdom, that the joy of the one did\nnot expel the extreme grief which through occasion of the other he had\ninwardly conceived; for, not being able with all his power to find or\ninvent a convenient mean and expedient how to get or come by the certainty\nof any news from thence, both by reason of the huge remoteness of the\nplaces from one to another, as also because of the impeditive interposition\nof many great rivers, the interjacent obstacle of divers wild deserts, and\nobstructive interjection of sundry almost inaccessible mountains,--whilst\nhe was in this sad quandary and solicitous pensiveness, which, you may\nsuppose, could not be of a small vexation to him, considering that it was a\nmatter of no great difficulty to run over his whole native soil, possess\nhis country, seize on his kingdom, install a new king in the throne, and\nplant thereon foreign colonies, long before he could come to have any\nadvertisement of it:  for obviating the jeopardy of so dreadful\ninconveniency, and putting a fit remedy thereto, a certain Sidonian\nmerchant of a low stature but high fancy, very poor in show, and to the\noutward appearance of little or no account, having presented himself before\nhim, went about to affirm and declare that he had excogitated and hit upon\na ready mean and way by the which those of his territories at home should\ncome to the certain notice of his Indian victories, and himself be\nperfectly informed of the state and condition of Egypt and Macedonia within\nless than five days.  Whereupon the said Alexander, plunged into a sullen\nanimadvertency of mind, through his rash opinion of the improbability of\nperforming a so strange and impossible-like undertaking, dismissed the\nmerchant without giving ear to what he had to say, and vilified him.  What\ncould it have cost him to hearken unto what the honest man had invented and\ncontrived for his good?  What detriment, annoyance, damage, or loss could\nhe have undergone to listen to the discovery of that secret which the good\nfellow would have most willingly revealed unto him?  Nature, I am\npersuaded, did not without a cause frame our ears open, putting thereto no\ngate at all, nor shutting them up with any manner of enclosures, as she\nhath done unto the tongue, the eyes, and other such out-jetting parts of\nthe body.  The cause, as I imagine, is to the end that every day and every\nnight, and that continually, we may be ready to hear, and by a perpetual\nhearing apt to learn.  For, of all the senses, it is the fittest for the\nreception of the knowledge of arts, sciences, and disciplines; and it may\nbe that man was an angel, that is to say, a messenger sent from God, as\nRaphael was to Tobit.  Too suddenly did he contemn, despise, and misregard\nhim; but too long thereafter, by an untimely and too late repentance, did\nhe do penance for it.  You say very well, answered Epistemon, yet shall you\nnever for all that induce me to believe that it can tend any way to the\nadvantage or commodity of a man to take advice and counsel of a woman,\nnamely, of such a woman, and the woman of such a country.  Truly I have\nfound, quoth Panurge, a great deal of good in the counsel of women, chiefly\nin that of the old wives amongst them; for every time I consult with them I\nreadily get a stool or two extraordinary, to the great solace of my bumgut\npassage.  They are as sleuthhounds in the infallibility of their scent, and\nin their sayings no less sententious than the rubrics of the law.\nTherefore in my conceit it is not an improper kind of speech to call them\nsage or wise women.  In confirmation of which opinion of mine, the\ncustomary style of my language alloweth them the denomination of presage\nwomen.  The epithet of sage is due unto them because they are surpassing\ndexterous in the knowledge of most things.  And I give them the title of\npresage, for that they divinely foresee and certainly foretell future\ncontingencies and events of things to come.  Sometimes I call them not\nmaunettes, but monettes, from their wholesome monitions.  Whether it be so,\nask Pythagoras, Socrates, Empedocles, and our master Ortuinus.  I\nfurthermore praise and commend above the skies the ancient memorable\ninstitution of the pristine Germans, who ordained the responses and\ndocuments of old women to be highly extolled, most cordially reverenced,\nand prized at a rate in nothing inferior to the weight, test, and standard\nof the sanctuary.  And as they were respectfully prudent in receiving of\nthese sound advices, so by honouring and following them did they prove no\nless fortunate in the happy success of all their endeavours.  Witness the\nold wife Aurinia, and the good mother Velled, in the days of Vespasian.\nYou need not any way doubt but that feminine old age is always fructifying\nin qualities sublime--I would have said sibylline.  Let us go, by the help,\nlet us go, by the virtue of God, let us go.  Farewell, Friar John, I\nrecommend the care of my codpiece to you.  Well, quoth Epistemon, I will\nfollow you, with this protestation nevertheless, that if I happen to get a\nsure information, or otherwise find that she doth use any kind of charm or\nenchantment in her responses, it may not be imputed to me for a blame to\nleave you at the gate of her house, without accompanying you any further\nin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge spoke to the Sibyl of Panzoust.\n\nTheir voyage was three days journeying.  On the third whereof was shown\nunto them the house of the vaticinatress standing on the knap or top of a\nhill, under a large and spacious walnut-tree.  Without great difficulty\nthey entered into that straw-thatched cottage, scurvily built, naughtily\nmovabled, and all besmoked.  It matters not, quoth Epistemon; Heraclitus,\nthe grand Scotist and tenebrous darksome philosopher, was nothing\nastonished at his introit into such a coarse and paltry habitation; for he\ndid usually show forth unto his sectators and disciples that the gods made\nas cheerfully their residence in these mean homely mansions as in sumptuous\nmagnific palaces, replenished with all manner of delight, pomp, and\npleasure.  I withal do really believe that the dwelling-place of the so\nfamous and renowned Hecate was just such another petty cell as this is,\nwhen she made a feast therein to the valiant Theseus; and that of no other\nbetter structure was the cot or cabin of Hyreus, or Oenopion, wherein\nJupiter, Neptune, and Mercury were not ashamed, all three together, to\nharbour and sojourn a whole night, and there to take a full and hearty\nrepast; for the payment of the shot they thankfully pissed Orion.  They\nfinding the ancient woman at a corner of her own chimney, Epistemon said,\nShe is indeed a true sibyl, and the lively portrait of one represented by\nthe Grei kaminoi of Homer.  The old hag was in a pitiful bad plight and\ncondition in matter of the outward state and complexion of her body, the\nragged and tattered equipage of her person in the point of accoutrement,\nand beggarly poor provision of fare for her diet and entertainment;\nfor she was ill apparelled, worse nourished, toothless, blear-eyed,\ncrook-shouldered, snotty, her nose still dropping, and herself still\ndrooping, faint, and pithless; whilst in this woefully wretched case she was\nmaking ready for her dinner porridge of wrinkled green coleworts, with a bit\nskin of yellow bacon, mixed with a twice-before-cooked sort of waterish,\nunsavoury broth, extracted out of bare and hollow bones.  Epistemon said,\nBy the cross of a groat, we are to blame, nor shall we get from her any\nresponse at all, for we have not brought along with us the branch of gold.\nI have, quoth Panurge, provided pretty well for that, for here I have it\nwithin my bag, in the substance of a gold ring, accompanied with some fair\npieces of small money.  No sooner were these words spoken, when Panurge\ncoming up towards her, after the ceremonial performance of a profound and\nhumble salutation, presented her with six neat's tongues dried in the smoke,\na great butter-pot full of fresh cheese, a borachio furnished with good\nbeverage, and a ram's cod stored with single pence, newly coined.  At last\nhe, with a low courtesy, put on her medical finger a pretty handsome golden\nring, whereinto was right artificially enchased a precious toadstone of\nBeausse.  This done, in few words and very succinctly, did he set open and\nexpose unto her the motive reason of his coming, most civilly and\ncourteously entreating her that she might be pleased to vouchsafe to give\nhim an ample and plenary intelligence concerning the future good luck of his\nintended marriage.\n\nThe old trot for a while remained silent, pensive, and grinning like a dog;\nthen, after she had set her withered breech upon the bottom of a bushel,\nshe took into her hands three old spindles, which when she had turned and\nwhirled betwixt her fingers very diversely and after several fashions, she\npried more narrowly into, by the trial of their points, the sharpest\nwhereof she retained in her hand, and threw the other two under a stone\ntrough.  After this she took a pair of yarn windles, which she nine times\nunintermittedly veered and frisked about; then at the ninth revolution or\nturn, without touching them any more, maturely perpending the manner of\ntheir motion, she very demurely waited on their repose and cessation from\nany further stirring.  In sequel whereof she pulled off one of her wooden\npattens, put her apron over her head, as a priest uses to do his amice when\nhe is going to sing mass, and with a kind of antique, gaudy, party-coloured\nstring knit it under her neck.  Being thus covered and muffled, she whiffed\noff a lusty good draught out of the borachio, took three several pence\nforth of the ramcod fob, put them into so many walnut-shells, which she set\ndown upon the bottom of a feather-pot, and then, after she had given them\nthree whisks of a broom besom athwart the chimney, casting into the fire\nhalf a bavin of long heather, together with a branch of dry laurel, she\nobserved with a very hush and coy silence in what form they did burn, and\nsaw that, although they were in a flame, they made no kind of noise or\ncrackling din.  Hereupon she gave a most hideous and horribly dreadful\nshout, muttering betwixt her teeth some few barbarous words of a strange\ntermination.\n\nThis so terrified Panurge that he forthwith said to Epistemon, The devil\nmince me into a gallimaufry if I do not tremble for fear!  I do not think\nbut that I am now enchanted; for she uttereth not her voice in the terms of\nany Christian language.  O look, I pray you, how she seemeth unto me to be\nby three full spans higher than she was when she began to hood herself with\nher apron.  What meaneth this restless wagging of her slouchy chaps?  What\ncan be the signification of the uneven shrugging of her hulchy shoulders?\nTo what end doth she quaver with her lips, like a monkey in the\ndismembering of a lobster?  My ears through horror glow; ah! how they\ntingle!  I think I hear the shrieking of Proserpina; the devils are\nbreaking loose to be all here.  O the foul, ugly, and deformed beasts!  Let\nus run away!  By the hook of God, I am like to die for fear!  I do not love\nthe devils; they vex me, and are unpleasant fellows.  Now let us fly, and\nbetake us to our heels.  Farewell, gammer; thanks and gramercy for your\ngoods!  I will not marry; no, believe me, I will not.  I fairly quit my\ninterest therein, and totally abandon and renounce it from this time\nforward, even as much as at present.  With this, as he endeavoured to make\nan escape out of the room, the old crone did anticipate his flight and make\nhim stop.  The way how she prevented him was this:  whilst in her hand she\nheld the spindle, she flung out to a back-yard close by her lodge, where,\nafter she had peeled off the barks of an old sycamore three several times,\nshe very summarily, upon eight leaves which dropped from thence, wrote with\nthe spindle-point some curt and briefly-couched verses, which she threw\ninto the air, then said unto them, Search after them if you will; find them\nif you can; the fatal destinies of your marriage are written in them.\n\nNo sooner had she done thus speaking than she did withdraw herself unto her\nlurking-hole, where on the upper seat of the porch she tucked up her gown,\nher coats, and smock, as high as her armpits, and gave them a full\ninspection of the nockandroe; which being perceived by Panurge, he said to\nEpistemon, God's bodikins, I see the sibyl's hole!  She suddenly then\nbolted the gate behind her, and was never since seen any more.  They\njointly ran in haste after the fallen and dispersed leaves, and gathered\nthem at last, though not without great labour and toil, for the wind had\nscattered them amongst the thorn-bushes of the valley.  When they had\nranged them each after other in their due places, they found out their\nsentence, as it is metrified in this octastich:\n\n  Thy fame upheld\n  (Properly, as corrected by Ozell:\n  Thy fame will be shell'd\n    By her, I trow.),\n    Even so, so:\n  And she with child\n    Of thee:  No.\n  Thy good end\n    Suck she shall,\n  And flay thee, friend,\n    But not all.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel and Panurge did diversely expound the verses of the Sibyl of\nPanzoust.\n\nThe leaves being thus collected and orderly disposed, Epistemon and Panurge\nreturned to Pantagruel's court, partly well pleased and other part\ndiscontented; glad for their being come back, and vexed for the trouble\nthey had sustained by the way, which they found to be craggy, rugged,\nstony, rough, and ill-adjusted.  They made an ample and full relation of\ntheir voyage unto Pantagruel, as likewise of the estate and condition of\nthe sibyl.  Then, having presented to him the leaves of the sycamore, they\nshow him the short and twattle verses that were written in them.\nPantagruel, having read and considered the whole sum and substance of the\nmatter, fetched from his heart a deep and heavy sigh; then said to Panurge,\nYou are now, forsooth, in a good taking, and have brought your hogs to a\nfine market.  The prophecy of the sibyl doth explain and lay out before us\nthe same very predictions which have been denoted, foretold, and presaged\nto us by the decree of the Virgilian lots and the verdict of your own\nproper dreams, to wit, that you shall be very much disgraced, shamed, and\ndiscredited by your wife; for that she will make you a cuckold in\nprostituting herself to others, being big with child by another than you,\n--will steal from you a great deal of your goods, and will beat you, scratch\nand bruise you, even to plucking the skin in a part from off you,--will\nleave the print of her blows in some member of your body.  You understand\nas much, answered Panurge, in the veritable interpretation and expounding\nof recent prophecies as a sow in the matter of spicery.  Be not offended,\nsir, I beseech you, that I speak thus boldly; for I find myself a little in\ncholer, and that not without cause, seeing it is the contrary that is true.\nTake heed, and give attentive ear unto my words.  The old wife said that,\nas the bean is not seen till first it be unhusked, and that its swad or\nhull be shelled and peeled from off it, so is it that my virtue and\ntranscendent worth will never come by the mouth of fame to be blazed abroad\nproportionable to the height, extent, and measure of the excellency\nthereof, until preallably I get a wife and make the full half of a married\ncouple.  How many times have I heard you say that the function of a\nmagistrate, or office of dignity, discovereth the merits, parts, and\nendowments of the person so advanced and promoted, and what is in him.\nThat is to say, we are then best able to judge aright of the deservings of\na man when he is called to the management of affairs; for when before he\nlived in a private condition, we could have no more certain knowledge of\nhim than of a bean within his husk.  And thus stands the first article\nexplained; otherwise, could you imagine that the good fame, repute, and\nestimation of an honest man should depend upon the tail of a whore?\n\nNow to the meaning of the second article!  My wife will be with child,\n--here lies the prime felicity of marriage,--but not of me.  Copsody, that I\ndo believe indeed!  It will be of a pretty little infant.  O how heartily I\nshall love it!  I do already dote upon it; for it will be my dainty feedle-\ndarling, my genteel dilly-minion.  From thenceforth no vexation, care, or\ngrief shall take such deep impression in my heart, how hugely great or\nvehement soever it otherwise appear, but that it shall evanish forthwith at\nthe sight of that my future babe, and at the hearing of the chat and\nprating of its childish gibberish.  And blessed be the old wife.  By my\ntruly, I have a mind to settle some good revenue or pension upon her out of\nthe readiest increase of the lands of my Salmigondinois; not an inconstant\nand uncertain rent-seek, like that of witless, giddy-headed bachelors, but\nsure and fixed, of the nature of the well-paid incomes of regenting\ndoctors.  If this interpretation doth not please you, think you my wife\nwill bear me in her flanks, conceive with me, and be of me delivered, as\nwomen use in childbed to bring forth their young ones; so as that it may be\nsaid, Panurge is a second Bacchus, he hath been twice born; he is re-born,\nas was Hippolytus,--as was Proteus, one time of Thetis, and secondly, of\nthe mother of the philosopher Apollonius,--as were the two Palici, near the\nflood Simaethos in Sicily.  His wife was big of child with him.  In him is\nrenewed and begun again the palintocy of the Megarians and the palingenesy\nof Democritus.  Fie upon such errors!  To hear stuff of that nature rends\nmine ears.\n\nThe words of the third article are:  She will suck me at my best end.  Why\nnot?  That pleaseth me right well.  You know the thing; I need not tell you\nthat it is my intercrural pudding with one end.  I swear and promise that,\nin what I can, I will preserve it sappy, full of juice, and as well\nvictualled for her use as may be.  She shall not suck me, I believe, in\nvain, nor be destitute of her allowance; there shall her justum both in\npeck and lippy be furnished to the full eternally.  You expound this\npassage allegorically, and interpret it to theft and larceny.  I love the\nexposition, and the allegory pleaseth me; but not according to the sense\nwhereto you stretch it.  It may be that the sincerity of the affection\nwhich you bear me moveth you to harbour in your breast those refractory\nthoughts concerning me, with a suspicion of my adversity to come.  We have\nthis saying from the learned, That a marvellously fearful thing is love,\nand that true love is never without fear.  But, sir, according to my\njudgment, you do understand both of and by yourself that here stealth\nsignifieth nothing else, no more than in a thousand other places of Greek\nand Latin, old and modern writings, but the sweet fruits of amorous\ndalliance, which Venus liketh best when reaped in secret, and culled by\nfervent lovers filchingly.  Why so, I prithee tell?  Because, when the feat\nof the loose-coat skirmish happeneth to be done underhand and privily,\nbetween two well-disposed, athwart the steps of a pair of stairs lurkingly,\nand in covert behind a suit of hangings, or close hid and trussed upon an\nunbound faggot, it is more pleasing to the Cyprian goddess, and to me also\n--I speak this without prejudice to any better or more sound opinion--than\nto perform that culbusting art after the Cynic manner, in the view of the\nclear sunshine, or in a rich tent, under a precious stately canopy, within\na glorious and sublime pavilion, or yet on a soft couch betwixt rich\ncurtains of cloth of gold, without affrightment, at long intermediate\nrespites, enjoying of pleasures and delights a bellyfull, at all great\nease, with a huge fly-flap fan of crimson satin and a bunch of feathers of\nsome East-Indian ostrich serving to give chase unto the flies all round\nabout; whilst, in the interim, the female picks her teeth with a stiff\nstraw picked even then from out of the bottom of the bed she lies on.  If\nyou be not content with this my exposition, are you of the mind that my\nwife will suck and sup me up as people use to gulp and swallow oysters out\nof the shell? or as the Cilician women, according to the testimony of\nDioscorides, were wont to do the grain of alkermes?  Assuredly that is an\nerror.  Who seizeth on it, doth neither gulch up nor swill down, but takes\naway what hath been packed up, catcheth, snatcheth, and plies the play of\nhey-pass, repass.\n\nThe fourth article doth imply that my wife will flay me, but not all.  O\nthe fine word!  You interpret this to beating strokes and blows.  Speak\nwisely.  Will you eat a pudding?  Sir, I beseech you to raise up your\nspirits above the low-sized pitch of earthly thoughts unto that height of\nsublime contemplation which reacheth to the apprehension of the mysteries\nand wonders of Dame Nature.  And here be pleased to condemn yourself, by a\nrenouncing of those errors which you have committed very grossly and\nsomewhat perversely in expounding the prophetic sayings of the holy sibyl.\nYet put the case (albeit I yield not to it) that, by the instigation of the\ndevil, my wife should go about to wrong me, make me a cuckold downwards to\nthe very breech, disgrace me otherwise, steal my goods from me, yea, and\nlay violently her hands upon me;--she nevertheless should fail of her\nattempts and not attain to the proposed end of her unreasonable\nundertakings.  The reason which induceth me hereto is grounded totally on\nthis last point, which is extracted from the profoundest privacies of a\nmonastic pantheology, as good Friar Arthur Wagtail told me once upon a\nMonday morning, as we were (if I have not forgot) eating a bushel of\ntrotter-pies; and I remember well it rained hard.  God give him the good\nmorrow!  The women at the beginning of the world, or a little after,\nconspired to flay the men quick, because they found the spirit of mankind\ninclined to domineer it, and bear rule over them upon the face of the whole\nearth; and, in pursuit of this their resolution, promised, confirmed,\nswore, and covenanted amongst them all, by the pure faith they owe to the\nnocturnal Sanct Rogero.  But O the vain enterprises of women!  O the great\nfragility of that sex feminine!  They did begin to flay the man, or peel\nhim (as says Catullus), at that member which of all the body they loved\nbest, to wit, the nervous and cavernous cane, and that above five thousand\nyears ago; yet have they not of that small part alone flayed any more till\nthis hour but the head.  In mere despite whereof the Jews snip off that\nparcel of the skin in circumcision, choosing far rather to be called\nclipyards, rascals, than to be flayed by women, as are other nations.  My\nwife, according to this female covenant, will flay it to me, if it be not\nso already.  I heartily grant my consent thereto, but will not give her\nleave to flay it all.  Nay, truly will I not, my noble king.\n\nYea but, quoth Epistemon, you say nothing of her most dreadful cries and\nexclamations when she and we both saw the laurel-bough burn without\nyielding any noise or crackling.  You know it is a very dismal omen, an\ninauspicious sign, unlucky indice, and token formidable, bad, disastrous,\nand most unhappy, as is certified by Propertius, Tibullus, the quick\nphilosopher Porphyrius, Eustathius on the Iliads of Homer, and by many\nothers.  Verily, verily, quoth Panurge, brave are the allegations which you\nbring me, and testimonies of two-footed calves.  These men were fools, as\nthey were poets; and dotards, as they were philosophers; full of folly, as\nthey were of philosophy.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel praiseth the counsel of dumb men.\n\nPantagruel, when this discourse was ended, held for a pretty while his\npeace, seeming to be exceeding sad and pensive, then said to Panurge, The\nmalignant spirit misleads, beguileth, and seduceth you.  I have read that\nin times past the surest and most veritable oracles were not those which\neither were delivered in writing or uttered by word of mouth in speaking.\nFor many times, in their interpretation, right witty, learned, and\ningenious men have been deceived through amphibologies, equivoques, and\nobscurity of words, no less than by the brevity of their sentences.  For\nwhich cause Apollo, the god of vaticination, was surnamed Loxias.  Those\nwhich were represented then by signs and outward gestures were accounted\nthe truest and the most infallible.  Such was the opinion of Heraclitus.\nAnd Jupiter did himself in this manner give forth in Ammon frequently\npredictions.  Nor was he single in this practice; for Apollo did the like\namongst the Assyrians.  His prophesying thus unto those people moved them\nto paint him with a large long beard, and clothes beseeming an old settled\nperson of a most posed, staid, and grave behaviour; not naked, young, and\nbeardless, as he was portrayed most usually amongst the Grecians.  Let us\nmake trial of this kind of fatidicency; and go you take advice of some dumb\nperson without any speaking.  I am content, quoth Panurge.  But, says\nPantagruel, it were requisite that the dumb you consult with be such as\nhave been deaf from the hour of their nativity, and consequently dumb; for\nnone can be so lively, natural, and kindly dumb as he who never heard.\n\nHow is it, quoth Panurge, that you conceive this matter?  If you apprehend\nit so, that never any spoke who had not before heard the speech of others,\nI will from that antecedent bring you to infer very logically a most absurd\nand paradoxical conclusion.  But let it pass; I will not insist on it.  You\ndo not then believe what Herodotus wrote of two children, who, at the\nspecial command and appointment of Psammeticus, King of Egypt, having been\nkept in a petty country cottage, where they were nourished and entertained\nin a perpetual silence, did at last, after a certain long space of time,\npronounce this word Bec, which in the Phrygian language signifieth bread.\nNothing less, quoth Pantagruel, do I believe than that it is a mere abusing\nof our understandings to give credit to the words of those who say that\nthere is any such thing as a natural language.  All speeches have had their\nprimary origin from the arbitrary institutions, accords, and agreements of\nnations in their respective condescendments to what should be noted and\nbetokened by them.  An articulate voice, according to the dialecticians,\nhath naturally no signification at all; for that the sense and meaning\nthereof did totally depend upon the good will and pleasure of the first\ndeviser and imposer of it.  I do not tell you this without a cause; for\nBartholus, Lib. 5. de Verb. Oblig., very seriously reporteth that even in\nhis time there was in Eugubia one named Sir Nello de Gabrielis, who,\nalthough he by a sad mischance became altogether deaf, understood\nnevertheless everyone that talked in the Italian dialect howsoever he\nexpressed himself; and that only by looking on his external gestures, and\ncasting an attentive eye upon the divers motions of his lips and chaps.  I\nhave read, I remember also, in a very literate and eloquent author, that\nTyridates, King of Armenia, in the days of Nero, made a voyage to Rome,\nwhere he was received with great honour and solemnity, and with all manner\nof pomp and magnificence.  Yea, to the end there might be a sempiternal\namity and correspondence preserved betwixt him and the Roman senate, there\nwas no remarkable thing in the whole city which was not shown unto him.  At\nhis departure the emperor bestowed upon him many ample donatives of an\ninestimable value; and besides, the more entirely to testify his affection\ntowards him, heartily entreated him to be pleased to make choice of any\nwhatsoever thing in Rome was most agreeable to his fancy, with a promise\njuramentally confirmed that he should not be refused of his demand.\nThereupon, after a suitable return of thanks for a so gracious offer, he\nrequired a certain Jack-pudding whom he had seen to act his part most\negregiously upon the stage, and whose meaning, albeit he knew not what it\nwas he had spoken, he understood perfectly enough by the signs and\ngesticulations which he had made.  And for this suit of his, in that he\nasked nothing else, he gave this reason, that in the several wide and\nspacious dominions which were reduced under the sway and authority of his\nsovereign government, there were sundry countries and nations much\ndiffering from one another in language, with whom, whether he was to speak\nunto them or give any answer to their requests, he was always necessitated\nto make use of divers sorts of truchman and interpreters.  Now with this\nman alone, sufficient for supplying all their places, will that great\ninconveniency hereafter be totally removed; seeing he is such a fine\ngesticulator, and in the practice of chirology an artist so complete,\nexpert, and dexterous, that with his very fingers he doth speak.\nHowsoever, you are to pitch upon such a dumb one as is deaf by nature and\nfrom his birth; to the end that his gestures and signs may be the more\nvively and truly prophetic, and not counterfeit by the intermixture of some\nadulterate lustre and affectation.  Yet whether this dumb person shall be\nof the male or female sex is in your option, lieth at your discretion, and\naltogether dependeth on your own election.\n\nI would more willingly, quoth Panurge, consult with and be advised by a\ndumb woman, were it not that I am afraid of two things.  The first is, that\nthe greater part of women, whatever be that they see, do always represent\nunto their fancies, think, and imagine, that it hath some relation to the\nsugared entering of the goodly ithyphallos, and graffing in the cleft of\nthe overturned tree the quickset imp of the pin of copulation.  Whatever\nsigns, shows, or gestures we shall make, or whatever our behaviour,\ncarriage, or demeanour shall happen to be in their view and presence, they\nwill interpret the whole in reference to the act of androgynation and the\nculbutizing exercise, by which means we shall be abusively disappointed of\nour designs, in regard that she will take all our signs for nothing else\nbut tokens and representations of our desire to entice her unto the lists\nof a Cyprian combat or catsenconny skirmish.  Do you remember what happened\nat Rome two hundred and threescore years after the foundation thereof?  A\nyoung Roman gentleman encountering by chance, at the foot of Mount Celion,\nwith a beautiful Latin lady named Verona, who from her very cradle upwards\nhad always been both deaf and dumb, very civilly asked her, not without a\nchironomatic Italianizing of his demand, with various jectigation of his\nfingers and other gesticulations as yet customary amongst the speakers of\nthat country, what senators in her descent from the top of the hill she had\nmet with going up thither.  For you are to conceive that he, knowing no\nmore of her deafness than dumbness, was ignorant of both.  She in the\nmeantime, who neither heard nor understood so much as one word of what he\nhad said, straight imagined, by all that she could apprehend in the lovely\ngesture of his manual signs, that what he then required of her was what\nherself had a great mind to, even that which a young man doth naturally\ndesire of a woman.  Then was it that by signs, which in all occurrences of\nvenereal love are incomparably more attractive, valid, and efficacious than\nwords, she beckoned to him to come along with her to her house; which when\nhe had done, she drew him aside to a privy room, and then made a most\nlively alluring sign unto him to show that the game did please her.\nWhereupon, without any more advertisement, or so much as the uttering of\none word on either side, they fell to and bringuardized it lustily.\n\nThe other cause of my being averse from consulting with dumb women is, that\nto our signs they would make no answer at all, but suddenly fall backwards\nin a divarication posture, to intimate thereby unto us the reality of their\nconsent to the supposed motion of our tacit demands.  Or if they should\nchance to make any countersigns responsory to our propositions, they would\nprove so foolish, impertinent, and ridiculous, that by them ourselves\nshould easily judge their thoughts to have no excursion beyond the duffling\nacademy.  You know very well how at Brignoles, when the religious nun,\nSister Fatbum, was made big with child by the young Stiffly-stand-to't, her\npregnancy came to be known, and she cited by the abbess, and, in a full\nconvention of the convent, accused of incest.  Her excuse was that she did\nnot consent thereto, but that it was done by the violence and impetuous\nforce of the Friar Stiffly-stand-to't.  Hereto the abbess very austerely\nreplying, Thou naughty wicked girl, why didst thou not cry, A rape, a rape!\nthen should all of us have run to thy succour.  Her answer was that the\nrape was committed in the dortour, where she durst not cry because it was a\nplace of sempiternal silence.  But, quoth the abbess, thou roguish wench,\nwhy didst not thou then make some sign to those that were in the next\nchamber beside thee?  To this she answered that with her buttocks she made\na sign unto them as vigorously as she could, yet never one of them did so\nmuch as offer to come to her help and assistance.  But, quoth the abbess,\nthou scurvy baggage, why didst thou not tell it me immediately after the\nperpetration of the fact, that so we might orderly, regularly, and\ncanonically have accused him?  I would have done so, had the case been\nmine, for the clearer manifestation of mine innocency.  I truly, madam,\nwould have done the like with all my heart and soul, quoth Sister Fatbum,\nbut that fearing I should remain in sin, and in the hazard of eternal\ndamnation, if prevented by a sudden death, I did confess myself to the\nfather friar before he went out of the room, who, for my penance, enjoined\nme not to tell it, or reveal the matter unto any.  It were a most enormous\nand horrid offence, detestable before God and the angels, to reveal a\nconfession.  Such an abominable wickedness would have possibly brought down\nfire from heaven, wherewith to have burnt the whole nunnery, and sent us\nall headlong to the bottomless pit, to bear company with Korah, Dathan, and\nAbiram.\n\nYou will not, quoth Pantagruel, with all your jesting, make me laugh.  I\nknow that all the monks, friars, and nuns had rather violate and infringe\nthe highest of the commandments of God than break the least of their\nprovincial statutes.  Take you therefore Goatsnose, a man very fit for your\npresent purpose; for he is, and hath been, both dumb and deaf from the very\nremotest infancy of his childhood.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Goatsnose by signs maketh answer to Panurge.\n\nGoatsnose being sent for, came the day thereafter to Pantagruel's court; at\nhis arrival to which Panurge gave him a fat calf, the half of a hog, two\npuncheons of wine, one load of corn, and thirty francs of small money;\nthen, having brought him before Pantagruel, in presence of the gentlemen of\nthe bed-chamber he made this sign unto him.  He yawned a long time, and in\nyawning made without his mouth with the thumb of his right hand the figure\nof the Greek letter Tau by frequent reiterations.  Afterwards he lifted up\nhis eyes to heavenwards, then turned them in his head like a she-goat in\nthe painful fit of an absolute birth, in doing whereof he did cough and\nsigh exceeding heavily.  This done, after that he had made demonstration of\nthe want of his codpiece, he from under his shirt took his placket-racket\nin a full grip, making it therewithal clack very melodiously betwixt his\nthighs; then, no sooner had he with his body stooped a little forwards, and\nbowed his left knee, but that immediately thereupon holding both his arms\non his breast, in a loose faint-like posture, the one over the other, he\npaused awhile.  Goatsnose looked wistly upon him, and having heedfully\nenough viewed him all over, he lifted up into the air his left hand, the\nwhole fingers whereof he retained fistwise close together, except the thumb\nand the forefinger, whose nails he softly joined and coupled to one\nanother.  I understand, quoth Pantagruel, what he meaneth by that sign.  It\ndenotes marriage, and withal the number thirty, according to the profession\nof the Pythagoreans.  You will be married.  Thanks to you, quoth Panurge,\nin turning himself towards Goatsnose, my little sewer, pretty master's\nmate, dainty bailie, curious sergeant-marshal, and jolly catchpole-leader.\nThen did he lift higher up than before his said left hand, stretching out\nall the five fingers thereof, and severing them as wide from one another as\nhe possibly could get done.  Here, says Pantagruel, doth he more amply and\nfully insinuate unto us, by the token which he showeth forth of the quinary\nnumber, that you shall be married.  Yea, that you shall not only be\naffianced, betrothed, wedded, and married, but that you shall furthermore\ncohabit and live jollily and merrily with your wife; for Pythagoras called\nfive the nuptial number, which, together with marriage, signifieth the\nconsummation of matrimony, because it is composed of a ternary, the first\nof the odd, and binary, the first of the even numbers, as of a male and\nfemale knit and united together.  In very deed it was the fashion of old in\nthe city of Rome at marriage festivals to light five wax tapers; nor was it\npermitted to kindle any more at the magnific nuptials of the most potent\nand wealthy, nor yet any fewer at the penurious weddings of the poorest and\nmost abject of the world.  Moreover, in times past, the heathen or paynims\nimplored the assistance of five deities, or of one helpful, at least, in\nfive several good offices to those that were to be married.  Of this sort\nwere the nuptial Jove, Juno, president of the feast, the fair Venus, Pitho,\nthe goddess of eloquence and persuasion, and Diana, whose aid and succour\nwas required to the labour of child-bearing.  Then shouted Panurge, O the\ngentle Goatsnose, I will give him a farm near Cinais, and a windmill hard\nby Mirebalais!  Hereupon the dumb fellow sneezeth with an impetuous\nvehemency and huge concussion of the spirits of the whole body, withdrawing\nhimself in so doing with a jerking turn towards the left hand.  By the body\nof a fox new slain, quoth Pantagruel, what is that?  This maketh nothing\nfor your advantage; for he betokeneth thereby that your marriage will be\ninauspicious and unfortunate.  This sneezing, according to the doctrine of\nTerpsion, is the Socratic demon.  If done towards the right side, it\nimports and portendeth that boldly and with all assurance one may go\nwhither he will and do what he listeth, according to what deliberation he\nshall be pleased to have thereupon taken; his entries in the beginning,\nprogress in his proceedings, and success in the events and issues will be\nall lucky, good, and happy.  The quite contrary thereto is thereby implied\nand presaged if it be done towards the left.  You, quoth Panurge, do take\nalways the matter at the worst, and continually, like another Davus,\ncasteth in new disturbances and obstructions; nor ever yet did I know this\nold paltry Terpsion worthy of citation but in points only of cosenage and\nimposture.  Nevertheless, quoth Pantagruel, Cicero hath written I know not\nwhat to the same purpose in his Second Book of Divination.\n\nPanurge then, turning himself towards Goatsnose, made this sign unto him.\nHe inverted his eyelids upwards, wrenched his jaws from the right to the\nleft side, and drew forth his tongue half out of his mouth.  This done, he\nposited his left hand wholly open, the mid-finger wholly excepted, which\nwas perpendicularly placed upon the palm thereof, and set it just in the\nroom where his codpiece had been.  Then did he keep his right hand\naltogether shut up in a fist, save only the thumb, which he straight turned\nbackwards directly under the right armpit, and settled it afterwards on\nthat most eminent part of the buttocks which the Arabs call the Al-Katim.\nSuddenly thereafter he made this interchange:  he held his right hand after\nthe manner of the left, and posited it on the place wherein his codpiece\nsometime was, and retaining his left hand in the form and fashion of the\nright, he placed it upon his Al-Katim.  This altering of hands did he\nreiterate nine several times; at the last whereof he reseated his eyelids\ninto their own first natural position.  Then doing the like also with his\njaws and tongue, he did cast a squinting look upon Goatsnose, diddering and\nshivering his chaps, as apes use to do nowadays, and rabbits, whilst,\nalmost starved with hunger, they are eating oats in the sheaf.\n\nThen was it that Goatsnose, lifting up into the air his right hand wholly\nopen and displayed, put the thumb thereof, even close unto its first\narticulation, between the two third joints of the middle and ring fingers,\npressing about the said thumb thereof very hard with them both, and, whilst\nthe remanent joints were contracted and shrunk in towards the wrist, he\nstretched forth with as much straightness as he could the fore and little\nfingers.  That hand thus framed and disposed of he laid and posited upon\nPanurge's navel, moving withal continually the aforesaid thumb, and bearing\nup, supporting, or under-propping that hand upon the above-specified fore\nand little fingers, as upon two legs.  Thereafter did he make in this\nposture his hand by little and little, and by degrees and pauses,\nsuccessively to mount from athwart the belly to the stomach, from whence he\nmade it to ascend to the breast, even upwards to Panurge's neck, still\ngaining ground, till, having reached his chin, he had put within the\nconcave of his mouth his afore-mentioned thumb; then fiercely brandishing\nthe whole hand, which he made to rub and grate against his nose, he heaved\nit further up, and made the fashion as if with the thumb thereof he would\nhave put out his eyes.  With this Panurge grew a little angry, and went\nabout to withdraw and rid himself from this ruggedly untoward dumb devil.\nBut Goatsnose in the meantime, prosecuting the intended purpose of his\nprognosticatory response, touched very rudely, with the above-mentioned\nshaking thumb, now his eyes, then his forehead, and after that the borders\nand corners of his cap.  At last Panurge cried out, saying, Before God,\nmaster fool, if you do not let me alone, or that you will presume to vex me\nany more, you shall receive from the best hand I have a mask wherewith to\ncover your rascally scroundrel face, you paltry shitten varlet.  Then said\nFriar John, He is deaf, and doth not understand what thou sayest unto him.\nBulliballock, make sign to him of a hail of fisticuffs upon the muzzle.\n\nWhat the devil, quoth Panurge, means this busy restless fellow?  What is it\nthat this polypragmonetic ardelion to all the fiends of hell doth aim at?\nHe hath almost thrust out mine eyes, as if he had been to poach them in a\nskillet with butter and eggs.  By God, da jurandi, I will feast you with\nflirts and raps on the snout, interlarded with a double row of bobs and\nfinger-fillipings!  Then did he leave him in giving him by way of salvo a\nvolley of farts for his farewell.  Goatsnose, perceiving Panurge thus to\nslip away from him, got before him, and, by mere strength enforcing him to\nstand, made this sign unto him.  He let fall his right arm toward his knee\non the same side as low as he could, and, raising all the fingers of that\nhand into a close fist, passed his dexter thumb betwixt the foremost and\nmid fingers thereto belonging.  Then scrubbing and swingeing a little with\nhis left hand alongst and upon the uppermost in the very bough of the elbow\nof the said dexter arm, the whole cubit thereof, by leisure, fair and\nsoftly, at these thumpatory warnings, did raise and elevate itself even to\nthe elbow, and above it; on a sudden did he then let it fall down as low as\nbefore, and after that, at certain intervals and such spaces of time,\nraising and abasing it, he made a show thereof to Panurge.  This so\nincensed Panurge that he forthwith lifted his hand to have stricken him the\ndumb roister and given him a sound whirret on the ear, but that the respect\nand reverence which he carried to the presence of Pantagruel restrained his\ncholer and kept his fury within bounds and limits.  Then said Pantagruel,\nIf the bare signs now vex and trouble you, how much more grievously will\nyou be perplexed and disquieted with the real things which by them are\nrepresented and signified!  All truths agree and are consonant with one\nanother.  This dumb fellow prophesieth and foretelleth that you will be\nmarried, cuckolded, beaten, and robbed.  As for the marriage, quoth\nPanurge, I yield thereto, and acknowledge the verity of that point of his\nprediction; as for the rest, I utterly abjure and deny it:  and believe,\nsir, I beseech you, if it may please you so to do, that in the matter of\nwives and horses never any man was predestinated to a better fortune than\nI.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge consulteth with an old French poet, named Raminagrobis.\n\nI never thought, said Pantagruel, to have encountered with any man so\nheadstrong in his apprehensions, or in his opinions so wilful, as I have\nfound you to be and see you are.  Nevertheless, the better to clear and\nextricate your doubts, let us try all courses, and leave no stone unturned\nnor wind unsailed by.  Take good heed to what I am to say unto you.  The\nswans, which are fowls consecrated to Apollo, never chant but in the hour\nof their approaching death, especially in the Meander flood, which is a\nriver that runneth along some of the territories of Phrygia.  This I say,\nbecause Aelianus and Alexander Myndius write that they had seen several\nswans in other places die, but never heard any of them sing or chant before\ntheir death.  However, it passeth for current that the imminent death of a\nswan is presaged by his foregoing song, and that no swan dieth until\npreallably he have sung.\n\nAfter the same manner, poets, who are under the protection of Apollo, when\nthey are drawing near their latter end do ordinarily become prophets, and\nby the inspiration of that god sing sweetly in vaticinating things which\nare to come.  It hath been likewise told me frequently, that old decrepit\nmen upon the brinks of Charon's banks do usher their decease with a\ndisclosure all at ease, to those that are desirous of such informations, of\nthe determinate and assured truth of future accidents and contingencies.  I\nremember also that Aristophanes, in a certain comedy of his, calleth the\nold folks Sibyls, Eith o geron Zibullia.  For as when, being upon a pier by\nthe shore, we see afar off mariners, seafaring men, and other travellers\nalongst the curled waves of azure Thetis within their ships, we then\nconsider them in silence only, and seldom proceed any further than to wish\nthem a happy and prosperous arrival; but when they do approach near to the\nhaven, and come to wet their keels within their harbour, then both with\nwords and  gestures we salute them, and heartily congratulate their access\nsafe to the port wherein we are ourselves.  Just so the angels, heroes, and\ngood demons, according to the doctrine of the Platonics, when they see\nmortals drawing near unto the harbour of the grave, as the most sure and\ncalmest port of any, full of repose, ease, rest, tranquillity, free from\nthe  troubles and solicitudes of this tumultuous and tempestuous world; then\nis  it that they with alacrity hail and salute them, cherish and comfort\nthem, and, speaking to them lovingly, begin even then to bless them with\nilluminations, and to communicate unto them the abstrusest mysteries of\ndivination.  I will not offer here to confound your memory by quoting\nantique examples of Isaac, of Jacob, of Patroclus towards Hector, of Hector\ntowards Achilles, of Polymnestor towards Agamemnon, of Hecuba, of the\nRhodian renowned by Posidonius, of Calanus the Indian towards Alexander the\nGreat, of Orodes towards Mezentius, and of many others.  It shall suffice\nfor the present that I commemorate unto you the learned and valiant knight\nand cavalier William of Bellay, late Lord of Langey, who died on the Hill\nof Tarara, the 10th of January, in the climacteric year of his age, and of\nour supputation 1543, according to the Roman account.  The last three or\nfour hours of his life he did employ in the serious utterance of a very\npithy discourse, whilst with a clear judgment and spirit void of all\ntrouble he did foretell several important things, whereof a great deal is\ncome to pass, and the rest we wait for.  Howbeit, his prophecies did at\nthat time seem unto us somewhat strange, absurd, and unlikely, because\nthere did not then appear any sign of efficacy enough to engage our faith\nto the belief of what he did prognosticate.  We have here, near to the town\nof Villomere, a man that is both old and a poet, to wit, Raminagrobis, who\nto his second wife espoused my Lady Broadsow, on whom he begot the fair\nBasoche.  It hath been told me he is a-dying, and so near unto his latter\nend that he is almost upon the very last moment, point, and article thereof.\nRepair thither as fast as you can, and be ready to give an attentive ear to\nwhat he shall chant unto you.  It may be that you shall obtain from him what\nyou desire, and that Apollo will be pleased by his means to clear your\nscruples.  I am content, quoth Panurge.  Let us go thither, Epistemon, and\nthat both instantly and in all haste, lest otherwise his death prevent our\ncoming.  Wilt thou come along with us, Friar John?  Yes, that I will, quoth\nFriar John, right heartily to do thee a courtesy, my billy-ballocks; for I\nlove thee with the best of my milt and liver.\n\nThereupon, incontinently, without any further lingering, to the way they\nall three went, and quickly thereafter--for they made good speed--arriving\nat the poetical habitation, they found the jolly old man, albeit in the\nagony of his departure from this world, looking cheerfully, with an open\ncountenance, splendid aspect, and behaviour full of alacrity.  After that\nPanurge had very civilly saluted him, he in a free gift did present him\nwith a gold ring, which he even then put upon the medical finger of his\nleft hand, in the collet or bezel whereof was enchased an Oriental\nsapphire, very fair and large.  Then, in imitation of Socrates, did he make\nan oblation unto him of a fair white cock, which was no sooner set upon the\ntester of his bed, than that, with a high raised head and crest, lustily\nshaking his feather-coat, he crowed stentoriphonically loud.  This done,\nPanurge very courteously required of him that he would vouchsafe to favour\nhim with the grant and report of his sense and judgment touching the future\ndestiny of his intended marriage.  For answer hereto, when the honest old\nman had forthwith commanded pen, paper, and ink to be brought unto him, and\nthat he was at the same call conveniently served with all the three, he\nwrote these following verses:\n\n  Take, or not take her,\n    Off, or on:\n  Handy-dandy is your lot.\n  When her name you write, you blot.\n  'Tis undone, when all is done,\n  Ended e'er it was begun:\n  Hardly gallop, if you trot,\n  Set not forward when you run,\n  Nor be single, though alone,\n    Take, or not take her.\n\n  Before you eat, begin to fast;\n  For what shall be was never past.\n  Say, unsay, gainsay, save your breath:\n  Then wish at once her life and death.\n    Take, or not take her.\n\nThese lines he gave out of his own hands unto them, saying unto them, Go,\nmy lads, in peace! the great God of the highest heavens be your guardian\nand preserver! and do not offer any more to trouble or disquiet me with\nthis or any other business whatsoever.  I have this same very day, which is\nthe last both of May and of me, with a greal deal of labour, toil, and\ndifficulty, chased out of my house a rabble of filthy, unclean, and\nplaguily pestilentious rake-hells, black beasts, dusk, dun, white,\nash-coloured, speckled, and a foul vermin of other hues, whose obtrusive\nimportunity would not permit me to die at my own ease; for by fraudulent\nand deceitful pricklings, ravenous, harpy-like graspings, waspish\nstingings, and such-like unwelcome approaches, forged in the shop of I know\nnot what kind of insatiabilities, they went about to withdraw and call me\nout of those sweet thoughts wherein I was already beginning to repose\nmyself and acquiesce in the contemplation and vision, yea, almost in the\nvery touch and taste of the happiness and felicity which the good God hath\nprepared for his faithful saints and elect in the other life and state of\nimmortality.  Turn out of their courses and eschew them, step forth of\ntheir ways and do not resemble them; meanwhile, let me be no more troubled\nby you, but leave me now in silence, I beseech you.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge patrocinates and defendeth the Order of the Begging Friars.\n\nPanurge, at his issuing forth of Raminagrobis's chamber, said, as if he had\nbeen horribly affrighted, By the virtue of God, I believe that he is an\nheretic; the devil take me, if I do not! he doth so villainously rail at\nthe Mendicant Friars and Jacobins, who are the two hemispheres of the\nChristian world; by whose gyronomonic circumbilvaginations, as by two\ncelivagous filopendulums, all the autonomatic metagrobolism of the Romish\nChurch, when tottering and emblustricated with the gibble-gabble gibberish\nof this odious error and heresy, is homocentrically poised.  But what harm,\nin the devil's name, have these poor devils the Capuchins and Minims done\nunto him?  Are not these beggarly devils sufficiently wretched already?\nWho can imagine that these poor snakes, the very extracts of ichthyophagy,\nare not thoroughly enough besmoked and besmeared with misery, distress, and\ncalamity?  Dost thou think, Friar John, by thy faith, that he is in the\nstate of salvation?  He goeth, before God, as surely damned to thirty\nthousand basketsful of devils as a pruning-bill to the lopping of a\nvine-branch.  To revile with opprobrious speeches the good and courageous\nprops and pillars of the Church,--is that to be called a poetical fury?  I\ncannot rest satisfied with him; he sinneth grossly, and blasphemeth against\nthe true religion.  I am very much offended at his scandalizing words and\ncontumelious obloquy.  I do not care a straw, quoth Friar John, for what he\nhath said; for although everybody should twit and jerk them, it were but a\njust retaliation, seeing all persons are served by them with the like sauce:\ntherefore do I pretend no interest therein.  Let us see, nevertheless, what\nhe hath written.  Panurge very attentively read the paper which the old man\nhad penned; then said to his two fellow-travellers, The poor drinker doteth.\nHowsoever, I excuse him, for that I believe he is now drawing near to the\nend and final closure of his life.  Let us go make his epitaph.  By the\nanswer which he hath given us, I am not, I protest, one jot wiser than I\nwas.  Hearken here, Epistemon, my little bully, dost not thou hold him to be\nvery resolute in his responsory verdicts?  He is a witty, quick, and subtle\nsophister.  I will lay an even wager that he is a miscreant apostate.  By\nthe belly of a stalled ox, how careful he is not to be mistaken in his\nwords.  He answered but by disjunctives, therefore can it not be true which\nhe saith; for the verity of such-like propositions is inherent only in one\nof its two members.  O the cozening prattler that he is!  I wonder if\nSantiago of Bressure be one of these cogging shirks.  Such was of old, quoth\nEpistemon, the custom of the grand vaticinator and prophet Tiresias, who\nused always, by way of a preface, to say openly and plainly at the beginning\nof his divinations and predictions that what he was to tell would either\ncome to pass or not.  And such is truly the style of all prudently presaging\nprognosticators.  He was nevertheless, quoth Panurge, so unfortunately\nmisadventurous in the lot of his own destiny, that Juno thrust out both his\neyes.\n\nYes, answered Epistemon, and that merely out of a spite and spleen for\nhaving pronounced his award more veritable than she, upon the question\nwhich was merrily proposed by Jupiter.  But, quoth Panurge, what archdevil\nis it that hath possessed this Master Raminagrobis, that so unreasonably,\nand without any occasion, he should have so snappishly and bitterly\ninveighed against these poor honest fathers, Jacobins, Minors, and Minims?\nIt vexeth me grievously, I assure you; nor am I able to conceal my\nindignation.  He hath transgressed most enormously; his soul goeth\ninfallibly to thirty thousand panniersful of devils.  I understand you not,\nquoth Epistemon, and it disliketh me very much that you should so absurdly\nand perversely interpret that of the Friar Mendicants which by the harmless\npoet was spoken of black beasts, dun, and other sorts of other coloured\nanimals.  He is not in my opinion guilty of such a sophistical and\nfantastic allegory as by that phrase of his to have meant the Begging\nBrothers.  He in downright terms speaketh absolutely and properly of fleas,\npunies, hand worms, flies, gnats, and other such-like scurvy vermin,\nwhereof some are black, some dun, some ash-coloured, some tawny, and some\nbrown and dusky, all noisome, molesting, tyrannous, cumbersome, and\nunpleasant creatures, not only to sick and diseased folks, but to those\nalso who are of a sound, vigorous, and healthful temperament and\nconstitution.  It is not unlikely that he may have the ascarids, and the\nlumbrics, and worms within the entrails of his body.  Possibly doth he\nsuffer, as it is frequent and usual amongst the Egyptians, together with\nall those who inhabit the Erythraean confines, and dwell along the shores\nand coasts of the Red Sea, some sour prickings and smart stingings in his\narms and legs of those little speckled dragons which the Arabians call\nmeden.  You are to blame for offering to expound his words otherwise, and\nwrong the ingenuous poet, and outrageously abuse and miscall the said\nfraters, by an imputation of baseness undeservedly laid to their charge.\nWe still should, in such like discourses of fatiloquent soothsayers,\ninterpret all things to the best.  Will you teach me, quoth Panurge, how to\ndiscern flies among milk, or show your father the way how to beget\nchildren?  He is, by the virtue of God, an arrant heretic, a resolute,\nformal heretic; I say, a rooted, combustible heretic, one as fit to burn as\nthe little wooden clock at Rochelle.  His soul goeth to thirty thousand\ncartsful of devils.  Would you know whither?  Cocks-body, my friend,\nstraight under Proserpina's close-stool, to the very middle of the\nself-same infernal pan within which she, by an excrementitious evacuation,\nvoideth the faecal stuff of her stinking clysters, and that just upon the\nleft side of the great cauldron of three fathom height, hard by the claws\nand talons of Lucifer, in the very darkest of the passage which leadeth\ntowards the black chamber of Demogorgon.  O the villain!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge maketh the motion of a return to Raminagrobis.\n\nLet us return, quoth Panurge, not ceasing, to the uttermost of our\nabilities, to ply him with wholesome admonitions for the furtherance of his\nsalvation.  Let us go back, for God's sake; let us go, in the name of God.\nIt will be a very meritorious work, and of great charity in us to deal so\nin the matter, and provide so well for him that, albeit he come to lose\nboth body and life, he may at least escape the risk and danger of the\neternal damnation of his soul.  We will by our holy persuasions bring him\nto a sense and feeling of his escapes, induce him to acknowledge his\nfaults, move him to a cordial repentance of his errors, and stir up in him\nsuch a sincere contrition of heart for his offences, as will prompt him\nwith all earnestness to cry mercy, and to beg pardon at the hands of the\ngood fathers, as well of the absent as of such as are present.  Whereupon\nwe will take instrument formally and authentically extended, to the end he\nbe not, after his decease, declared an heretic, and condemned, as were the\nhobgoblins of the provost's wife of Orleans, to the undergoing of such\npunishments, pains, and tortures as are due to and inflicted on those that\ninhabit the horrid cells of the infernal regions; and withal incline,\ninstigate, and persuade him to bequeath and leave in legacy (by way of an\namends and satisfaction for the outrage and injury done to those good\nreligious fathers throughout all the convents, cloisters, and monasteries\nof this province), many bribes, a great deal of mass-singing, store of\nobits, and that sempiternally, on the anniversary day of his decease, every\none of them all be furnished with a quintuple allowance, and that the great\nborachio replenished with the best liquor trudge apace along the tables, as\nwell of the young duckling monkitoes, lay brothers, and lowermost degree of\nthe abbey lubbards, as of the learned priests and reverend clerks,--the\nvery meanest of the novices and mitiants unto the order being equally\nadmitted to the benefit of those funerary and obsequial festivals with the\naged rectors and professed fathers.  This is the surest ordinary means\nwhereby from God he may obtain forgiveness.  Ho, ho, I am quite mistaken; I\ndigress from the purpose, and fly out of my discourse, as if my spirits\nwere a-wool-gathering.  The devil take me, if I go thither!  Virtue God!\nThe chamber is already full of devils.  O what a swinging, thwacking noise\nis now amongst them!  O the terrible coil that they keep!  Hearken, do you\nnot hear the rustling, thumping bustle of their strokes and blows, as they\nscuffle with one another, like true devils indeed, who shall gulp up the\nRaminagrobis soul, and be the first bringer of it, whilst it is hot, to\nMonsieur Lucifer?  Beware, and get you hence! for my part, I will not go\nthither.  The devil roast me if I go!  Who knows but that these hungry mad\ndevils may in the haste of their rage and fury of their impatience take a\nqui for a quo, and instead of Raminagrobis snatch up poor Panurge frank and\nfree?  Though formerly, when I was deep in debt, they always failed.  Get\nyou hence!  I will not go thither.  Before God, the very bare apprehension\nthereof is like to kill me.  To be in a place where there are greedy,\nfamished, and hunger-starved devils; amongst factious devils--amidst\ntrading and trafficking devils--O the Lord preserve me!  Get you hence!  I\ndare pawn my credit on it, that no Jacobin, Cordelier, Carmelite, Capuchin,\nTheatin, or Minim will bestow any personal presence at his interment.  The\nwiser they, because he hath ordained nothing for them in his latter will\nand testament.  The devil take me, if I go thither.  If he be damned, to\nhis own loss and hindrance be it.  What the deuce moved him to be so\nsnappish and depravedly bent against the good fathers of the true religion?\nWhy did he cast them off, reject them, and drive them quite out of his\nchamber, even in that very nick of time when he stood in greatest need of\nthe aid, suffrage, and assistance of their devout prayers and holy\nadmonitions?  Why did not he by testament leave them, at least, some jolly\nlumps and cantles of substantial meat, a parcel of cheek-puffing victuals,\nand a little belly-timber and provision for the guts of these poor folks,\nwho have nothing but their life in this world?  Let him go thither who\nwill, the devil take me if I go; for, if I should, the devil would not fail\nto snatch me up.  Cancro.  Ho, the pox!  Get you hence, Friar John!  Art\nthou content that thirty thousand wainload of devils should get away with\nthee at this same very instant?  If thou be, at my request do these three\nthings.  First, give me thy purse; for besides that thy money is marked\nwith crosses, and the cross is an enemy to charms, the same may befall to\nthee which not long ago happened to John Dodin, collector of the excise of\nCoudray, at the ford of Vede, when the soldiers broke the planks.  This\nmoneyed fellow, meeting at the very brink of the bank of the ford with\nFriar Adam Crankcod, a Franciscan observantin of Mirebeau, promised him a\nnew frock, provided that in the transporting of him over the water he would\nbear him upon his neck and shoulders, after the manner of carrying dead\ngoats; for he was a lusty, strong-limbed, sturdy rogue.  The condition\nbeing agreed upon, Friar Crankcod trusseth himself up to his very ballocks,\nand layeth upon his back, like a fair little Saint Christopher, the load of\nthe said supplicant Dodin, and so carried him gaily and with a good will,\nas Aeneas bore his father Anchises through the conflagration of Troy,\nsinging in the meanwhile a pretty Ave Maris Stella.  When they were in the\nvery deepest place of all the ford, a little above the master-wheel of the\nwater-mill, he asked if he had any coin about him.  Yes, quoth Dodin, a\nwhole bagful; and that he needed not to mistrust his ability in the\nperformance of the promise which he had made unto him concerning a new\nfrock.  How! quoth Friar Crankcod, thou knowest well enough that by the\nexpress rules, canons, and injunctions of our order we are forbidden to\ncarry on us any kind of money.  Thou art truly unhappy, for having made me\nin this point to commit a heinous trespass.  Why didst thou not leave thy\npurse with the miller?  Without fail thou shalt presently receive thy\nreward for it; and if ever hereafter I may but lay hold upon thee within\nthe limits of our chancel at Mirebeau, thou shalt have the Miserere even to\nthe Vitulos.  With this, suddenly discharging himself of his burden, he\nthrows me down your Dodin headlong.  Take example by this Dodin, my dear\nfriend Friar John, to the end that the devils may the better carry thee\naway at thine own ease.  Give me thy purse.  Carry no manner of cross upon\nthee.  Therein lieth an evident and manifestly apparent danger.  For if you\nhave any silver coined with a cross upon it, they will cast thee down\nheadlong upon some rocks, as the eagles use to do with the tortoises for\nthe breaking of their shells, as the bald pate of the poet Aeschylus can\nsufficiently bear witness.  Such a fall would hurt thee very sore, my sweet\nbully, and I would be sorry for it.  Or otherwise they will let thee fall\nand tumble down into the high swollen waves of some capacious sea, I know\nnot where; but, I warrant thee, far enough hence, as Icarus fell, which\nfrom thy name would afterwards get the denomination of the Funnelian Sea.\n\nSecondly, be out of debt.  For the devils carry a great liking to those\nthat are out of debt.  I have sore felt the experience thereof in mine own\nparticular; for now the lecherous varlets are always wooing me, courting\nme, and making much of me, which they never did when I was all to pieces.\nThe soul of one in debt is insipid, dry, and heretical altogether.\n\nThirdly, with the cowl and Domino de Grobis, return to Raminagrobis; and in\ncase, being thus qualified, thirty thousand boatsful of devils forthwith\ncome not to carry thee quite away, I shall be content to be at the charge\nof paying for the pint and faggot.  Now, if for the more security thou\nwouldst some associate to bear thee company, let not me be the comrade thou\nsearchest for; think not to get a fellow-traveller of me,--nay, do not.  I\nadvise thee for the best.  Get you hence; I will not go thither.  The devil\ntake me if I go.  Notwithstanding all the fright that you are in, quoth\nFriar John, I would not care so much as might possibly be expected I\nshould, if I once had but my sword in my hand.  Thou hast verily hit the\nnail on the head, quoth Panurge, and speakest like a learned doctor, subtle\nand well-skilled in the art of devilry.  At the time when I was a student\nin the University of Toulouse (Tolette), that same reverend father in the\ndevil, Picatrix, rector of the diabological faculty, was wont to tell us\nthat the devils did naturally fear the bright glancing of swords as much as\nthe splendour and light of the sun.  In confirmation of the verity whereof\nhe related this story, that Hercules, at his descent into hell to all the\ndevils of those regions, did not by half so much terrify them with his club\nand lion's skin as afterwards Aeneas did with his clear shining armour upon\nhim, and his sword in his hand well-furbished and unrusted, by the aid,\ncounsel, and assistance of the Sybilla Cumana.  That was perhaps the reason\nwhy the senior John Jacomo di Trivulcio, whilst he was a-dying at Chartres,\ncalled for his cutlass, and died with a drawn sword in his hand, laying\nabout him alongst and athwart around the bed and everywhere within his\nreach, like a stout, doughty, valorous and knight-like cavalier; by which\nresolute manner of fence he scared away and put to flight all the devils\nthat were then lying in wait for his soul at the passage of his death.\nWhen the Massorets and Cabalists are asked why it is that none of all the\ndevils do at any time enter into the terrestrial paradise? their answer\nhath been, is, and will be still, that there is a cherubin standing at the\ngate thereof with a flame-like glistering sword in his hand.  Although, to\nspeak in the true diabological sense or phrase of Toledo, I must needs\nconfess and acknowledge that veritably the devils cannot be killed or die\nby the stroke of a sword, I do nevertheless avow and maintain, according to\nthe doctrine of the said diabology, that they may suffer a solution of\ncontinuity (as if with thy shable thou shouldst cut athwart the flame of a\nburning fire, or the gross opacous exhalations of a thick and obscure\nsmoke), and cry out like very devils at their sense and feeling of this\ndissolution, which in real deed I must aver and affirm is devilishly\npainful, smarting, and dolorous.\n\nWhen thou seest the impetuous shock of two armies, and vehement violence of\nthe push in their horrid encounter with one another, dost thou think,\nBallockasso, that so horrible a noise as is heard there proceedeth from the\nvoice and shouts of men, the dashing and jolting of harness, the clattering\nand clashing of armies, the hacking and slashing of battle-axes, the\njustling and crashing of pikes, the bustling and breaking of lances, the\nclamour and shrieks of the wounded, the sound and din of drums, the\nclangour and shrillness of trumpets, the neighing and rushing in of horses,\nwith the fearful claps and thundering of all sorts of guns, from the double\ncannon to the pocket pistol inclusively?  I cannot goodly deny but that in\nthese various things which I have rehearsed there may be somewhat\noccasionative of the huge yell and tintamarre of the two engaged bodies.\nBut the most fearful and tumultuous coil and stir, the terriblest and most\nboisterous garboil and hurry, the chiefest rustling black santus of all,\nand most principal hurlyburly springeth from the grievously plangorous\nhowling and lowing of devils, who pell-mell, in a hand-over-head confusion,\nwaiting for the poor souls of the maimed and hurt soldiery, receive\nunawares some strokes with swords, and so by those means suffer a solution\nof and division in the continuity of their aerial and invisible substances;\nas if some lackey, snatching at the lard-slices stuck in a piece of roast\nmeat on the spit, should get from Mr. Greasyfist a good rap on the knuckles\nwith a cudgel.  They cry out and shout like devils, even as Mars did when\nhe was hurt by Diomedes at the siege of Troy, who, as Homer testifieth of\nhim, did then raise his voice more horrifically loud and sonoriferously\nhigh than ten thousand men together would have been able to do.  What\nmaketh all this for our present purpose?  I have been speaking here of\nwell-furbished armour and bright shining swords.  But so is it not, Friar\nJohn, with thy weapon; for by a long discontinuance of work, cessation from\nlabour, desisting from making it officiate, and putting it into that\npractice wherein it had been formerly accustomed, and, in a word, for want\nof occupation, it is, upon my faith, become more rusty than the key-hole of\nan old powdering-tub.  Therefore it is expedient that you do one of these\ntwo things:  either furbish your weapon bravely, and as it ought to be, or\notherwise have a care that, in the rusty case it is in, you do not presume\nto return to the house of Raminagrobis.  For my part, I vow I will not go\nthither.  The devil take me if I go.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge consulteth with Epistemon.\n\nHaving left the town of Villomere, as they were upon their return towards\nPantagruel, Panurge, in addressing his discourse to Epistemon, spoke thus:\nMy most ancient friend and gossip, thou seest the perplexity of my\nthoughts, and knowest many remedies for the removal thereof; art thou not\nable to help and succour me?  Epistemon, thereupon taking the speech in\nhand, represented unto Panurge how the open voice and common fame of the\nwhole country did run upon no other discourse but the derision and mockery\nof his new disguise; wherefore his counsel unto him was that he would in\nthe first place be pleased to make use of a little hellebore for the\npurging of his brain of that peccant humour which, through that extravagant\nand fantastic mummery of his, had furnished the people with a too just\noccasion of flouting and gibing, jeering and scoffing him, and that next he\nwould resume his ordinary fashion of accoutrement, and go apparelled as he\nwas wont to do.  I am, quoth Panurge, my dear gossip Epistemon, of a mind\nand resolution to marry, but am afraid of being a cuckold and to be\nunfortunate in my wedlock.  For this cause have I made a vow to young St.\nFrancis--who at Plessis-les-Tours is much reverenced of all women,\nearnestly cried unto by them, and with great devotion, for he was the first\nfounder of the confraternity of good men, whom they naturally covet,\naffect, and long for--to wear spectacles in my cap, and to carry no\ncodpiece in my breeches, until the present inquietude and perturbation of\nmy spirits be fully settled.\n\nTruly, quoth Epistemon, that is a pretty jolly vow of thirteen to a dozen.\nIt is a shame to you, and I wonder much at it, that you do not return unto\nyourself, and recall your senses from this their wild swerving and straying\nabroad to that rest and stillness which becomes a virtuous man.  This\nwhimsical conceit of yours brings me to the remembrance of a solemn promise\nmade by the shag-haired Argives, who, having in their controversy against\nthe Lacedaemonians for the territory of Thyrea, lost the battle which they\nhoped should have decided it for their advantage, vowed to carry never any\nhair on their heads till preallably they had recovered the loss of both\ntheir honour and lands.  As likewise to the memory of the vow of a pleasant\nSpaniard called Michael Doris, who vowed to carry in his hat a piece of the\nshin of his leg till he should be revenged of him who had struck it off.\nYet do not I know which of these two deserveth most to wear a green and\nyellow hood with a hare's ears tied to it, either the aforesaid\nvainglorious champion, or that Enguerrant, who having forgot the art and\nmanner of writing histories set down by the Samosatian philosopher, maketh\na most tediously long narrative and relation thereof.  For, at the first\nreading of such a profuse discourse, one would think it had been broached\nfor the introducing of a story of great importance and moment concerning\nthe waging of some formidable war, or the notable change and mutation of\npotent states and kingdoms; but, in conclusion, the world laugheth at the\ncapricious champion, at the Englishman who had affronted him, as also at\ntheir scribbler Enguerrant, more drivelling at the mouth than a mustard\npot.  The jest and scorn thereof is not unlike to that of the mountain of\nHorace, which by the poet was made to cry out and lament most enormously as\na woman in the pangs and labour of child-birth, at which deplorable and\nexorbitant cries and lamentations the whole neighbourhood being assembled\nin expectation to see some marvellous monstrous production, could at last\nperceive no other but the paltry, ridiculous mouse.\n\nYour mousing, quoth Panurge, will not make me leave my musing why folks\nshould be so frumpishly disposed, seeing I am certainly persuaded that some\nflout who merit to be flouted at; yet, as my vow imports, so will I do.  It\nis now a long time since, by Jupiter Philos (A mistake of the\ntranslator's.--M.), we did swear faith and amity to one another.  Give me\nyour advice, billy, and tell me your opinion freely, Should I marry or no?\nTruly, quoth Epistemon, the case is hazardous, and the danger so eminently\napparent that I find myself too weak and insufficient to give you a\npunctual and peremptory resolution therein; and if ever it was true that\njudgment is difficult in matters of the medicinal art, what was said by\nHippocrates of Lango, it is certainly so in this case.  True it is that in\nmy brain there are some rolling fancies, by means whereof somewhat may be\npitched upon of a seeming efficacy to the disentangling your mind of those\ndubious apprehensions wherewith it is perplexed; but they do not thoroughly\nsatisfy me.  Some of the Platonic sect affirm that whosoever is able to see\nhis proper genius may know his own destiny.  I understand not their\ndoctrine, nor do I think that you adhere to them; there is a palpable\nabuse.  I have seen the experience of it in a very curious gentleman of the\ncountry of Estangourre.  This is one of the points.  There is yet another\nnot much better.  If there were any authority now in the oracles of Jupiter\nAmmon; of Apollo in Lebadia, Delphos, Delos, Cyrra, Patara, Tegyres,\nPreneste, Lycia, Colophon, or in the Castalian Fountain; near Antiochia in\nSyria, between the Branchidians; of Bacchus in Dodona; of Mercury in\nPhares, near Patras; of Apis in Egypt; of Serapis in Canope; of Faunus in\nMenalia, and Albunea near Tivoli; of Tiresias in Orchomenus; of Mopsus in\nCilicia; of Orpheus in Lesbos, and of Trophonius in Leucadia; I would in\nthat case advise you, and possibly not, to go thither for their judgment\nconcerning the design and enterprise you have in hand.  But you know that\nthey are all of them become as dumb as so many fishes since the advent of\nthat Saviour King whose coming to this world hath made all oracles and\nprophecies to cease; as the approach of the sun's radiant beams expelleth\ngoblins, bugbears, hobthrushes, broams, screech-owl-mates, night-walking\nspirits, and tenebrions.  These now are gone; but although they were as yet\nin continuance and in the same power, rule, and request that formerly they\nwere, yet would not I counsel you to be too credulous in putting any trust\nin their responses.  Too many folks have been deceived thereby.  It stands\nfurthermore upon record how Agrippina did charge the fair Lollia with the\ncrime of having interrogated the oracle of Apollo Clarius, to understand if\nshe should be at any time married to the Emperor Claudius; for which cause\nshe was first banished, and thereafter put to a shameful and ignominious\ndeath.\n\nBut, saith Panurge, let us do better.  The Ogygian Islands are not far\ndistant from the haven of Sammalo.  Let us, after that we shall have spoken\nto our king, make a voyage thither.  In one of these four isles, to wit,\nthat which hath its primest aspect towards the sun setting, it is reported,\nand I have read in good antique and authentic authors, that there reside\nmany soothsayers, fortune-tellers, vaticinators, prophets, and diviners of\nthings to come; that Saturn inhabiteth that place, bound with fair chains\nof gold and within the concavity of a golden rock, being nourished with\ndivine ambrosia and nectar, which are daily in great store and abundance\ntransmitted to him from the heavens, by I do not well know what kind of\nfowls,--it may be that they are the same ravens which in the deserts are\nsaid to have fed St. Paul, the first hermit,--he very clearly foretelleth\nunto everyone who is desirous to be certified of the condition of his lot\nwhat his destiny will be, and what future chance the Fates have ordained\nfor him; for the Parcae, or Weird Sisters, do not twist, spin, or draw out\na thread, nor yet doth Jupiter perpend, project, or deliberate anything\nwhich the good old celestial father knoweth not to the full, even whilst he\nis asleep.  This will be a very summary abbreviation of our labour, if we\nbut hearken unto him a little upon the serious debate and canvassing of\nthis my perplexity.  That is, answered Epistemon, a gullery too evident, a\nplain abuse and fib too fabulous.  I will not go, not I; I will not go.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge consulteth with Herr Trippa.\n\nNevertheless, quoth Epistemon, continuing his discourse, I will tell you\nwhat you may do, if you believe me, before we return to our king.  Hard by\nhere, in the Brown-wheat (Bouchart) Island, dwelleth Herr Trippa.  You know\nhow by the arts of astrology, geomancy, chiromancy, metopomancy, and others\nof a like stuff and nature, he foretelleth all things to come; let us talk\na little, and confer with him about your business.  Of that, answered\nPanurge, I know nothing; but of this much concerning him I am assured, that\none day, and that not long since, whilst he was prating to the great king\nof celestial, sublime, and transcendent things, the lacqueys and footboys\nof the court, upon the upper steps of stairs between two doors, jumbled,\none after another, as often as they listed, his wife, who is passable fair,\nand a pretty snug hussy.  Thus he who seemed very clearly to see all\nheavenly and terrestrial things without spectacles, who discoursed boldly\nof adventures past, with great confidence opened up present cases and\naccidents, and stoutly professed the presaging of all future events and\ncontingencies, was not able, with all the skill and cunning that he had, to\nperceive the bumbasting of his wife, whom he reputed to be very chaste, and\nhath not till this hour got notice of anything to the contrary.  Yet let us\ngo to him, seeing you will have it so; for surely we can never learn too\nmuch.  They on the very next ensuing day came to Herr Trippa's lodging.\nPanurge, by way of donative, presented him with a long gown lined all\nthrough with wolf-skins, with a short sword mounted with a gilded hilt and\ncovered with a velvet scabbard, and with fifty good single angels; then in\na familiar and friendly way did he ask of him his opinion touching the\naffair.  At the very first Herr Trippa, looking on him very wistly in the\nface, said unto him:  Thou hast the metoposcopy and physiognomy of a\ncuckold,--I say, of a notorious and infamous cuckold.  With this, casting\nan eye upon Panurge's right hand in all the parts thereof, he said, This\nrugged draught which I see here, just under the mount of Jove, was never\nyet but in the hand of a cuckold.  Afterwards, he with a white lead pen\nswiftly and hastily drew a certain number of diverse kinds of points, which\nby rules of geomancy he coupled and joined together; then said:  Truth\nitself is not truer than that it is certain thou wilt be a cuckold a little\nafter thy marriage.  That being done, he asked of Panurge the horoscope of\nhis nativity, which was no sooner by Panurge tendered unto him, than that,\nerecting a figure, he very promptly and speedily formed and fashioned a\ncomplete fabric of the houses of heaven in all their parts, whereof when he\nhad considered the situation and the aspects in their triplicities, he\nfetched a deep sigh, and said:  I have clearly enough already discovered\nunto you the fate of your cuckoldry, which is unavoidable, you cannot\nescape it.  And here have I got of new a further assurance thereof, so that\nI may now hardily pronounce and affirm, without any scruple or hesitation\nat all, that thou wilt be a cuckold; that furthermore, thou wilt be beaten\nby thine own wife, and that she will purloin, filch and steal of thy goods\nfrom thee; for I find the seventh house, in all its aspects, of a malignant\ninfluence, and every one of the planets threatening thee with disgrace,\naccording as they stand seated towards one another, in relation to the\nhorned signs of Aries, Taurus, and Capricorn.  In the fourth house I find\nJupiter in a decadence, as also in a tetragonal aspect to Saturn,\nassociated with Mercury.  Thou wilt be soundly peppered, my good, honest\nfellow, I warrant thee.  I will be? answered Panurge.  A plague rot thee,\nthou old fool and doting sot, how graceless and unpleasant thou art!  When\nall cuckolds shall be at a general rendezvous, thou shouldst be their\nstandard-bearer.  But whence comes this ciron-worm betwixt these two\nfingers?  This Panurge said, putting the forefinger of his left hand\nbetwixt the fore and mid finger of the right, which he thrust out towards\nHerr Trippa, holding them open after the manner of two horns, and shutting\ninto his fist his thumb with the other fingers.  Then, in turning to\nEpistemon, he said:  Lo here the true Olus of Martial, who addicted and\ndevoted himself wholly to the observing the miseries, crosses, and\ncalamities of others, whilst his own wife, in the interim, did keep an open\nbawdy-house.  This varlet is poorer than ever was Irus, and yet he is\nproud, vaunting, arrogant, self-conceited, overweening, and more\ninsupportable than seventeen devils; in one word, Ptochalazon, which term\nof old was applied to the like beggarly strutting coxcombs.  Come, let us\nleave this madpash bedlam, this hairbrained fop, and give him leave to rave\nand dose his bellyful with his private and intimately acquainted devils,\nwho, if they were not the very worst of all infernal fiends, would never\nhave deigned to serve such a knavish barking cur as this is.  He hath not\nlearnt the first precept of philosophy, which is, Know thyself; for whilst\nhe braggeth and boasteth that he can discern the least mote in the eye of\nanother, he is not able to see the huge block that puts out the sight of\nboth his eyes.  This is such another Polypragmon as is by Plutarch\ndescribed.  He is of the nature of the Lamian witches, who in foreign\nplaces, in the houses of strangers, in public, and amongst the common\npeople, had a sharper and more piercing inspection into their affairs than\nany lynx, but at home in their own proper dwelling-mansions were blinder\nthan moldwarps, and saw nothing at all.  For their custom was, at their\nreturn from abroad, when they were by themselves in private, to take their\neyes out of their head, from whence they were as easily removable as a pair\nof spectacles from their nose, and to lay them up into a wooden slipper\nwhich for that purpose did hang behind the door of their lodging.\n\nPanurge had no sooner done speaking, when Herr Trippa took into his hand a\ntamarisk branch.  In this, quoth Epistemon, he doth very well, right, and\nlike an artist, for Nicander calleth it the divinatory tree.  Have you a\nmind, quoth Herr Trippa, to have the truth of the matter yet more fully and\namply disclosed unto you by pyromancy, by aeromancy, whereof Aristophanes\nin his Clouds maketh great estimation, by hydromancy, by lecanomancy, of\nold in prime request amongst the Assyrians, and thoroughly tried by\nHermolaus Barbarus.  Come hither, and I will show thee in this platterful\nof fair fountain-water thy future wife lechering and sercroupierizing it\nwith two swaggering ruffians, one after another.  Yea, but have a special\ncare, quoth Panurge, when thou comest to put thy nose within mine arse,\nthat thou forget not to pull off thy spectacles.  Herr Trippa, going on in\nhis discourse, said, By catoptromancy, likewise held in such account by the\nEmperor Didius Julianus, that by means thereof he ever and anon foresaw all\nthat which at any time did happen or befall unto him.  Thou shalt not need\nto put on thy spectacles, for in a mirror thou wilt see her as clearly and\nmanifestly nebrundiated and billibodring it, as if I should show it in the\nfountain of the temple of Minerva near Patras.  By coscinomancy, most\nreligiously observed of old amidst the ceremonies of the ancient Romans.\nLet us have a sieve and shears, and thou shalt see devils.  By\nalphitomancy, cried up by Theocritus in his Pharmaceutria.  By alentomancy,\nmixing the flour of wheat with oatmeal.  By astragalomancy, whereof I have\nthe plots and models all at hand ready for the purpose.  By tyromancy,\nwhereof we make some proof in a great Brehemont cheese which I here keep by\nme.  By giromancy, if thou shouldst turn round circles, thou mightest\nassure thyself from me that they would fall always on the wrong side.  By\nsternomancy, which maketh nothing for thy advantage, for thou hast an\nill-proportioned stomach.  By libanomancy, for the which we shall need but\na little frankincense.  By gastromancy, which kind of ventral fatiloquency\nwas for a long time together used in Ferrara by Lady Giacoma Rodogina, the\nEngastrimythian prophetess.  By cephalomancy, often practised amongst the\nHigh Germans in their boiling of an ass's head upon burning coals.  By\nceromancy, where, by the means of wax dissolved into water, thou shalt see\nthe figure, portrait, and lively representation of thy future wife, and of\nher fredin fredaliatory belly-thumping blades.  By capnomancy.  O the\ngallantest and most excellent of all secrets!  By axionomancy; we want only\na hatchet and a jet-stone to be laid together upon a quick fire of hot\nembers.  O how bravely Homer was versed in the practice hereof towards\nPenelope's suitors!  By onymancy; for that we have oil and wax.  By\ntephromancy.  Thou wilt see the ashes thus aloft dispersed exhibiting thy\nwife in a fine posture.  By botanomancy; for the nonce I have some few\nleaves in reserve.  By sicomancy; O divine art in fig-tree leaves!  By\nicthiomancy, in ancient times so celebrated, and put in use by Tiresias and\nPolydamas, with the like certainty of event as was tried of old at the\nDina-ditch within that grove consecrated to Apollo which is in the\nterritory of the Lycians.  By choiromancy; let us have a great many hogs,\nand thou shalt have the bladder of one of them.  By cheromancy, as the bean\nis found in the cake at the Epiphany vigil.  By anthropomancy, practised by\nthe Roman Emperor Heliogabalus.  It is somewhat irksome, but thou wilt\nendure it well enough, seeing thou art destinated to be a cuckold.  By a\nsibylline stichomancy.  By onomatomancy.  How do they call thee?\nChaw-turd, quoth Panurge.  Or yet by alectryomancy.  If I should here with\na compass draw a round, and in looking upon thee, and considering thy lot,\ndivide the circumference thereof into four-and-twenty equal parts, then\nform a several letter of the alphabet upon every one of them; and, lastly,\nposit a barleycorn or two upon each of these so disposed letters, I durst\npromise upon my faith and honesty that, if a young virgin cock be permitted\nto range alongst and athwart them, he should only eat the grains which are\nset and placed upon these letters, A. C.U.C.K.O.L.D. T.H.O.U. S.H.A.L.T.\nB.E.  And that as fatidically as, under the Emperor Valens, most\nperplexedly desirous to know the name of him who should be his successor to\nthe empire, the cock vacticinating and alectryomantic ate up the pickles\nthat were posited on the letters T.H.E.O.D.  Or, for the more certainty,\nwill you have a trial of your fortune by the art of aruspiciny, by augury,\nor by extispiciny?  By turdispiciny, quoth Panurge.  Or yet by the mystery\nof necromancy?  I will, if you please, suddenly set up again and revive\nsomeone lately deceased, as Apollonius of Tyane did to Achilles, and the\nPythoness in the presence of Saul; which body, so raised up and\nrequickened, will tell us the sum of all you shall require of him:  no more\nnor less than, at the invocation of Erictho, a certain defunct person\nforetold to Pompey the whole progress and issue of the fatal battle fought\nin the Pharsalian fields.  Or, if you be afraid of the dead, as commonly\nall cuckolds are, I will make use of the faculty of sciomancy.\n\nGo, get thee gone, quoth Panurge, thou frantic ass, to the devil, and be\nbuggered, filthy Bardachio that thou art, by some Albanian, for a\nsteeple-crowned hat.  Why the devil didst not thou counsel me as well to\nhold an emerald or the stone of a hyaena under my tongue, or to furnish and\nprovide myself with tongues of whoops, and hearts of green frogs, or to eat\nof the liver and milt of some dragon, to the end that by those means I\nmight, at the chanting and chirping of swans and other fowls, understand the\nsubstance of my future lot and destiny, as did of old the Arabians in the\ncountry of Mesopotamia?  Fifteen brace of devils seize upon the body and\nsoul of this horned renegado, miscreant cuckold, the enchanter, witch, and\nsorcerer of Antichrist to all the devils of hell!  Let us return towards our\nking.  I am sure he will not be well pleased with us if he once come to get\nnotice that we have been in the kennel of this muffled devil.  I repent my\nbeing come hither.  I would willingly dispense with a hundred nobles and\nfourteen yeomans, on condition that he who not long since did blow in the\nbottom of my breeches should instantly with his squirting spittle inluminate\nhis moustaches.  O Lord God now! how the villain hath besmoked me with\nvexation and anger, with charms and witchcraft, and with a terrible coil and\nstir of infernal and Tartarian devils!  The devil take him!  Say Amen, and\nlet us go drink.  I shall not have any appetite for my victuals, how good\ncheer soever I make, these two days to come,--hardly these four.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge consulteth with Friar John of the Funnels.\n\nPanurge was indeed very much troubled in mind and disquieted at the words\nof Herr Trippa, and therefore, as he passed by the little village of\nHuymes, after he had made his address to Friar John, in pecking at,\nrubbing, and scratching his own left ear, he said unto him, Keep me a\nlittle jovial and merry, my dear and sweet bully, for I find my brains\naltogether metagrabolized and confounded, and my spirits in a most dunsical\npuzzle at the bitter talk of this devilish, hellish, damned fool.  Hearken,\nmy dainty cod.\n\nMellow C.            Varnished C.      Resolute C.\nLead-coloured C.     Renowned C.       Cabbage-like C.\nKnurled C.           Matted C.         Courteous C.\nSuborned C.          Genitive C.       Fertile C.\nDesired C.           Gigantal C.       Whizzing C.\nStuffed C.           Oval C.           Neat C.\nSpeckled C.          Claustral C.      Common C.\nFinely metalled C.   Virile C.         Brisk C.\nArabian-like C.      Stayed C.         Quick C.\nTrussed-up Grey-     Massive C.        Bearlike C.\n  hound-like C.      Manual C.         Partitional C.\nMounted C.           Absolute C.       Patronymic C.\nSleeked C.           Well-set C.       Cockney C.\nDiapered C.          Gemel C.          Auromercuriated C.\nSpotted C.           Turkish C.        Robust C.\nMaster C.            Burning C.        Appetizing C.\nSeeded C.            Thwacking C.      Succourable C.\nLusty C.             Urgent C.         Redoubtable C.\nJupped C.            Handsome C.       Affable C.\nMilked C.            Prompt C.         Memorable C.\nCalfeted C.          Fortunate C.      Palpable C.\nRaised C.            Boxwood C.        Barbable C.\nOdd C.               Latten C.         Tragical C.\nSteeled C.           Unbridled C.      Transpontine C.\nStale C.             Hooked C.         Digestive C.\nOrange-tawny C.      Researched C.     Active C.\nEmbroidered C.       Encompassed C.    Vital C.\nGlazed C.            Strouting out C.  Magistral C.\nInterlarded C.       Jolly C.          Monachal C.\nBurgher-like C.      Lively C.         Subtle C.\nEmpowdered C.        Gerundive C.      Hammering C.\nEbonized C.          Franked C.        Clashing C.\nBrasiliated C.       Polished C.       Tingling C.\nOrganized C.         Powdered Beef C.  Usual C.\nPassable C.          Positive C.       Exquisite C.\nTrunkified C.        Spared C.         Trim C.\nFurious C.           Bold C.           Succulent C.\nPacked C.            Lascivious C.     Factious C.\nHooded C.            Gluttonous C.     Clammy C.\nFat C.               Boulting C.       New-vamped C.\nHigh-prized C.       Snorting C.       Improved C.\nRequisite C.         Pilfering C.      Malling C.\nLaycod C.            Shaking C.        Sounding C.\nHand-filling C.      Bobbing C.        Battled C.\nInsuperable C.       Chiveted C.       Burly C.\nAgreeable C.         Fumbling C.       Seditious C.\nFormidable C.        Topsyturvying C.  Wardian C.\nProfitable C.        Raging C.         Protective C.\nNotable C.           Piled up C.       Twinkling C.\nMusculous C.         Filled up C.      Able C.\nSubsidiary C.        Manly C.          Algoristical C.\nSatiric C.           Idle C.           Odoriferous C.\nRepercussive C.      Membrous C.       Pranked C.\nConvulsive C.        Strong C.         Jocund C.\nRestorative C.       Twin C.           Routing C.\nMasculinating C.     Belabouring C.    Purloining C.\nIncarnative C.       Gentle C.         Frolic C.\nSigillative C.       Stirring C.       Wagging C.\nSallying C.          Confident C.      Ruffling C.\nPlump C.             Nimble C.         Jumbling C.\nThundering C.        Roundheaded C.    Rumbling C.\nLechering C.         Figging C.        Thumping C.\nFulminating C.       Helpful C.        Bumping C.\nSparkling C.         Spruce C.         Cringeling C.\nRamming C.           Plucking C.       Berumpling C.\nLusty C.             Ramage C.         Jogging C.\nHousehold C.         Fine C.           Nobbing C.\nPretty C.            Fierce C.         Touzing C.\nAstrolabian C.       Brawny C.         Tumbling C.\nAlgebraical C.       Compt C.          Fambling C.\nVenust C.            Repaired C.       Overturning C.\nAromatizing C.       Soft C.           Shooting C.\nTricksy C.           Wild C.           Culeting C.\nPaillard C.          Renewed C.        Jagged C.\nGaillard C.          Quaint C.         Pinked C.\nBroaching C.         Starting C.       Arsiversing C.\nAddle C.             Fleshy C.         Polished C.\nSyndicated C.        Auxiliary C.      Slashed C.\nHamed C.             Stuffed C.        Clashing C.\nLeisurely C.         Well-fed C.       Wagging C.\nCut C.               Flourished C.     Scriplike C.\nSmooth C.            Fallow C.         Encremastered C.\nDepending C.         Sudden C.         Bouncing C.\nIndependent C.       Graspful C.       Levelling C.\nLingering C.         Swillpow C.       Fly-flap C.\nRapping C.           Crushing C.       Perinae-tegminal C.\nReverend C.          Creaking C.       Squat-couching C.\nNodding C.           Dilting C.        Short-hung C.\nDisseminating C.     Ready C.          The hypogastrian C.\nAffecting C.         Vigorous C.       Witness-bearing C.\nAffected C.          Skulking C.       Testigerous C.\nGrappled C.          Superlative C.    Instrumental C.\n\nMy harcabuzing cod and buttock-stirring ballock, Friar John, my friend, I\ndo carry a singular respect unto thee, and honour thee with all my heart.\nThy counsel I hold for a choice and delicate morsel; therefore have I\nreserved it for the last bit.  Give me thy advice freely, I beseech thee,\nShould I marry or no?  Friar John very merrily, and with a sprightly\ncheerfulness, made this answer to him:  Marry, in the devil's name.  Why\nnot?  What the devil else shouldst thou do but marry?  Take thee a wife,\nand furbish her harness to some tune.  Swinge her skin-coat as if thou wert\nbeating on stock-fish; and let the repercussion of thy clapper from her\nresounding metal make a noise as if a double peal of chiming-bells were\nhung at the cremasters of thy ballocks.  As I say marry, so do I understand\nthat thou shouldst fall to work as speedily as may be; yea, my meaning is\nthat thou oughtest to be so quick and forward therein, as on this same very\nday, before sunset, to cause proclaim thy banns of matrimony, and make\nprovision of bedsteads.  By the blood of a hog's-pudding, till when wouldst\nthou delay the acting of a husband's part?  Dost thou not know, and is it\nnot daily told unto thee, that the end of the world approacheth?  We are\nnearer it by three poles and half a fathom than we were two days ago.  The\nAntichrist is already born; at least it is so reported by many.  The truth\nis, that hitherto the effects of his wrath have not reached further than to\nthe scratching of his nurse and governesses.  His nails are not sharp\nenough as yet, nor have his claws attained to their full growth,--he is\nlittle.\n\n  Crescat; Nos qui vivimus, multiplicemur.\n\nIt is written so, and it is holy stuff, I warrant you; the truth whereof is\nlike to last as long as a sack of corn may be had for a penny, and a\npuncheon of pure wine for threepence.  Wouldst thou be content to be found\nwith thy genitories full in the day of judgment?  Dum venerit judicari?\nThou hast, quoth Panurge, a right, clear, and neat spirit, Friar John, my\nmetropolitan cod; thou speakst in very deed pertinently and to purpose.\nThat belike was the reason which moved Leander of Abydos in Asia, whilst he\nwas swimming through the Hellespontic sea to make a visit to his sweetheart\nHero of Sestus in Europe, to pray unto Neptune and all the other marine\ngods, thus:\n\n  Now, whilst I go, have pity on me,\n  And at my back returning drown me.\n\nHe was loth, it seems, to die with his cods overgorged.  He was to be\ncommended; therefore do I promise, that from henceforth no malefactor shall\nby justice be executed within my jurisdiction of Salmigondinois, who shall\nnot, for a day or two at least before, be permitted to culbut and\nforaminate onocrotalwise, that there remain not in all his vessels to write\na Greek Y.  Such a precious thing should not be foolishly cast away.  He\nwill perhaps therewith beget a male, and so depart the more contentedly out\nof this life, that he shall have left behind him one for one.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Friar John merrily and sportingly counselleth Panurge.\n\nBy Saint Rigomet, quoth Friar John, I do advise thee to nothing, my dear\nfriend Panurge, which I would not do myself were I in thy place.  Only have\na special care, and take good heed thou solder well together the joints of\nthe double-backed and two-bellied beast, and fortify thy nerves so\nstrongly, that there be no discontinuance in the knocks of the venerean\nthwacking, else thou art lost, poor soul.  For if there pass long intervals\nbetwixt the priapizing feats, and that thou make an intermission of too\nlarge a time, that will befall thee which betides the nurses if they desist\nfrom giving suck to children--they lose their milk; and if continually thou\ndo not hold thy aspersory tool in exercise, and keep thy mentul going, thy\nlacticinian nectar will be gone, and it will serve thee only as a pipe to\npiss out at, and thy cods for a wallet of lesser value than a beggar's\nscrip.  This is a certain truth I tell thee, friend, and doubt not of it;\nfor myself have seen the sad experiment thereof in many, who cannot now do\nwhat they would, because before they did not what they might have done:  Ex\ndesuetudine amittuntur privilegia.  Non-usage oftentimes destroys one's\nright, say the learned doctors of the law; therefore, my billy, entertain\nas well as possibly thou canst that hypogastrian lower sort of troglodytic\npeople, that their chief pleasure may be placed in the case of sempiternal\nlabouring.  Give order that henceforth they live not, like idle gentlemen,\nidly upon their rents and revenues, but that they may work for their\nlivelihood by breaking ground within the Paphian trenches.  Nay truly,\nanswered Panurge, Friar John, my left ballock, I will believe thee, for\nthou dealest plain with me, and fallest downright square upon the business,\nwithout going about the bush with frivolous circumstances and unnecessary\nreservations.  Thou with the splendour of a piercing wit hast dissipated\nall the lowering clouds of anxious apprehensions and suspicions which did\nintimidate and terrify me; therefore the heavens be pleased to grant to\nthee at all she-conflicts a stiff-standing fortune.  Well then, as thou\nhast said, so will I do; I will, in good faith, marry,--in that point there\nshall be no failing, I promise thee,--and shall have always by me pretty\ngirls clothed with the name of my wife's waiting-maids, that, lying under\nthy wings, thou mayest be night-protector of their sisterhood.\n\nLet this serve for the first part of the sermon.  Hearken, quoth Friar\nJohn, to the oracle of the bells of Varenes.  What say they?  I hear and\nunderstand them, quoth Panurge; their sound is, by my thirst, more\nuprightly fatidical than that of Jove's great kettles in Dodona.  Hearken!\nTake thee a wife, take thee a wife, and marry, marry, marry; for if thou\nmarry, thou shalt find good therein, herein, here in a wife thou shalt find\ngood; so marry, marry.  I will assure thee that I shall be married; all the\nelements invite and prompt me to it.  Let this word be to thee a brazen\nwall, by diffidence not to be broken through.  As for the second part of\nthis our doctrine,--thou seemest in some measure to mistrust the readiness\nof my paternity in the practising of my placket-racket within the\nAphrodisian tennis-court at all times fitting, as if the stiff god of\ngardens were not favourable to me.  I pray thee, favour me so much as to\nbelieve that I still have him at a beck, attending always my commandments,\ndocile, obedient, vigorous, and active in all things and everywhere, and\nnever stubborn or refractory to my will or pleasure.  I need no more but to\nlet go the reins, and slacken the leash, which is the belly-point, and when\nthe game is shown unto him, say, Hey, Jack, to thy booty! he will not fail\neven then to flesh himself upon his prey, and tuzzle it to some purpose.\nHereby you may perceive, although my future wife were as unsatiable and\ngluttonous in her voluptuousness and the delights of venery as ever was the\nEmpress Messalina, or yet the Marchioness (of Oincester) in England, and I\ndesire thee to give credit to it, that I lack not for what is requisite to\noverlay the stomach of her lust, but have wherewith aboundingly to please\nher.  I am not ignorant that Solomon said, who indeed of that matter\nspeaketh clerklike and learnedly,--as also how Aristotle after him declared\nfor a truth that, for the greater part, the lechery of a woman is ravenous\nand unsatisfiable.  Nevertheless, let such as are my friends who read those\npassages receive from me for a most real verity, that I for such a Jill\nhave a fit Jack; and that, if women's things cannot be satiated, I have an\ninstrument indefatigable,--an implement as copious in the giving as can in\ncraving be their vade mecums.  Do not here produce ancient examples of the\nparagons of paillardice, and offer to match with my testiculatory ability\nthe Priapaean prowess of the fabulous fornicators, Hercules, Proculus\nCaesar, and Mahomet, who in his Alkoran doth vaunt that in his cods he had\nthe vigour of three score bully ruffians; but let no zealous Christian\ntrust the rogue,--the filthy ribald rascal is a liar.  Nor shalt thou need\nto urge authorities, or bring forth the instance of the Indian prince of\nwhom Theophrastus, Plinius, and Athenaeus testify, that with the help of a\ncertain herb he was able, and had given frequent experiments thereof, to\ntoss his sinewy piece of generation in the act of carnal concupiscence\nabove three score and ten times in the space of four-and-twenty hours.  Of\nthat I believe nothing, the number is supposititious, and too prodigally\nfoisted in.  Give no faith unto it, I beseech thee, but prithee trust me in\nthis, and thy credulity therein shall not be wronged, for it is true, and\nprobatum est, that my pioneer of nature--the sacred ithyphallian champion\n--is of all stiff-intruding blades the primest.  Come hither, my ballocket,\nand hearken.  Didst thou ever see the monk of Castre's cowl?  When in any\nhouse it was laid down, whether openly in the view of all or covertly out\nof the sight of any, such was the ineffable virtue thereof for excitating\nand stirring up the people of both sexes unto lechery, that the whole\ninhabitants and indwellers, not only of that, but likewise of all the\ncircumjacent places thereto, within three leagues around it, did suddenly\nenter into rut, both beasts and folks, men and women, even to the dogs and\nhogs, rats and cats.\n\nI swear to thee that many times heretofore I have perceived and found in my\ncodpiece a certain kind of energy or efficacious virtue much more irregular\nand of a greater anomaly than what I have related.  I will not speak to\nthee either of house or cottage, nor of church or market, but only tell\nthee, that once at the representation of the Passion, which was acted at\nSaint Maxents, I had no sooner entered within the pit of the theatre, but\nthat forthwith, by the virtue and occult property of it, on a sudden all\nthat were there, both players and spectators, did fall into such an\nexorbitant temptation of lust, that there was not angel, man, devil, nor\ndeviless upon the place who would not then have bricollitched it with all\ntheir heart and soul.  The prompter forsook his copy, he who played\nMichael's part came down to rights, the devils issued out of hell and\ncarried along with them most of the pretty little girls that were there;\nyea, Lucifer got out of his fetters; in a word, seeing the huge disorder, I\ndisparked myself forth of that enclosed place, in imitation of Cato the\nCensor, who perceiving, by reason of his presence, the Floralian festivals\nout of order, withdrew himself.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Friar John comforteth Panurge in the doubtful matter of cuckoldry.\n\nI understand thee well enough, said Friar John; but time makes all things\nplain.  The most durable marble or porphyry is subject to old age and\ndecay.  Though for the present thou possibly be not weary of the exercise,\nyet is it like I will hear thee confess a few years hence that thy cods\nhang dangling downwards for want of a better truss.  I see thee waxing a\nlittle hoar-headed already.  Thy beard, by the distinction of grey, white,\ntawny, and black, hath to my thinking the resemblance of a map of the\nterrestrial globe or geographical chart.  Look attentively upon and take\ninspection of what I shall show unto thee.  Behold there Asia.  Here are\nTigris and Euphrates.  Lo there Afric.  Here is the mountain of the Moon,\n--yonder thou mayst perceive the fenny march of Nilus.  On this side lieth\nEurope.  Dost thou not see the Abbey of Theleme?  This little tuft, which\nis altogether white, is the Hyperborean Hills.  By the thirst of my\nthropple, friend, when snow is on the mountains, I say the head and the\nchin, there is not then any considerable heat to be expected in the valleys\nand low countries of the codpiece.  By the kibes of thy heels, quoth\nPanurge, thou dost not understand the topics.  When snow is on the tops of\nthe hills, lightning, thunder, tempest, whirlwinds, storms, hurricanes, and\nall the devils of hell rage in the valleys.  Wouldst thou see the\nexperience thereof, go to the territory of the Switzers and earnestly\nperpend with thyself there the situation of the lake of Wunderberlich,\nabout four leagues distant from Berne, on the Syon-side of the land.  Thou\ntwittest me with my grey hairs, yet considerest not how I am of the nature\nof leeks, which with a white head carry a green, fresh, straight, and\nvigorous tail.  The truth is, nevertheless (why should I deny it), that I\nnow and then discern in myself some indicative signs of old age.  Tell\nthis, I prithee, to nobody, but let it be kept very close and secret\nbetwixt us two; for I find the wine much sweeter now, more savoury to my\ntaste, and unto my palate of a better relish than formerly I was wont to\ndo; and withal, besides mine accustomed manner, I have a more dreadful\napprehension than I ever heretofore have had of lighting on bad wine.  Note\nand observe that this doth argue and portend I know not what of the west\nand occident of my time, and signifieth that the south and meridian of mine\nage is past.  But what then, my gentle companion?  That doth but betoken\nthat I will hereafter drink so much the more.  That is not, the devil hale\nit, the thing that I fear; nor is it there where my shoe pinches.  The\nthing that I doubt most, and have greatest reason to dread and suspect is,\nthat through some long absence of our King Pantagruel (to whom I must needs\nbear company should he go to all the devils of Barathrum), my future wife\nshall make me a cuckold.  This is, in truth, the long and short on't.  For\nI am by all those whom I have spoke to menaced and threatened with a horned\nfortune, and all of them affirm it is the lot to which from heaven I am\npredestinated.  Everyone, answered Friar John, that would be a cuckold is\nnot one.  If it be thy fate to be hereafter of the number of that horned\ncattle, then may I conclude with an Ergo, thy wife will be beautiful, and\nErgo, thou wilt be kindly used by her.  Likewise with this Ergo, thou shalt\nbe blessed with the fruition of many friends and well-willers.  And finally\nwith this other Ergo, thou shalt be saved and have a place in Paradise.\nThese are monachal topics and maxims of the cloister.  Thou mayst take more\nliberty to sin.  Thou shalt be more at ease than ever.  There will be never\nthe less left for thee, nothing diminished, but thy goods shall increase\nnotably.  And if so be it was preordinated for thee, wouldst thou be so\nimpious as not to acquiesce in thy destiny?  Speak, thou jaded cod.\n\nFaded C.           Louting C.            Appellant C.\nMouldy C.          Discouraged C.        Swagging C.\nMusty C.           Surfeited C.          Withered C.\nPaltry C.          Peevish C.            Broken-reined C.\nSenseless C.       Translated C.         Defective C.\nFoundered C.       Forlorn C.            Crestfallen C.\nDistempered C.     Unsavoury C.          Felled C.\nBewrayed C.        Worm-eaten C.         Fleeted C.\nInveigled C.       Overtoiled C.         Cloyed C.\nDangling C.        Miserable C.          Squeezed C.\nStupid C.          Steeped C.            Resty C.\nSeedless C.        Kneaded-with-cold-    Pounded C.\nSoaked C.            water C.            Loose C.\nColdish C.         Hacked C.             Fruitless C.\nPickled C.         Flaggy C.             Riven C.\nChurned C.         Scrubby C.            Pursy C.\nFilliped C.        Drained C.            Fusty C.\nSinglefied C.      Haled C.              Jadish C.\nBegrimed C.        Lolling C.            Fistulous C.\nWrinkled C.        Drenched C.           Languishing C.\nFainted C.         Burst C.              Maleficiated C.\nExtenuated C.      Stirred up C.         Hectic C.\nGrim C.            Mitred C.             Worn out C.\nWasted C.          Peddlingly furnished  Ill-favoured C.\nInflamed C.          C.                  Duncified C.\nUnhinged C.        Rusty C.              Macerated C.\nScurfy C.          Exhausted C.          Paralytic C.\nStraddling C.      Perplexed C.          Degraded C.\nPutrefied C.       Unhelved C.           Benumbed C.\nMaimed C.          Fizzled C.            Bat-like C.\nOverlechered C.    Leprous C.            Fart-shotten C.\nDruggely C.        Bruised C.            Sunburnt C.\nMitified C.        Spadonic C.           Pacified C.\nGoat-ridden C.     Boughty C.            Blunted C.\nWeakened C.        Mealy C.              Rankling tasted C.\nAss-ridden C.      Wrangling C.          Rooted out C.\nPuff-pasted C.     Gangrened C.          Costive C.\nSt. Anthonified C. Crust-risen C.        Hailed on C.\nUntriped C.        Ragged C.             Cuffed C.\nBlasted C.         Quelled C.            Buffeted C.\nCut off C.         Braggadocio C.        Whirreted C.\nBeveraged C.       Beggarly C.           Robbed C.\nScarified C.       Trepanned C.          Neglected C.\nDashed C.          Bedusked C.           Lame C.\nSlashed C.         Emasculated C.        Confused C.\nEnfeebled C.       Corked C.             Unsavoury C.\nWhore-hunting C.   Transparent C.        Overthrown C.\nDeteriorated C.    Vile C.               Boulted C.\nChill C.           Antedated C.          Trod under C.\nScrupulous C.      Chopped C.            Desolate C.\nCrazed C.          Pinked C.             Declining C.\nTasteless C.       Cup-glassified C.     Stinking C.\nSorrowful C.       Harsh C.              Crooked C.\nMurdered C.        Beaten C.             Brabbling C.\nMatachin-like C.   Barred C.             Rotten C.\nBesotted C.        Abandoned C.          Anxious C.\nCustomerless C.    Confounded C.         Clouted C.\nMinced C.          Loutish C.            Tired C.\nExulcerated C.     Borne down C.         Proud C.\nPatched C.         Sparred C.            Fractured C.\nStupified C.       Abashed C.            Melancholy C.\nAnnihilated C.     Unseasonable C.       Coxcombly C.\nSpent C.           Oppressed C.          Base C.\nFoiled C.          Grated C.             Bleaked C.\nAnguished C.       Falling away C.       Detested C.\nDisfigured C.      Smallcut C.           Diaphanous C.\nDisabled C.        Disordered C.         Unworthy C.\nForceless C.       Latticed C.           Checked C.\nCensured C.        Ruined C.             Mangled C.\nCut C.             Exasperated C.        Turned over C.\nRifled C.          Rejected C.           Harried C.\nUndone C.          Belammed C.           Flawed C.\nCorrected C.       Fabricitant C.        Froward C.\nSlit C.            Perused C.            Ugly C.\nSkittish C.        Emasculated C.        Drawn C.\nSpongy C.          Roughly handled C.    Riven C.\nBotched C.         Examined C.           Distasteful C.\nDejected C.        Cracked C.            Hanging C.\nJagged C.          Wayward C.            Broken C.\nPining C.          Haggled C.            Limber C.\nDeformed C.        Gleaning C.           Effeminate C.\nMischieved C.      Ill-favoured C.       Kindled C.\nCobbled C.         Pulled C.             Evacuated C.\nEmbased C.         Drooping C.           Grieved C.\nRansacked C.       Faint C.              Carking C.\nDespised C.        Parched C.            Disorderly C.\nMangy C.           Paltry C.             Empty C.\nAbased C.          Cankered C.           Disquieted C.\nSupine C.          Void C.               Besysted C.\nMended C.          Vexed C.              Confounded C.\nDismayed C.        Bestunk C.            Hooked C.\nDivorous C.        Winnowed C.           Unlucky C.\nWearied C.         Decayed C.            Sterile C.\nSad C.             Disastrous C.         Beshitten C.\nCross C.           Unhandsome C.         Appeased C.\nVain-glorious C.   Stummed C.            Caitiff C.\nPoor C.            Barren C.             Woeful C.\nBrown C.           Wretched C.           Unseemly C.\nShrunken C.        Feeble C.             Heavy C.\nAbhorred C.        Cast down C.          Weak C.\nTroubled C.        Stopped C.            Prostrated C.\nScornful C.        Kept under C.         Uncomely C.\nDishonest C.       Stubborn C.           Naughty C.\nReproved C.        Ground C.             Laid flat C.\nCocketed C.        Retchless C.          Suffocated C.\nFilthy C.          Weather-beaten C.     Held down C.\nShred C.           Flayed C.             Barked C.\nChawned C.         Bald C.               Hairless C.\nShort-winded C.    Tossed C.             Flamping C.\nBranchless C.      Flapping C.           Hooded C.\nChapped C.         Cleft C.              Wormy C.\nFailing C.         Meagre C.             Besysted (In his anxiety to swell\nhis catalogue as much as possible, Sir Thomas Urquhart has set down this\nword twice.) C.\nDeficient C.       Dumpified C.          Faulty C.\nLean C.            Suppressed C.         Bemealed C.\nConsumed C.        Hagged C.             Mortified C.\nUsed C.            Jawped C.             Scurvy C.\nPuzzled C.         Havocked C.           Bescabbed C.\nAllayed C.         Astonished C.         Torn C.\nSpoiled C.         Dulled C.             Subdued C.\nClagged C.         Slow C.               Sneaking C.\nPalsy-stricken C.  Plucked up C.         Bare C.\nAmazed C.          Constipated C.        Swart C.\nBedunsed C.        Blown C.              Smutched C.\nExtirpated C.      Blockified C.         Raised up C.\nBanged C.          Pommelled C.          Chopped C.\nStripped C.        All-to-bemauled C.    Flirted C.\nHoary C.           Fallen away C.        Blained C.\nBlotted C.         Stale C.              Rensy C.\nSunk in C.         Corrupted C.          Frowning C.\nGhastly C.         Beflowered C.         Limping C.\nUnpointed C.       Amated C.             Ravelled C.\nBeblistered C.     Blackish C.           Rammish C.\nWizened C.         Underlaid C.          Gaunt C.\nBeggar-plated C.   Loathing C.           Beskimmered C.\nDouf C.            Ill-filled C.         Scraggy C.\nClarty C.          Bobbed C.             Lank C.\nLumpish C.         Mated C.              Swashering C.\nAbject C.          Tawny C.              Moiling C.\nSide C.            Whealed C.            Swinking C.\nChoked up C.       Besmeared C.          Harried C.\nBackward C.        Hollow C.             Tugged C.\nProlix C.          Pantless C.           Towed C.\nSpotted C.         Guizened C.           Misused C.\nCrumpled C.        Demiss C.             Adamitical C.\nFrumpled C.        Refractory C.\n\nBallockatso to the devil, my dear friend Panurge, seeing it is so decreed\nby the gods, wouldst thou invert the course of the planets, and make them\nretrograde?  Wouldst thou disorder all the celestial spheres, blame the\nintelligences, blunt the spindles, joint the wherves, slander the spinning\nquills, reproach the bobbins, revile the clew-bottoms, and finally ravel\nand untwist all the threads of both the warp and the waft of the weird\nSister-Parcae?  What a pox to thy bones dost thou mean, stony cod?  Thou\nwouldst if thou couldst, a great deal worse than the giants of old intended\nto have done.  Come hither, billicullion.  Whether wouldst thou be jealous\nwithout cause, or be a cuckold and know nothing of it?  Neither the one nor\nthe other, quoth Panurge, would I choose to be.  But if I get an inkling of\nthe matter, I will provide well enough, or there shall not be one stick of\nwood within five hundred leagues about me whereof to make a cudgel.  In\ngood faith, Friar John, I speak now seriously unto thee, I think it will be\nmy best not to marry.  Hearken to what the bells do tell me, now that we\nare nearer to them!  Do not marry, marry not, not, not, not, not; marry,\nmarry not, not, not, not, not.  If thou marry, thou wilt miscarry, carry,\ncarry; thou'lt repent it, resent it, sent it!  If thou marry, thou a\ncuckold, a cou-cou-cuckoo, cou-cou-cuckold thou shalt be.  By the worthy\nwrath of God, I begin to be angry.  This campanilian oracle fretteth me to\nthe guts,--a March hare was never in such a chafe as I am.  O how I am\nvexed!  You monks and friars of the cowl-pated and hood-polled fraternity,\nhave you no remedy nor salve against this malady of graffing horns in\nheads?  Hath nature so abandoned humankind, and of her help left us so\ndestitute, that married men cannot know how to sail through the seas of\nthis mortal life and be safe from the whirlpools, quicksands, rocks, and\nbanks that lie alongst the coast of Cornwall.\n\nI will, said Friar John, show thee a way and teach thee an expedient by\nmeans whereof thy wife shall never make thee a cuckold without thy\nknowledge and thine own consent.  Do me the favour, I pray thee, quoth\nPanurge, my pretty, soft, downy cod; now tell it, billy, tell it, I beseech\nthee.  Take, quoth Friar John, Hans Carvel's ring upon thy finger, who was\nthe King of Melinda's chief jeweller.  Besides that this Hans Carvel had\nthe reputation of being very skilful and expert in the lapidary's\nprofession, he was a studious, learned, and ingenious man, a scientific\nperson, full of knowledge, a great philosopher, of a sound judgment, of a\nprime wit, good sense, clear spirited, an honest creature, courteous,\ncharitable, a giver of alms, and of a jovial humour, a boon companion, and\na merry blade, if ever there was any in the world.  He was somewhat\ngorbellied, had a little shake in his head, and was in effect unwieldy of\nhis body.  In his old age he took to wife the Bailiff of Concordat's\ndaughter, young, fair, jolly, gallant, spruce, frisk, brisk, neat, feat,\nsmirk, smug, compt, quaint, gay, fine, tricksy, trim, decent, proper,\ngraceful, handsome, beautiful, comely, and kind--a little too much--to her\nneighbours and acquaintance.\n\nHereupon it fell out, after the expiring of a scantling of weeks, that\nMaster Carvel became as jealous as a tiger, and entered into a very\nprofound suspicion that his new-married gixy did keep a-buttock-stirring\nwith others.  To prevent which inconveniency he did tell her many tragical\nstories of the total ruin of several kingdoms by adultery; did read unto\nher the legend of chaste wives; then made some lectures to her in the\npraise of the choice virtue of pudicity, and did present her with a book in\ncommendation of conjugal fidelity; wherein the wickedness of all licentious\nwomen was odiously detested; and withal he gave her a chain enriched with\npure oriental sapphires.  Notwithstanding all this, he found her always\nmore and more inclined to the reception of her neighbour copes-mates, that\nday by day his jealousy increased.  In sequel whereof, one night as he was\nlying by her, whilst in his sleep the rambling fancies of the lecherous\ndeportments of his wife did take up the cellules of his brain, he dreamt\nthat he encountered with the devil, to whom he had discovered to the full\nthe buzzing of his head and suspicion that his wife did tread her shoe\nawry.  The devil, he thought, in this perplexity did for his comfort give\nhim a ring, and therewithal did kindly put it on his middle finger, saying,\nHans Carvel, I give thee this ring,--whilst thou carriest it upon that\nfinger, thy wife shall never carnally be known by any other than thyself\nwithout thy special knowledge and consent.  Gramercy, quoth Hans Carvel, my\nlord devil, I renounce Mahomet if ever it shall come off my finger.  The\ndevil vanished, as is his custom; and then Hans Carvel, full of joy\nawaking, found that his middle finger was as far as it could reach within\nthe what-do-by-call-it of his wife.  I did forget to tell thee how his\nwife, as soon as she had felt the finger there, said, in recoiling her\nbuttocks, Off, yes, nay, tut, pish, tush, ay, lord, that is not the thing\nwhich should be put up in that place.  With this Hans Carvel thought that\nsome pilfering fellow was about to take the ring from him.  Is not this an\ninfallible and sovereign antidote?  Therefore, if thou wilt believe me, in\nimitation of this example never fail to have continually the ring of thy\nwife's commodity upon thy finger.  When that was said, their discourse and\ntheir way ended.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel convocated together a theologian, physician, lawyer, and\nphilosopher, for extricating Panurge out of the perplexity wherein he was.\n\nNo sooner were they come into the royal palace, but they to the full made\nreport unto Pantagruel of the success of their expedition, and showed him\nthe response of Raminagrobis.  When Pantagruel had read it over and over\nagain, the oftener he perused it being the better pleased therewith, he\nsaid, in addressing his speech to Panurge, I have not as yet seen any\nanswer framed to your demand which affordeth me more contentment.  For in\nthis his succinct copy of verses, he summarily and briefly, yet fully\nenough expresseth how he would have us to understand that everyone in the\nproject and enterprise of marriage ought to be his own carver, sole\narbitrator of his proper thoughts, and from himself alone take counsel in\nthe main and peremptory closure of what his determination should be, in\neither his assent to or dissent from it.  Such always hath been my opinion\nto you, and when at first you spoke thereof to me I truly told you this\nsame very thing; but tacitly you scorned my advice, and would not harbour\nit within your mind.  I know for certain, and therefore may I with the\ngreater confidence utter my conception of it, that philauty, or self-love,\nis that which blinds your judgment and deceiveth you.\n\nLet us do otherwise, and that is this:  Whatever we are, or have,\nconsisteth in three things--the soul, the body, and the goods.  Now, for\nthe preservation of these three, there are three sorts of learned men\nordained, each respectively to have care of that one which is recommended\nto his charge.  Theologues are appointed for the soul, physicians for the\nwelfare of the body, and lawyers for the safety of our goods.  Hence it is\nthat it is my resolution to have on Sunday next with me at dinner a divine,\na physician, and a lawyer, that with those three assembled thus together we\nmay in every point and particle confer at large of your perplexity.  By\nSaint Picot, answered Panurge, we never shall do any good that way, I see\nit already.  And you see yourself how the world is vilely abused, as when\nwith a foxtail one claps another's breech to cajole him.  We give our souls\nto keep to the theologues, who for the greater part are heretics.  Our\nbodies we commit to the physicians, who never themselves take any physic.\nAnd then we entrust our goods to the lawyers, who never go to law against\none another.  You speak like a courtier, quoth Pantagruel.  But the first\npoint of your assertion is to be denied; for we daily see how good\ntheologues make it their chief business, their whole and sole employment,\nby their deeds, their words, and writings, to extirpate errors and heresies\nout of the hearts of men, and in their stead profoundly plant the true and\nlively faith.  The second point you spoke of I commend; for, whereas the\nprofessors of the art of medicine give so good order to the prophylactic,\nor conservative part of their faculty, in what concerneth their proper\nhealths, that they stand in no need of making use of the other branch,\nwhich is the curative or therapeutic, by medicaments.  As for the third, I\ngrant it to be true, for learned advocates and counsellors at law are so\nmuch taken up with the affairs of others in their consultations, pleadings,\nand such-like patrocinations of those who are their clients, that they have\nno leisure to attend any controversies of their own.  Therefore, on the\nnext ensuing Sunday, let the divine be our godly Father Hippothadee, the\nphysician our honest Master Rondibilis, and our legist our friend\nBridlegoose.  Nor will it be (to my thinking) amiss, that we enter into the\nPythagoric field, and choose for an assistant to the three afore-named\ndoctors our ancient faithful acquaintance, the philosopher Trouillogan;\nespecially seeing a perfect philosopher, such as is Trouillogan, is able\npositively to resolve all whatsoever doubts you can propose.  Carpalin,\nhave you a care to have them here all four on Sunday next at dinner,\nwithout fail.\n\nI believe, quoth Epistemon, that throughout the whole country, in all the\ncorners thereof, you could not have pitched upon such other four.  Which I\nspeak not so much in regard of the most excellent qualifications and\naccomplishments wherewith all of them are endowed for the respective\ndischarge and management of each his own vocation and calling (wherein\nwithout all doubt or controversy they are the paragons of the land, and\nsurpass all others), as for that Rondibilis is married now, who before was\nnot,--Hippothadee was not before, nor is yet,--Bridlegoose was married\nonce, but is not now,--and Trouillogan is married now, who wedded was to\nanother wife before.  Sir, if it may stand with your good liking, I will\nease Carpalin of some parcel of his labour, and invite Bridlegoose myself,\nwith whom I of a long time have had a very intimate familiarity, and unto\nwhom I am to speak on the behalf of a pretty hopeful youth who now studieth\nat Toulouse, under the most learned virtuous doctor Boissonet.  Do what you\ndeem most expedient, quoth Pantagruel, and tell me if my recommendation can\nin anything be steadable for the promoval of the good of that youth, or\notherwise serve for bettering of the dignity and office of the worthy\nBoissonet, whom I do so love and respect for one of the ablest and most\nsufficient in his way that anywhere are extant.  Sir, I will use therein my\nbest endeavours, and heartily bestir myself about it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the theologue, Hippothadee, giveth counsel to Panurge in the matter and\nbusiness of his nuptial enterprise.\n\nThe dinner on the subsequent Sunday was no sooner made ready than that the\nafore-named invited guests gave thereto their appearance, all of them,\nBridlegoose only excepted, who was the deputy-governor of Fonsbeton.  At\nthe ushering in of the second service Panurge, making a low reverence,\nspake thus:  Gentlemen, the question I am to propound unto you shall be\nuttered in very few words--Should I marry or no?  If my doubt herein be not\nresolved by you, I shall hold it altogether insolvable, as are the\nInsolubilia de Aliaco; for all of you are elected, chosen, and culled out\nfrom amongst others, everyone in his own condition and quality, like so\nmany picked peas on a carpet.\n\nThe Father Hippothadee, in obedience to the bidding of Pantagruel, and with\nmuch courtesy to the company, answered exceeding modestly after this\nmanner:  My friend, you are pleased to ask counsel of us; but first you\nmust consult with yourself.  Do you find any trouble or disquiet in your\nbody by the importunate stings and pricklings of the flesh?  That I do,\nquoth Panurge, in a hugely strong and almost irresistible measure.  Be not\noffended, I beseech you, good father, at the freedom of my expression.  No\ntruly, friend, not I, quoth Hippothadee, there is no reason why I should be\ndispleased therewith.  But in this carnal strife and debate of yours have\nyou obtained from God the gift and special grace of continency?  In good\nfaith, not, quoth Panurge.  My counsel to you in that case, my friend, is\nthat you marry, quoth Hippothadee; for you should rather choose to marry\nonce than to burn still in fires of concupiscence.  Then Panurge, with a\njovial heart and a loud voice, cried out, That is spoke gallantly, without\ncircumbilivaginating about and about, and never hitting it in its centred\npoint.  Gramercy, my good father!  In truth I am resolved now to marry, and\nwithout fail I shall do it quickly.  I invite you to my wedding.  By the\nbody of a hen, we shall make good cheer, and be as merry as crickets.  You\nshall wear the bridegroom's colours, and, if we eat a goose, my wife shall\nnot roast it for me.  I will entreat you to lead up the first dance of the\nbridesmaids, if it may please you to do me so much favour and honour.\nThere resteth yet a small difficulty, a little scruple, yea, even less than\nnothing, whereof I humbly crave your resolution.  Shall I be a cuckold,\nfather, yea or no?  By no means, answered Hippothadee, will you be\ncuckolded, if it please God.  O the Lord help us now, quoth Panurge;\nwhither are we driven to, good folks?  To the conditionals, which,\naccording to the rules and precepts of the dialectic faculty, admit of all\ncontradictions and impossibilities.  If my Transalpine mule had wings, my\nTransalpine mule would fly, if it please God, I shall not be a cuckold; but\nI shall be a cuckold, if it please him.  Good God, if this were a condition\nwhich I knew how to prevent, my hopes should be as high as ever, nor would\nI despair.  But you here send me to God's privy council, to the closet of\nhis little pleasures.  You, my French countrymen, which is the way you take\nto go thither?\n\nMy honest father, I believe it will be your best not to come to my wedding.\nThe clutter and dingle-dangle noise of marriage guests will but disturb\nyou, and break the serious fancies of your brain.  You love repose, with\nsolitude and silence; I really believe you will not come.  And then you\ndance but indifferently, and would be out of countenance at the first\nentry.  I will send you some good things to your chamber, together with the\nbride's favour, and there you may drink our health, if it may stand with\nyour good liking.  My friend, quoth Hippothadee, take my words in the sense\nwherein I meant them, and do not misinterpret me.  When I tell you,--If it\nplease God,--do I to you any wrong therein?  Is it an ill expression?  Is\nit a blaspheming clause or reserve any way scandalous unto the world?  Do\nnot we thereby honour the Lord God Almighty, Creator, Protector, and\nConserver of all things?  Is not that a mean whereby we do acknowledge him\nto be the sole giver of all whatsoever is good?  Do not we in that manifest\nour faith that we believe all things to depend upon his infinite and\nincomprehensible bounty, and that without him nothing can be produced, nor\nafter its production be of any value, force, or power, without the\nconcurring aid and favour of his assisting grace?  Is it not a canonical\nand authentic exception, worthy to be premised to all our undertakings?  Is\nit not expedient that what we propose unto ourselves be still referred to\nwhat shall be disposed of by the sacred will of God, unto which all things\nmust acquiesce in the heavens as well as on the earth?  Is not that verily\na sanctifying of his holy name?  My friend, you shall not be a cuckold, if\nit please God, nor shall we need to despair of the knowledge of his good\nwill and pleasure herein, as if it were such an abstruse and mysteriously\nhidden secret that for the clear understanding thereof it were necessary to\nconsult with those of his celestial privy council, or expressly make a\nvoyage unto the empyrean chamber where order is given for the effectuating\nof his most holy pleasures.  The great God hath done us this good, that he\nhath declared and revealed them to us openly and plainly, and described\nthem in the Holy Bible.  There will you find that you shall never be a\ncuckold, that is to say, your wife shall never be a strumpet, if you make\nchoice of one of a commendable extraction, descended of honest parents, and\ninstructed in all piety and virtue--such a one as hath not at any time\nhaunted or frequented the company or conversation of those that are of\ncorrupt and depraved manners, one loving and fearing God, who taketh a\nsingular delight in drawing near to him by faith and the cordial observing\nof his sacred commandments--and finally, one who, standing in awe of the\nDivine Majesty of the Most High, will be loth to offend him and lose the\nfavourable kindness of his grace through any defect of faith or\ntransgression against the ordinances of his holy law, wherein adultery is\nmost rigorously forbidden and a close adherence to her husband alone most\nstrictly and severely enjoined; yea, in such sort that she is to cherish,\nserve, and love him above anything, next to God, that meriteth to be\nbeloved.  In the interim, for the better schooling of her in these\ninstructions, and that the wholesome doctrine of a matrimonial duty may\ntake the deeper root in her mind, you must needs carry yourself so on your\npart, and your behaviour is to be such, that you are to go before her in a\ngood example, by entertaining her unfeignedly with a conjugal amity, by\ncontinually approving yourself in all your words and actions a faithful and\ndiscreet husband; and by living, not only at home and privately with your\nown household and family, but in the face also of all men and open view of\nthe world, devoutly, virtuously, and chastely, as you would have her on her\nside to deport and to demean herself towards you, as becomes a godly,\nloyal, and respectful wife, who maketh conscience to keep inviolable the\ntie of a matrimonial oath.  For as that looking-glass is not the best which\nis most decked with gold and precious stones, but that which representeth\nto the eye the liveliest shapes of objects set before it, even so that wife\nshould not be most esteemed who richest is and of the noblest race, but she\nwho, fearing God, conforms herself nearest unto the humour of her husband.\n\nConsider how the moon doth not borrow her light from Jupiter, Mars,\nMercury, or any other of the planets, nor yet from any of those splendid\nstars which are set in the spangled firmament, but from her husband only,\nthe bright sun, which she receiveth from him more or less, according to the\nmanner of his aspect and variously bestowed eradiations.  Just so should\nyou be a pattern to your wife in virtue, goodly zeal, and true devotion,\nthat by your radiance in darting on her the aspect of an exemplary\ngoodness, she, in your imitation, may outshine the luminaries of all other\nwomen.  To this effect you daily must implore God's grace to the protection\nof you both.  You would have me then, quoth Panurge, twisting the whiskers\nof his beard on either side with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand,\nto espouse and take to wife the prudent frugal woman described by Solomon.\nWithout all doubt she is dead, and truly to my best remembrance I never saw\nher; the Lord forgive me!  Nevertheless, I thank you, father.  Eat this\nslice of marchpane, it will help your digestion; then shall you be\npresented with a cup of claret hippocras, which is right healthful and\nstomachal.  Let us proceed.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the physician Rondibilis counselleth Panurge.\n\nPanurge, continuing his discourse, said, The first word which was spoken by\nhim who gelded the lubberly, quaffing monks of Saussiniac, after that he\nhad unstoned Friar Cauldaureil, was this, To the rest.  In like manner, I\nsay, To the rest.  Therefore I beseech you, my good Master Rondibilis,\nshould I marry or not?  By the raking pace of my mule, quoth Rondibilis, I\nknow not what answer to make to this problem of yours.\n\nYou say that you feel in you the pricking stings of sensuality, by which\nyou are stirred up to venery.  I find in our faculty of medicine, and we\nhave founded our opinion therein upon the deliberate resolution and final\ndecision of the ancient Platonics, that carnal concupiscence is cooled and\nquelled five several ways.\n\nFirst, By the means of wine.  I shall easily believe that, quoth Friar\nJohn, for when I am well whittled with the juice of the grape I care for\nnothing else, so I may sleep.  When I say, quoth Rondibilis, that wine\nabateth lust, my meaning is, wine immoderately taken; for by intemperancy\nproceeding from the excessive drinking of strong liquor there is brought\nupon the body of such a swill-down boozer a chillness in the blood, a\nslackening in the sinews, a dissipation of the generative seed, a numbness\nand hebetation of the senses, with a perversive wryness and convulsion of\nthe muscles--all which are great lets and impediments to the act of\ngeneration.  Hence it is that Bacchus, the god of bibbers, tipplers, and\ndrunkards, is most commonly painted beardless and clad in a woman's habit,\nas a person altogether effeminate, or like a libbed eunuch.  Wine,\nnevertheless, taken moderately, worketh quite contrary effects, as is\nimplied by the old proverb, which saith that Venus takes cold when not\naccompanied with Ceres and Bacchus.  This opinion is of great antiquity, as\nappeareth by the testimony of Diodorus the Sicilian, and confirmed by\nPausanias, and universally held amongst the Lampsacians, that Don Priapus\nwas the son of Bacchus and Venus.\n\nSecondly, The fervency of lust is abated by certain drugs, plants, herbs,\nand roots, which make the taker cold, maleficiated, unfit for, and unable\nto perform the act of generation; as hath been often experimented in the\nwater-lily, heraclea, agnus castus, willow-twigs, hemp-stalks, woodbine,\nhoneysuckle, tamarisk, chaste tree, mandrake, bennet, keckbugloss, the skin\nof a hippopotam, and many other such, which, by convenient doses\nproportioned to the peccant humour and constitution of the patient, being\nduly and seasonably received within the body--what by their elementary\nvirtues on the one side and peculiar properties on the other--do either\nbenumb, mortify, and beclumpse with cold the prolific semence, or scatter\nand disperse the spirits which ought to have gone along with and conducted\nthe sperm to the places destined and appointed for its reception, or\nlastly, shut up, stop, and obstruct the ways, passages, and conduits\nthrough which the seed should have been expelled, evacuated, and ejected.\nWe have nevertheless of those ingredients which, being of a contrary\noperation, heat the blood, bend the nerves, unite the spirits, quicken the\nsenses, strengthen the muscles, and thereby rouse up, provoke, excite, and\nenable a man to the vigorous accomplishment of the feat of amorous\ndalliance.  I have no need of those, quoth Panurge, God be thanked, and\nyou, my good master.  Howsoever, I pray you, take no exception or offence\nat these my words; for what I have said was not out of any illwill I did\nbear to you, the Lord he knows.\n\nThirdly, The ardour of lechery is very much subdued and mated by frequent\nlabour and continual toiling.  For by painful exercises and laborious\nworking so great a dissolution is brought upon the whole body, that the\nblood, which runneth alongst the channels of the veins thereof for the\nnourishment and alimentation of each of its members, hath neither time,\nleisure, nor power to afford the seminal resudation, or superfluity of the\nthird concoction, which nature most carefully reserves for the conservation\nof the individual, whose preservation she more heedfully regardeth than the\npropagating of the species and the multiplication of humankind.  Whence it\nis that Diana is said to be chaste, because she is never idle, but always\nbusied about her hunting.  For the same reason was a camp or leaguer of old\ncalled castrum, as if they would have said castum; because the soldiers,\nwrestlers, runners, throwers of the bar, and other such-like athletic\nchampions as are usually seen in a military circumvallation, do incessantly\ntravail and turmoil, and are in a perpetual stir and agitation.  To this\npurpose Hippocrates also writeth in his book, De Aere, Aqua et Locis, that\nin his time there were people in Scythia as impotent as eunuchs in the\ndischarge of a venerean exploit, because that without any cessation, pause,\nor respite they were never from off horseback, or otherwise assiduously\nemployed in some troublesome and molesting drudgery.\n\nOn the other part, in opposition and repugnancy hereto, the philosophers\nsay that idleness is the mother of luxury.  When it was asked Ovid, Why\nAegisthus became an adulterer? he made no other answer but this, Because he\nwas idle.  Who were able to rid the world of loitering and laziness might\neasily frustrate and disappoint Cupid of all his designs, aims, engines,\nand devices, and so disable and appal him that his bow, quiver, and darts\nshould from thenceforth be a mere needless load and burden to him, for that\nit could not then lie in his power to strike or wound any of either sex\nwith all the arms he had.  He is not, I believe, so expert an archer as\nthat he can hit the cranes flying in the air, or yet the young stags\nskipping through the thickets, as the Parthians knew well how to do; that\nis to say, people moiling, stirring and hurrying up and down, restless, and\nwithout repose.  He must have those hushed, still, quiet, lying at a stay,\nlither, and full of ease, whom he is able, though his mother help him, to\ntouch, much less to pierce with all his arrows.  In confirmation hereof,\nTheophrastus, being asked on a time what kind of beast or thing he judged a\ntoyish, wanton love to be? he made answer, that it was a passion of idle\nand sluggish spirits.  From which pretty description of tickling\nlove-tricks that of Diogenes's hatching was not very discrepant, when he\ndefined lechery the occupation of folks destitute of all other occupation.\nFor this cause the Syconian engraver Canachus, being desirous to give us to\nunderstand that sloth, drowsiness, negligence, and laziness were the prime\nguardians and governesses of ribaldry, made the statue of Venus, not\nstanding, as other stone-cutters had used to do, but sitting.\n\nFourthly, The tickling pricks of incontinency are blunted by an eager\nstudy; for from thence proceedeth an incredible resolution of the spirits,\nthat oftentimes there do not remain so many behind as may suffice to push\nand thrust forwards the generative resudation to the places thereto\nappropriated, and therewithal inflate the cavernous nerve whose office is\nto ejaculate the moisture for the propagation of human progeny.  Lest you\nshould think it is not so, be pleased but to contemplate a little the form,\nfashion, and carriage of a man exceeding earnestly set upon some learned\nmeditation, and deeply plunged therein, and you shall see how all the\narteries of his brains are stretched forth and bent like the string of a\ncrossbow, the more promptly, dexterously, and copiously to suppeditate,\nfurnish, and supply him with store of spirits sufficient to replenish and\nfill up the ventricles, seats, tunnels, mansions, receptacles, and cellules\nof the common sense,--of the imagination, apprehension, and fancy,--of the\nratiocination, arguing, and resolution,--as likewise of the memory,\nrecordation, and remembrance; and with great alacrity, nimbleness, and\nagility to run, pass, and course from the one to the other, through those\npipes, windings, and conduits which to skilful anatomists are perceivable\nat the end of the wonderful net where all the arteries close in a\nterminating point; which arteries, taking their rise and origin from the\nleft capsule of the heart, bring through several circuits, ambages, and\nanfractuosities, the vital, to subtilize and refine them to the ethereal\npurity of animal spirits.  Nay, in such a studiously musing person you may\nespy so extravagant raptures of one as it were out of himself, that all his\nnatural faculties for that time will seem to be suspended from each their\nproper charge and office, and his exterior senses to be at a stand.  In a\nword, you cannot otherwise choose than think that he is by an extraordinary\necstasy quite transported out of what he was, or should be; and that\nSocrates did not speak improperly when he said that philosophy was nothing\nelse but a meditation upon death.  This possibly is the reason why\nDemocritus deprived himself of the sense of seeing, prizing at a much lower\nrate the loss of his sight than the diminution of his contemplations, which\nhe frequently had found disturbed by the vagrant, flying-out strayings of\nhis unsettled and roving eyes.  Therefore is it that Pallas, the goddess of\nwisdom, tutoress and guardianess of such as are diligently studious and\npainfully industrious, is, and hath been still accounted a virgin.  The\nMuses upon the same consideration are esteemed perpetual maids; and the\nGraces, for the like reason, have been held to continue in a sempiternal\npudicity.\n\nI remember to have read that Cupid, on a time being asked of his mother\nVenus why he did not assault and set upon the Muses, his answer was that he\nfound them so fair, so sweet, so fine, so neat, so wise, so learned, so\nmodest, so discreet, so courteous, so virtuous, and so continually busied\nand employed,--one in the speculation of the stars,--another in the\nsupputation of numbers,--the third in the dimension of geometrical\nquantities,--the fourth in the composition of heroic poems,--the fifth in\nthe jovial interludes of a comic strain,--the sixth in the stately gravity\nof a tragic vein,--the seventh in the melodious disposition of musical\nairs,--the eighth in the completest manner of writing histories and books\non all sorts of subjects,--and the ninth in the mysteries, secrets, and\ncuriosities of all sciences, faculties, disciplines, and arts whatsoever,\nwhether liberal or mechanic,--that approaching near unto them he unbended\nhis bow, shut his quiver, and extinguished his torch, through mere shame\nand fear that by mischance he might do them some hurt or prejudice.  Which\ndone, he thereafter put off the fillet wherewith his eyes were bound to\nlook them in the face, and to hear their melody and poetic odes.  There\ntook he the greatest pleasure in the world, that many times he was\ntransported with their beauty and pretty behaviour, and charmed asleep by\nthe harmony; so far was he from assaulting them or interrupting their\nstudies.  Under this article may be comprised what Hippocrates wrote in the\nafore-cited treatise concerning the Scythians; as also that in a book of\nhis entitled Of Breeding and Production, where he hath affirmed all such\nmen to be unfit for generation as have their parotid arteries cut--whose\nsituation is beside the ears--for the reason given already when I was\nspeaking of the resolution of the spirits and of that spiritual blood\nwhereof the arteries are the sole and proper receptacles, and that likewise\nhe doth maintain a large portion of the parastatic liquor to issue and\ndescend from the brains and backbone.\n\nFifthly, By the too frequent reiteration of the act of venery.  There did I\nwait for you, quoth Panurge, and shall willingly apply it to myself, whilst\nanyone that pleaseth may, for me, make use of any of the four preceding.\nThat is the very same thing, quoth Friar John, which Father Scyllino, Prior\nof Saint Victor at Marseilles, calleth by the name of maceration and taming\nof the flesh.  I am of the same opinion,--and so was the hermit of Saint\nRadegonde, a little above Chinon; for, quoth he, the hermits of Thebaide\ncan no more aptly or expediently macerate and bring down the pride of their\nbodies, daunt and mortify their lecherous sensuality, or depress and\novercome the stubbornness and rebellion of the flesh, than by duffling and\nfanfreluching it five-and-twenty or thirty times a day.  I see Panurge,\nquoth Rondibilis, neatly featured and proportioned in all the members of\nhis body, of a good temperament in his humours, well-complexioned in his\nspirits, of a competent age, in an opportune time, and of a reasonably\nforward mind to be married.  Truly, if he encounter with a wife of the like\nnature, temperament, and constitution, he may beget upon her children\nworthy of some transpontine monarchy; and the sooner he marry it will be\nthe better for him, and the more conducible for his profit if he would see\nand have his children in his own time well provided for.  Sir, my worthy\nmaster, quoth Panurge, I will do it, do not you doubt thereof, and that\nquickly enough, I warrant you.  Nevertheless, whilst you were busied in the\nuttering of your learned discourse, this flea which I have in mine ear hath\ntickled me more than ever.  I retain you in the number of my festival\nguests, and promise you that we shall not want for mirth and good cheer\nenough, yea, over and above the ordinary rate.  And, if it may please you,\ndesire your wife to come along with you, together with her she-friends and\nneighbours--that is to be understood--and there shall be fair play.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Rondibilis declareth cuckoldry to be naturally one of the appendances\nof marriage.\n\nThere remaineth as yet, quoth Panurge, going on in his discourse, one small\nscruple to be cleared.  You have seen heretofore, I doubt not, in the Roman\nstandards, S.P.Q.R., Si, Peu, Que, Rien.  Shall not I be a cuckold?  By the\nhaven of safety, cried out Rondibilis, what is this you ask of me?  If you\nshall be a cuckold?  My noble friend, I am married, and you are like to be\nso very speedily; therefore be pleased, from my experiment in the matter,\nto write in your brain with a steel pen this subsequent ditton, There is no\nmarried man who doth not run the hazard of being made a cuckold.  Cuckoldry\nnaturally attendeth marriage.  The shadow doth not more naturally follow\nthe body, than cuckoldry ensueth after marriage to place fair horns upon\nthe husbands' heads.\n\nAnd when you shall happen to hear any man pronounce these three words, He\nis married; if you then say he is, hath been, shall be, or may be a\ncuckold, you will not be accounted an unskilful artist in framing of true\nconsequences.  Tripes and bowels of all the devils, cries Panurge, what do\nyou tell me?  My dear friend, answered Rondibilis, as Hippocrates on a time\nwas in the very nick of setting forwards from Lango to Polystilo to visit\nthe philosopher Democritus, he wrote a familiar letter to his friend\nDionysius, wherein he desired him that he would, during the interval of his\nabsence, carry his wife to the house of her father and mother, who were an\nhonourable couple and of good repute; because I would not have her at my\nhome, said he, to make abode in solitude.  Yet, notwithstanding this her\nresidence beside her parents, do not fail, quoth he, with a most heedful\ncare and circumspection to pry into her ways, and to espy what places she\nshall go to with her mother, and who those be that shall repair unto her.\nNot, quoth he, that I do mistrust her virtue, or that I seem to have any\ndiffidence of her pudicity and chaste behaviour,--for of that I have\nfrequently had good and real proofs,--but I must freely tell you, She is a\nwoman.  There lies the suspicion.\n\nMy worthy friend, the nature of women is set forth before our eyes and\nrepresented to us by the moon, in divers other things as well as in this,\nthat they squat, skulk, constrain their own inclinations, and, with all the\ncunning they can, dissemble and play the hypocrite in the sight and\npresence of their husbands; who come no sooner to be out of the way, but\nthat forthwith they take their advantage, pass the time merrily, desist\nfrom all labour, frolic it, gad abroad, lay aside their counterfeit garb,\nand openly declare and manifest the interior of their dispositions, even as\nthe moon, when she is in conjunction with the sun, is neither seen in the\nheavens nor on the earth, but in her opposition, when remotest from him,\nshineth in her greatest fulness, and wholly appeareth in her brightest\nsplendour whilst it is night.  Thus women are but women.\n\nWhen I say womankind, I speak of a sex so frail, so variable, so\nchangeable, so fickle, inconstant, and imperfect, that in my opinion\nNature, under favour, nevertheless, of the prime honour and reverence which\nis due unto her, did in a manner mistake the road which she had traced\nformerly, and stray exceedingly from that excellence of providential\njudgment by the which she had created and formed all other things, when she\nbuilt, framed, and made up the woman.  And having thought upon it a hundred\nand five times, I know not what else to determine therein, save only that\nin the devising, hammering, forging, and composing of the woman she hath\nhad a much tenderer regard, and by a great deal more respectful heed to the\ndelightful consortship and sociable delectation of the man, than to the\nperfection and accomplishment of the individual womanishness or muliebrity.\nThe divine philosopher Plato was doubtful in what rank of living creatures\nto place and collocate them, whether amongst the rational animals, by\nelevating them to an upper seat in the specifical classis of humanity, or\nwith the irrational, by degrading them to a lower bench on the opposite\nside, of a brutal kind, and mere bestiality.  For nature hath posited in a\nprivy, secret, and intestine place of their bodies, a sort of member, by\nsome not impertinently termed an animal, which is not to be found in men.\nTherein sometimes are engendered certain humours so saltish, brackish,\nclammy, sharp, nipping, tearing, prickling, and most eagerly tickling, that\nby their stinging acrimony, rending nitrosity, figging itch, wriggling\nmordicancy, and smarting salsitude (for the said member is altogether\nsinewy and of a most quick and lively feeling), their whole body is shaken\nand ebrangled, their senses totally ravished and transported, the\noperations of their judgment and understanding utterly confounded, and all\ndisordinate passions and perturbations of the mind thoroughly and\nabsolutely allowed, admitted, and approved of; yea, in such sort that if\nnature had not been so favourable unto them as to have sprinkled their\nforehead with a little tincture of bashfulness and modesty, you should see\nthem in a so frantic mood run mad after lechery, and hie apace up and down\nwith haste and lust, in quest of and to fix some chamber-standard in their\nPaphian ground, that never did the Proetides, Mimallonides, nor Lyaean\nThyades deport themselves in the time of their bacchanalian festivals more\nshamelessly, or with a so affronted and brazen-faced impudency; because\nthis terrible animal is knit unto, and hath an union with all the chief and\nmost principal parts of the body, as to anatomists is evident.  Let it not\nhere be thought strange that I should call it an animal, seeing therein I\ndo no otherwise than follow and adhere to the doctrine of the academic and\nperipatetic philosophers.  For if a proper motion be a certain mark and\ninfallible token of the life and animation of the mover, as Aristotle\nwriteth, and that any such thing as moveth of itself ought to be held\nanimated and of a living nature, then assuredly Plato with very good reason\ndid give it the denomination of an animal, for that he perceived and\nobserved in it the proper and self-stirring motions of suffocation,\nprecipitation, corrugation, and of indignation so extremely violent, that\noftentimes by them is taken and removed from the woman all other sense and\nmoving whatsoever, as if she were in a swounding lipothymy, benumbing\nsyncope, epileptic, apoplectic palsy, and true resemblance of a pale-faced\ndeath.\n\nFurthermore, in the said member there is a manifest discerning faculty of\nscents and odours very perceptible to women, who feel it fly from what is\nrank and unsavoury, and follow fragrant and aromatic smells.  It is not\nunknown to me how Cl. Galen striveth with might and main to prove that\nthese are not proper and particular notions proceeding intrinsically from\nthe thing itself, but accidentally and by chance.  Nor hath it escaped my\nnotice how others of that sect have laboured hardly, yea, to the utmost of\ntheir abilities, to demonstrate that it is not a sensitive discerning or\nperception in it of the difference of wafts and smells, but merely a\nvarious manner of virtue and efficacy passing forth and flowing from the\ndiversity of odoriferous substances applied near unto it.  Nevertheless, if\nyou will studiously examine and seriously ponder and weigh in Critolaus's\nbalance the strength of their reasons and arguments, you shall find that\nthey, not only in this, but in several other matters also of the like\nnature, have spoken at random, and rather out of an ambitious envy to check\nand reprehend their betters than for any design to make inquiry into the\nsolid truth.\n\nI will not launch my little skiff any further into the wide ocean of this\ndispute, only will I tell you that the praise and commendation is not mean\nand slender which is due to those honest and good women who, living\nchastely and without blame, have had the power and virtue to curb, range,\nand subdue that unbridled, heady, and wild animal to an obedient,\nsubmissive, and obsequious yielding unto reason.  Therefore here will I\nmake an end of my discourse thereon, when I shall have told you that the\nsaid animal being once satiated--if it be possible that it can be contented\nor satisfied--by that aliment which nature hath provided for it out of the\nepididymal storehouse of man, all its former and irregular and disordered\nmotions are at an end, laid, and assuaged, all its vehement and unruly\nlongings lulled, pacified, and quieted, and all the furious and raging\nlusts, appetites, and desires thereof appeased, calmed, and extinguished.\nFor this cause let it seem nothing strange unto you if we be in a perpetual\ndanger of being cuckolds, that is to say, such of us as have not\nwherewithal fully to satisfy the appetite and expectation of that voracious\nanimal.  Odds fish! quoth Panurge, have you no preventive cure in all your\nmedicinal art for hindering one's head to be horny-graffed at home whilst\nhis feet are plodding abroad?  Yes, that I have, my gallant friend,\nanswered Rondibilis, and that which is a sovereign remedy, whereof I\nfrequently make use myself; and, that you may the better relish, it is set\ndown and written in the book of a most famous author, whose renown is of a\nstanding of two thousand years.  Hearken and take good heed.  You are,\nquoth Panurge, by cockshobby, a right honest man, and I love you with all\nmy heart.  Eat a little of this quince-pie; it is very proper and\nconvenient for the shutting up of the orifice of the ventricle of the\nstomach, because of a kind of astringent stypticity which is in that sort\nof fruit, and is helpful to the first concoction.  But what? I think I\nspeak Latin before clerks.  Stay till I give you somewhat to drink out of\nthis Nestorian goblet.  Will you have another draught of white hippocras?\nBe not afraid of the squinzy, no.  There is neither squinant, ginger, nor\ngrains in it; only a little choice cinnamon, and some of the best refined\nsugar, with the delicious white wine of the growth of that vine which was\nset in the slips of the great sorbapple above the walnut-tree.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nRondibilis the physician's cure of cuckoldry.\n\nAt that time, quoth Rondibilis, when Jupiter took a view of the state of\nhis Olympic house and family, and that he had made the calendar of all the\ngods and goddesses, appointing unto the festival of every one of them its\nproper day and season, establishing certain fixed places and stations for\nthe pronouncing of oracles and relief of travelling pilgrims, and ordaining\nvictims, immolations, and sacrifices suitable and correspondent to the\ndignity and nature of the worshipped and adored deity--Did not he do, asked\nPanurge, therein as Tintouille, the Bishop of Auxerre, is said once to have\ndone?  This noble prelate loved entirely the pure liquor of the grape, as\nevery honest and judicious man doth; therefore was it that he had an\nespecial care and regard to the bud of the vine-tree as to the\ngreat-grandfather of Bacchus.  But so it is, that for sundry years together\nhe saw a most pitiful havoc, desolation, and destruction made amongst the\nsprouts, shootings, buds, blossoms, and scions of the vines by hoary frost,\ndank fogs, hot mists, unseasonable colds, chill blasts, thick hail, and\nother calamitous chances of foul weather, happening, as he thought, by the\ndismal inauspiciousness of the holy days of St. George, St. Mary, St. Paul,\nSt. Eutrope, Holy Rood, the Ascension, and other festivals, in that time\nwhen the sun passeth under the sign of Taurus; and thereupon harboured in\nhis mind this opinion, that the afore-named saints were Saint\nHail-flingers, Saint Frost-senders, Saint Fog-mongers, and Saint Spoilers of\nthe Vine-buds.  For which cause he went about to have transmitted their\nfeasts from the spring to the winter, to be celebrated between Christmas and\nEpiphany, so the mother of the three kings called it, allowing them with all\nhonour and reverence the liberty then to freeze, hail, and rain as much as\nthey would; for that he knew that at such a time frost was rather profitable\nthan hurtful to the vine-buds, and in their steads to have placed the\nfestivals of St. Christopher, St. John the Baptist, St. Magdalene, St. Anne,\nSt. Domingo, and St. Lawrence; yea, and to have gone so far as to collocate\nand transpose the middle of August in and to the beginning of May, because\nduring the whole space of their solemnity there was so little danger of\nhoary frosts and cold mists, that no artificers are then held in greater\nrequest than the afforders of refrigerating inventions, makers of junkets,\nfit disposers of cooling shades, composers of green arbours, and refreshers\nof wine.\n\nJupiter, said Rondibilis, forgot the poor devil Cuckoldry, who was then in\nthe court at Paris very eagerly soliciting a peddling suit at law for one\nof his vassals and tenants.  Within some few days thereafter, I have forgot\nhow many, when he got full notice of the trick which in his absence was\ndone unto him, he instantly desisted from prosecuting legal processes in\nthe behalf of others, full of solicitude to pursue after his own business,\nlest he should be foreclosed, and thereupon he appeared personally at the\ntribunal of the great Jupiter, displayed before him the importance of his\npreceding merits, together with the acceptable services which in obedience\nto his commandments he had formerly performed; and therefore in all\nhumility begged of him that he would be pleased not to leave him alone\namongst all the sacred potentates, destitute and void of honour, reverence,\nsacrifices, and festival ceremonies.  To this petition Jupiter's answer was\nexcusatory, that all the places and offices of his house were bestowed.\nNevertheless, so importuned was he by the continual supplications of\nMonsieur Cuckoldry, that he, in fine, placed him in the rank, list, roll,\nrubric, and catalogue, and appointed honours, sacrifices, and festival\nrites to be observed on earth in great devotion, and tendered to him with\nsolemnity.  The feast, because there was no void, empty, nor vacant place\nin all the calendar, was to be celebrated jointly with, and on the same day\nthat had been consecrated to the goddess Jealousy.  His power and dominion\nshould be over married folks, especially such as had handsome wives.  His\nsacrifices were to be suspicion, diffidence, mistrust, a lowering pouting\nsullenness, watchings, wardings, researchings, plyings, explorations,\ntogether with the waylayings, ambushes, narrow observations, and malicious\ndoggings of the husband's scouts and espials of the most privy actions of\ntheir wives.  Herewithal every married man was expressly and rigorously\ncommanded to reverence, honour, and worship him, to celebrate and solemnize\nhis festival with twice more respect than that of any other saint or deity,\nand to immolate unto him with all sincerity and alacrity of heart the\nabove-mentioned sacrifices and oblations, under pain of severe censures,\nthreatenings, and comminations of these subsequent fines, mulcts,\namerciaments, penalties, and punishments to be inflicted on the\ndelinquents:  that Monsieur Cuckoldry should never be favourable nor\npropitious to them; that he should never help, aid, supply, succour, nor\ngrant them any subventitious furtherance, auxiliary suffrage, or\nadminiculary assistance; that he should never hold them in any reckoning,\naccount, or estimation; that he should never deign to enter within their\nhouses, neither at the doors, windows, nor any other place thereof; that he\nshould never haunt nor frequent their companies or conversations, how\nfrequently soever they should invocate him and call upon his name; and that\nnot only he should leave and abandon them to rot alone with their wives in\na sempiternal solitariness, without the benefit of the diversion of any\ncopes-mate or corrival at all, but should withal shun and eschew them, fly\nfrom them, and eternally forsake and reject them as impious heretics and\nsacrilegious persons, according to the accustomed manner of other gods\ntowards such as are too slack in offering up the duties and reverences\nwhich ought to be performed respectively to their divinities--as is\nevidently apparent in Bacchus towards negligent vine-dressers; in Ceres,\nagainst idle ploughmen and tillers of the ground; in Pomona, to unworthy\nfruiterers and costard-mongers; in Neptune, towards dissolute mariners and\nseafaring men, in Vulcan, towards loitering smiths and forgemen; and so\nthroughout the rest.  Now, on the contrary, this infallible promise was\nadded, that unto all those who should make a holy day of the above-recited\nfestival, and cease from all manner of worldly work and negotiation, lay\naside all their own most important occasions, and to be so retchless,\nheedless, and careless of what might concern the management of their proper\naffairs as to mind nothing else but a suspicious espying and prying into\nthe secret deportments of their wives, and how to coop, shut up, hold at\nunder, and deal cruelly and austerely with them by all the harshness and\nhardships that an implacable and every way inexorable jealousy can devise\nand suggest, conform to the sacred ordinances of the afore-mentioned\nsacrifices and oblations, he should be continually favourable to them,\nshould love them, sociably converse with them, should be day and night in\ntheir houses, and never leave them destitute of his presence.  Now I have\nsaid, and you have heard my cure.\n\nHa, ha, ha! quoth Carpalin, laughing; this is a remedy yet more apt and\nproper than Hans Carvel's ring.  The devil take me if I do not believe it!\nThe humour, inclination, and nature of women is like the thunder, whose\nforce in its bolt or otherwise burneth, bruiseth, and breaketh only hard,\nmassive, and resisting objects, without staying or stopping at soft, empty,\nand yielding matters.  For it pasheth into pieces the steel sword without\ndoing any hurt to the velvet scabbard which ensheatheth it.  It chrusheth\nalso and consumeth the bones without wounding or endamaging the flesh\nwherewith they are veiled and covered.  Just so it is that women for the\ngreater part never bend the contention, subtlety, and contradictory\ndisposition of their spirits unless it be to do what is prohibited and\nforbidden.\n\nVerily, quoth Hippothadee, some of our doctors aver for a truth that the\nfirst woman of the world, whom the Hebrews call Eve, had hardly been\ninduced or allured into the temptation of eating of the fruit of the Tree\nof Life if it had not been forbidden her so to do.  And that you may give\nthe more credit to the validity of this opinion, consider how the cautelous\nand wily tempter did commemorate unto her, for an antecedent to his\nenthymeme, the prohibition which was made to taste it, as being desirous to\ninfer from thence, It is forbidden thee; therefore thou shouldst eat of it,\nelse thou canst not be a woman.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow women ordinarily have the greatest longing after things prohibited.\n\nWhen I was, quoth Carpalin, a whoremaster at Orleans, the whole art of\nrhetoric, in all its tropes and figures, was not able to afford unto me a\ncolour or flourish of greater force and value, nor could I by any other\nform or manner of elocution pitch upon a more persuasive argument for\nbringing young beautiful married ladies into the snares of adultery,\nthrough alluring and enticing them to taste with me of amorous delights,\nthan with a lively sprightfulness to tell them in downright terms, and to\nremonstrate to them with a great show of detestation of a crime so horrid,\nhow their husbands were jealous.  This was none of my invention.  It is\nwritten, and we have laws, examples, reasons, and daily experiences\nconfirmative of the same.  If this belief once enter into their noddles,\ntheir husbands will infallibly be cuckolds; yea, by God, will they, without\nswearing, although they should do like Semiramis, Pasiphae, Egesta, the\nwomen of the Isle Mandez in Egypt, and other such-like queanish flirting\nharlots mentioned in the writings of Herodotus, Strabo, and such-like\npuppies.\n\nTruly, quoth Ponocrates, I have heard it related, and it hath been told me\nfor a verity, that Pope John XXII., passing on a day through the Abbey of\nToucherome, was in all humility required and besought by the abbess and\nother discreet mothers of the said convent to grant them an indulgence by\nmeans whereof they might confess themselves to one another, alleging that\nreligious women were subject to some petty secret slips and imperfections\nwhich would be a foul and burning shame for them to discover and to reveal\nto men, how sacerdotal soever their functions were; but that they would\nfreelier, more familiarly, and with greater cheerfulness, open to each\nother their offences, faults, and escapes under the seal of confession.\nThere is not anything, answered the pope, fitting for you to impetrate of\nme which I would not most willingly condescend unto; but I find one\ninconvenience.  You know confession should be kept secret, and women are\nnot able to do so.  Exceeding well, quoth they, most holy father, and much\nmore closely than the best of men.\n\nThe said pope on the very same day gave them in keeping a pretty box,\nwherein he purposely caused a little linnet to be put, willing them very\ngently and courteously to lock it up in some sure and hidden place, and\npromising them, by the faith of a pope, that he should yield to their\nrequest if they would keep secret what was enclosed within that deposited\nbox, enjoining them withal not to presume one way nor other, directly or\nindirectly, to go about the opening thereof, under pain of the highest\necclesiastical censure, eternal excommunication.  The prohibition was no\nsooner made but that they did all of them boil with a most ardent desire to\nknow and see what kind of thing it was that was within it.  They thought\nlong already that the pope was not gone, to the end they might jointly,\nwith the more leisure and ease, apply themselves to the box-opening\ncuriosity.\n\nThe holy father, after he had given them his benediction, retired and\nwithdrew himself to the pontifical lodgings of his own palace.  But he was\nhardly gone three steps from without the gates of their cloister when the\ngood ladies throngingly, and as in a huddled crowd, pressing hard on the\nbacks of one another, ran thrusting and shoving who should be first at the\nsetting open of the forbidden box and descrying of the quod latitat within.\n\nOn the very next day thereafter the pope made them another visit, of a full\ndesign, purpose, and intention, as they imagined, to despatch the grant of\ntheir sought and wished-for indulgence.  But before he would enter into any\nchat or communing with them, he commanded the casket to be brought unto\nhim.  It was done so accordingly; but, by your leave, the bird was no more\nthere.  Then was it that the pope did represent to their maternities how\nhard a matter and difficult it was for them to keep secrets revealed to\nthem in confession unmanifested to the ears of others, seeing for the space\nof four-and-twenty hours they were not able to lay up in secret a box which\nhe had highly recommended to their discretion, charge, and custody.\n\nWelcome, in good faith, my dear master, welcome!  It did me good to hear\nyou talk, the Lord be praised for all!  I do not remember to have seen you\nbefore now, since the last time that you acted at Montpellier with our\nancient friends, Anthony Saporra, Guy Bourguyer, Balthasar Noyer, Tolet,\nJohn Quentin, Francis Robinet, John Perdrier, and Francis Rabelais, the\nmoral comedy of him who had espoused and married a dumb wife.  I was there,\nquoth Epistemon.  The good honest man her husband was very earnestly urgent\nto have the fillet of her tongue untied, and would needs have her speak by\nany means.  At his desire some pains were taken on her, and partly by the\nindustry of the physician, other part by the expertness of the surgeon, the\nencyliglotte which she had under her tongue being cut, she spoke and spoke\nagain; yea, within a few hours she spoke so loud, so much, so fiercely, and\nso long, that her poor husband returned to the same physician for a recipe\nto make her hold her peace.  There are, quoth the physician, many proper\nremedies in our art to make dumb women speak, but there are none that ever\nI could learn therein to make them silent.  The only cure which I have\nfound out is their husband's deafness.  The wretch became within few weeks\nthereafter, by virtue of some drugs, charms, or enchantments which the\nphysician had prescribed unto him, so deaf that he could not have heard the\nthundering of nineteen hundred cannons at a salvo.  His wife perceiving\nthat indeed he was as deaf as a door-nail, and that her scolding was but in\nvain, sith that he heard her not, she grew stark mad.\n\nSome time after the doctor asked for his fee of the husband, who answered\nthat truly he was deaf, and so was not able to understand what the tenour\nof his demand might be.  Whereupon the leech bedusted him with a little, I\nknow not what, sort of powder, which rendered him a fool immediately, so\ngreat was the stultificating virtue of that strange kind of pulverized\ndose.  Then did this fool of a husband and his mad wife join together, and,\nfalling on the doctor and the surgeon, did so scratch, bethwack, and bang\nthem that they were left half dead upon the place, so furious were the\nblows which they received.  I never in my lifetime laughed so much as at\nthe acting of that buffoonery.\n\nLet us come to where we left off, quoth Panurge.  Your words, being\ntranslated from the clapper-dudgeons to plain English, do signify that it\nis not very inexpedient that I marry, and that I should not care for being\na cuckold.  You have there hit the nail on the head.  I believe, master\ndoctor, that on the day of my marriage you will be so much taken up with\nyour patients, or otherwise so seriously employed, that we shall not enjoy\nyour company.  Sir, I will heartily excuse your absence.\n\n  Stercus et urina medici sunt prandia prima.\n  Ex aliis paleas, ex istis collige grana.\n\nYou are mistaken, quoth Rondibilis, in the second verse of our distich, for\nit ought to run thus--\n\n  Nobis sunt signa, vobis sunt prandia digna.\n\nIf my wife at any time prove to be unwell and ill at ease, I will look upon\nthe water which she shall have made in an urinal glass, quoth Rondibilis,\ngrope her pulse, and see the disposition of her hypogaster, together with\nher umbilicary parts--according to the prescript rule of Hippocrates, 2.\nAph. 35--before I proceed any further in the cure of her distemper.  No,\nno, quoth Panurge, that will be but to little purpose.  Such a feat is for\nthe practice of us that are lawyers, who have the rubric, De ventre\ninspiciendo.  Do not therefore trouble yourself about it, master doctor; I\nwill provide for her a plaster of warm guts.  Do not neglect your more\nurgent occasions otherwhere for coming to my wedding.  I will send you some\nsupply of victuals to your own house, without putting you to the trouble of\ncoming abroad, and you shall always be my special friend.  With this,\napproaching somewhat nearer to him, he clapped into his hand, without the\nspeaking of so much as one word, four rose nobles.  Rondibilis did shut his\nfist upon them right kindly; yet, as if it had displeased him to make\nacceptance of such golden presents, he in a start, as if he had been wroth,\nsaid, He he, he, he, he! there was no need of anything; I thank you\nnevertheless.  From wicked folks I never get enough, and I from honest\npeople refuse nothing.  I shall be always, sir, at your command.  Provided\nthat I pay you well, quoth Panurge.  That, quoth Rondibilis, is understood.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the philosopher Trouillogan handleth the difficulty of marriage.\n\nAs this discourse was ended, Pantagruel said to the philosopher\nTrouillogan, Our loyal, honest, true, and trusty friend, the lamp from hand\nto hand is come to you.  It falleth to your turn to give an answer:  Should\nPanurge, pray you, marry, yea or no?  He should do both, quoth Trouillogan.\nWhat say you? asked Panurge.  That which you have heard, answered\nTrouillogan.  What have I heard? replied Panurge.  That which I have said,\nreplied Trouillogan.  Ha, ha, ha! are we come to that pass? quoth Panurge.\nLet it go nevertheless, I do not value it at a rush, seeing we can make no\nbetter of the game.  But howsoever tell me, Should I marry or no?  Neither\nthe one nor the other, answered Trouillogan.  The devil take me, quoth\nPanurge, if these odd answers do not make me dote, and may he snatch me\npresently away if I do understand you.  Stay awhile until I fasten these\nspectacles of mine on this left ear, that I may hear you better.  With this\nPantagruel perceived at the door of the great hall, which was that day\ntheir dining-room, Gargantua's little dog, whose name was Kyne; for so was\nToby's dog called, as is recorded.  Then did he say to these who were there\npresent, Our king is not far off,--let us all rise.\n\nThat word was scarcely sooner uttered, than that Gargantua with his royal\npresence graced that banqueting and stately hall.  Each of the guests arose\nto do their king that reverence and duty which became them.  After that\nGargantua had most affably saluted all the gentlemen there present, he\nsaid, Good friends, I beg this favour of you, and therein you will very\nmuch oblige me, that you leave not the places where you sate nor quit the\ndiscourse you were upon.  Let a chair be brought hither unto this end of\nthe table, and reach me a cupful of the strongest and best wine you have,\nthat I may drink to all the company.  You are, in faith, all welcome,\ngentlemen.  Now let me know what talk you were about.  To this Pantagruel\nanswered that at the beginning of the second service Panurge had proposed a\nproblematic theme, to wit, whether he should marry, or not marry? that\nFather Hippothadee and Doctor Rondibilis had already despatched their\nresolutions thereupon; and that, just as his majesty was coming in, the\nfaithful Trouillogan in the delivery of his opinion hath thus far\nproceeded, that when Panurge asked whether he ought to marry, yea or no? at\nfirst he made this answer, Both together.  When this same question was\nagain propounded, his second answer was, Neither the one nor the other.\nPanurge exclaimeth that those answers are full of repugnancies and\ncontradictions, protesting that he understands them not, nor what it is\nthat can be meant by them.  If I be not mistaken, quoth Gargantua, I\nunderstand it very well.  The answer is not unlike to that which was once\nmade by a philosopher in ancient times, who being interrogated if he had a\nwoman whom they named him to his wife?  I have her, quoth he, but she hath\nnot me,--possessing her, by her I am not possessed.  Such another answer,\nquoth Pantagruel, was once made by a certain bouncing wench of Sparta, who\nbeing asked if at any time she had had to do with a man? No, quoth she, but\nsometimes men have had to do with me.  Well then, quoth Rondibilis, let it\nbe a neuter in physic, as when we say a body is neuter, when it is neither\nsick nor healthful, and a mean in philosophy; that, by an abnegation of\nboth extremes, and this by the participation of the one and of the other.\nEven as when lukewarm water is said to be both hot and cold; or rather, as\nwhen time makes the partition, and equally divides betwixt the two, a while\nin the one, another while as long in the other opposite extremity.  The\nholy Apostle, quoth Hippothadee, seemeth, as I conceive, to have more\nclearly explained this point when he said, Those that are married, let them\nbe as if they were not married; and those that have wives, let them be as\nif they had no wives at all.  I thus interpret, quoth Pantagruel, the\nhaving and not having of a wife.  To have a wife is to have the use of her\nin such a way as nature hath ordained, which is for the aid, society, and\nsolace of man, and propagating of his race.  To have no wife is not to be\nuxorious, play the coward, and be lazy about her, and not for her sake to\ndistain the lustre of that affection which man owes to God, or yet for her\nto leave those offices and duties which he owes unto his country, unto his\nfriends and kindred, or for her to abandon and forsake his precious\nstudies, and other businesses of account, to wait still on her will, her\nbeck, and her buttocks.  If we be pleased in this sense to take having and\nnot having of a wife, we shall indeed find no repugnancy nor contradiction\nin the terms at all.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA continuation of the answer of the Ephectic and Pyrrhonian philosopher\nTrouillogan.\n\nYou speak wisely, quoth Panurge, if the moon were green cheese.  Such a\ntale once pissed my goose.  I do not think but that I am let down into that\ndark pit in the lowermost bottom whereof the truth was hid, according to\nthe saying of Heraclitus.  I see no whit at all, I hear nothing, understand\nas little, my senses are altogether dulled and blunted; truly I do very\nshrewdly suspect that I am enchanted.  I will now alter the former style of\nmy discourse, and talk to him in another strain.  Our trusty friend, stir\nnot, nor imburse any; but let us vary the chance, and speak without\ndisjunctives.  I see already that these loose and ill-joined members of an\nenunciation do vex, trouble, and perplex you.\n\n  Now go on, in the name of God!  Should I marry?\n\n  Trouillogan.  There is some likelihood therein.\n\n  Panurge.  But if I do not marry?\n\n  Trouil.  I see in that no inconvenience.\n\n  Pan.  You do not?\n\n  Trouil.  None, truly, if my eyes deceive me not.\n\n  Pan.  Yea, but I find more than five hundred.\n\n  Trouil.  Reckon them.\n\n  Pan.  This is an impropriety of speech, I confess; for I do no more\nthereby but take a certain for an uncertain number, and posit the\ndeterminate term for what is indeterminate.  When I say, therefore, five\nhundred, my meaning is many.\n\n  Trouil.  I hear you.\n\nPan.  Is it possible for me to live without a wife, in the name of all the\nsubterranean devils?\n\n  Trouil.  Away with these filthy beasts.\n\n  Pan.  Let it be, then, in the name of God; for my Salmigondinish people\nuse to say, To lie alone, without a wife, is certainly a brutish life.  And\nsuch a life also was it assevered to be by Dido in her lamentations.\n\n  Trouil.  At your command.\n\n  Pan.  By the pody cody, I have fished fair; where are we now?  But will\nyou tell me?  Shall I marry?\n\n  Trouil.  Perhaps.\n\n  Pan.  Shall I thrive or speed well withal?\n\n  Trouil.  According to the encounter.\n\n  Pan.  But if in my adventure I encounter aright, as I hope I will, shall\nI be fortunate?\n\n  Trouil.  Enough.\n\n  Pan.  Let us turn the clean contrary way, and brush our former words\nagainst the wool:  what if I encounter ill?\n\n  Trouil.  Then blame not me.\n\n  Pan.  But, of courtesy, be pleased to give me some advice.  I heartily\nbeseech you, what must I do?\n\n  Trouil.  Even what thou wilt.\n\n  Pan.  Wishy, washy; trolly, trolly.\n\n  Trouil.  Do not invocate the name of anything, I pray you.\n\n  Pan.  In the name of God, let it be so!  My actions shall be regulated by\nthe rule and square of your counsel.  What is it that you advise and\ncounsel me to do?\n\n  Trouil.  Nothing.\n\n  Pan.  Shall I marry?\n\n  Trouil.  I have no hand in it.\n\n  Pan.  Then shall I not marry?\n\n  Trouil.  I cannot help it.\n\n  Pan.  If I never marry, I shall never be a cuckold.\n\n  Trouil.  I thought so.\n\n  Pan.  But put the case that I be married.\n\n  Trouil.  Where shall we put it?\n\n  Pan.  Admit it be so, then, and take my meaning in that sense.\n\n  Trouil.  I am otherwise employed.\n\n  Pan.  By the death of a hog, and mother of a toad, O Lord! if I durst\nhazard upon a little fling at the swearing game, though privily and under\nthumb, it would lighten the burden of my heart and ease my lights and reins\nexceedingly.  A little patience nevertheless is requisite.  Well then, if I\nmarry, I shall be a cuckold.\n\n  Trouil.  One would say so.\n\n  Pan.  Yet if my wife prove a virtuous, wise, discreet, and chaste woman,\nI shall never be cuckolded.\n\n  Trouil.  I think you speak congruously.\n\n  Pan.  Hearken.\n\n  Trouil.  As much as you will.\n\n  Pan.  Will she be discreet and chaste?  This is the only point I would be\nresolved in.\n\n  Trouil.  I question it.\n\n  Pan.  You never saw her?\n\n  Trouil.  Not that I know of.\n\n  Pan.  Why do you then doubt of that which you know not?\n\n  Trouil.  For a cause.\n\n  Pan.  And if you should know her.\n\n  Trouil.  Yet more.\n\n  Pan.  Page, my pretty little darling, take here my cap,--I give it thee.\nHave a care you do not break the spectacles that are in it.  Go down to the\nlower court.  Swear there half an hour for me, and I shall in compensation\nof that favour swear hereafter for thee as much as thou wilt.  But who\nshall cuckold me?\n\n  Trouil.  Somebody.\n\n  Pan.  By the belly of the wooden horse at Troy, Master Somebody, I shall\nbang, belam thee, and claw thee well for thy labour.\n\n  Trouil.  You say so.\n\n  Pan.  Nay, nay, that Nick in the dark cellar, who hath no white in his\neye, carry me quite away with him if, in that case, whensoever I go abroad\nfrom the palace of my domestic residence, I do not, with as much\ncircumspection as they use to ring mares in our country to keep them from\nbeing sallied by stoned horses, clap a Bergamasco lock upon my wife.\n\n  Trouil.  Talk better.\n\n  Pan.  It is bien chien, chie chante, well cacked and cackled, shitten,\nand sung in matter of talk.  Let us resolve on somewhat.\n\n  Trouil.  I do not gainsay it.\n\n  Pan.  Have a little patience.  Seeing I cannot on this side draw any\nblood of you, I will try if with the lancet of my judgment I be able to\nbleed you in another vein.  Are you married, or are you not?\n\n  Trouil.  Neither the one nor the other, and both together.\n\n  Pan.  O the good God help us!  By the death of a buffle-ox, I sweat with\nthe toil and travail that I am put to, and find my digestion broke off,\ndisturbed, and interrupted, for all my phrenes, metaphrenes, and\ndiaphragms, back, belly, midriff, muscles, veins, and sinews are held in a\nsuspense and for a while discharged from their proper offices to stretch\nforth their several powers and abilities for incornifistibulating and\nlaying up into the hamper of my understanding your various sayings and\nanswers.\n\n  Trouil.  I shall be no hinderer thereof.\n\n  Pan.  Tush, for shame!  Our faithful friend, speak; are you married?\n\n  Trouil.  I think so.\n\n  Pan.  You were also married before you had this wife?\n\n  Trouil.  It is possible.\n\n  Pan.  Had you good luck in your first marriage?\n\n  Trouil.  It is not impossible.\n\n  Pan.  How thrive you with this second wife of yours?\n\n  Trouil.  Even as it pleaseth my fatal destiny.\n\n  Pan.  But what, in good earnest?  Tell me--do you prosper well with her?\n\n  Trouil.  It is likely.\n\n  Pan.  Come on, in the name of God.  I vow, by the burden of Saint\nChristopher, that I had rather undertake the fetching of a fart forth of\nthe belly of a dead ass than to draw out of you a positive and determinate\nresolution.  Yet shall I be sure at this time to have a snatch at you, and\nget my claws over you.  Our trusty friend, let us shame the devil of hell,\nand confess the verity.  Were you ever a cuckold?  I say, you who are here,\nand not that other you who playeth below in the tennis-court?\n\n  Trouil.  No, if it was not predestinated.\n\n  Pan.  By the flesh, blood, and body, I swear, reswear, forswear, abjure,\nand renounce, he evades and avoids, shifts, and escapes me, and quite slips\nand winds himself out of my grips and clutches.\n\nAt these words Gargantua arose and said, Praised be the good God in all\nthings, but especially for bringing the world into that height of\nrefinedness beyond what it was when I first came to be acquainted\ntherewith, that now the learnedst and most prudent philosophers are not\nashamed to be seen entering in at the porches and frontispieces of the\nschools of the Pyrrhonian, Aporrhetic, Sceptic, and Ephectic sects.\nBlessed be the holy name of God!  Veritably, it is like henceforth to be\nfound an enterprise of much more easy undertaking to catch lions by the\nneck, horses by the main, oxen by the horns, bulls by the muzzle, wolves by\nthe tail, goats by the beard, and flying birds by the feet, than to entrap\nsuch philosophers in their words.  Farewell, my worthy, dear, and honest\nfriends.\n\nWhen he had done thus speaking, he withdrew himself from the company.\nPantagruel and others with him would have followed and accompanied him, but\nhe would not permit them so to do.  No sooner was Gargantua departed out of\nthe banqueting-hall than that Pantagruel said to the invited guests:\nPlato's Timaeus, at the beginning always of a solemn festival convention,\nwas wont to count those that were called thereto.  We, on the contrary,\nshall at the closure and end of this treatment reckon up our number.  One,\ntwo, three; where is the fourth?  I miss my friend Bridlegoose.  Was not he\nsent for?  Epistemon answered that he had been at his house to bid and\ninvite him, but could not meet with him; for that a messenger from the\nparliament of Mirlingois, in Mirlingues, was come to him with a writ of\nsummons to cite and warn him personally to appear before the reverend\nsenators of the high court there, to vindicate and justify himself at the\nbar of the crime of prevarication laid to his charge, and to be\nperemptorily instanced against him in a certain decree, judgment, or\nsentence lately awarded, given, and pronounced by him; and that, therefore,\nhe had taken horse and departed in great haste from his own house, to the\nend that without peril or danger of falling into a default or contumacy he\nmight be the better able to keep the prefixed and appointed time.\n\nI will, quoth Pantagruel, understand how that matter goeth.  It is now\nabove forty years that he hath been constantly the judge of Fonsbeton,\nduring which space of time he hath given four thousand definitive\nsentences, of two thousand three hundred and nine whereof, although appeal\nwas made by the parties whom he had judicially condemned from his inferior\njudicatory to the supreme court of the parliament of Mirlingois, in\nMirlingues, they were all of them nevertheless confirmed, ratified, and\napproved of by an order, decree, and final sentence of the said sovereign\ncourt, to the casting of the appellants, and utter overthrow of the suits\nwherein they had been foiled at law, for ever and a day.  That now in his\nold age he should be personally summoned, who in all the foregoing time of\nhis life hath demeaned himself so unblamably in the discharge of the office\nand vocation he had been called unto, it cannot assuredly be that such a\nchange hath happened without some notorious misfortune and disaster.  I am\nresolved to help and assist him in equity and justice to the uttermost\nextent of my power and ability.  I know the malice, despite, and wickedness\nof the world to be so much more nowadays exasperated, increased, and\naggravated by what it was not long since, that the best cause that is, how\njust and equitable soever it be, standeth in great need to be succoured,\naided, and supported.  Therefore presently, from this very instant forth,\ndo I purpose, till I see the event and closure thereof, most heedfully to\nattend and wait upon it, for fear of some underhand tricky surprisal,\ncavilling pettifoggery, or fallacious quirks in law, to his detriment,\nhurt, or disadvantage.\n\nThen dinner being done, and the tables drawn and removed, when Pantagruel\nhad very cordially and affectionately thanked his invited guests for the\nfavour which he had enjoyed of their company, he presented them with\nseveral rich and costly gifts, such as jewels, rings set with precious\nstones, gold and silver vessels, with a great deal of other sort of plate\nbesides, and lastly, taking of them all his leave, retired himself into an\ninner chamber.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel persuaded Panurge to take counsel of a fool.\n\nWhen Pantagruel had withdrawn himself, he, by a little sloping window in\none of the galleries, perceived Panurge in a lobby not far from thence,\nwalking alone, with the gesture, carriage, and garb of a fond dotard,\nraving, wagging, and shaking his hands, dandling, lolling, and nodding with\nhis head, like a cow bellowing for her calf; and, having then called him\nnearer, spoke unto him thus:  You are at this present, as I think, not\nunlike to a mouse entangled in a snare, who the more that she goeth about\nto rid and unwind herself out of the gin wherein she is caught, by\nendeavouring to clear and deliver her feet from the pitch whereto they\nstick, the foulier she is bewrayed with it, and the more strongly pestered\ntherein.  Even so is it with you.  For the more that you labour, strive,\nand enforce yourself to disencumber and extricate your thoughts out of the\nimplicating involutions and fetterings of the grievous and lamentable gins\nand springs of anguish and perplexity, the greater difficulty there is in\nthe relieving of you, and you remain faster bound than ever.  Nor do I know\nfor the removal of this inconveniency any remedy but one.\n\nTake heed, I have often heard it said in a vulgar proverb, The wise may be\ninstructed by a fool.  Seeing the answers and responses of sage and\njudicious men have in no manner of way satisfied you, take advice of some\nfool, and possibly by so doing you may come to get that counsel which will\nbe agreeable to your own heart's desire and contentment.  You know how by\nthe advice and counsel and prediction of fools, many kings, princes,\nstates, and commonwealths have been preserved, several battles gained, and\ndivers doubts of a most perplexed intricacy resolved.  I am not so\ndiffident of your memory as to hold it needful to refresh it with a\nquotation of examples, nor do I so far undervalue your judgment but that I\nthink it will acquiesce in the reason of this my subsequent discourse.  As\nhe who narrowly takes heed to what concerns the dexterous management of his\nprivate affairs, domestic businesses, and those adoes which are confined\nwithin the strait-laced compass of one family, who is attentive, vigilant,\nand active in the economic rule of his own house, whose frugal spirit never\nstrays from home, who loseth no occasion whereby he may purchase to himself\nmore riches, and build up new heaps of treasure on his former wealth, and\nwho knows warily how to prevent the inconveniences of poverty, is called a\nworldly wise man, though perhaps in the second judgment of the\nintelligences which are above he be esteemed a fool,--so, on the contrary,\nis he most like, even in the thoughts of all celestial spirits, to be not\nonly sage, but to presage events to come by divine inspiration, who laying\nquite aside those cares which are conducible to his body or his fortunes,\nand, as it were, departing from himself, rids all his senses of terrene\naffections, and clears his fancies of those plodding studies which harbour\nin the minds of thriving men.  All which neglects of sublunary things are\nvulgarily imputed folly.  After this manner, the son of Picus, King of the\nLatins, the great soothsayer Faunus, was called Fatuus by the witless\nrabble of the common people.  The like we daily see practised amongst the\ncomic players, whose dramatic roles, in distribution of the personages,\nappoint the acting of the fool to him who is the wisest of the troop.  In\napprobation also of this fashion the mathematicians allow the very same\nhoroscope to princes and to sots.  Whereof a right pregnant instance by\nthem is given in the nativities of Aeneas and Choroebus; the latter of\nwhich two is by Euphorion said to have been a fool, and yet had with the\nformer the same aspects and heavenly genethliac influences.\n\nI shall not, I suppose, swerve much from the purpose in hand, if I relate\nunto you what John Andrew said upon the return of a papal writ, which was\ndirected to the mayor and burgesses of Rochelle, and after him by Panorme,\nupon the same pontifical canon; Barbatias on the Pandects, and recently by\nJason in his Councils, concerning Seyny John, the noted fool of Paris, and\nCaillet's fore great-grandfather.  The case is this.\n\nAt Paris, in the roastmeat cookery of the Petit Chastelet, before the\ncookshop of one of the roastmeat sellers of that lane, a certain hungry\nporter was eating his bread, after he had by parcels kept it a while above\nthe reek and steam of a fat goose on the spit, turning at a great fire, and\nfound it, so besmoked with the vapour, to be savoury; which the cook\nobserving, took no notice, till after having ravined his penny loaf,\nwhereof no morsel had been unsmokified, he was about decamping and going\naway.  But, by your leave, as the fellow thought to have departed thence\nshot-free, the master-cook laid hold upon him by the gorget, and demanded\npayment for the smoke of his roast meat.  The porter answered, that he had\nsustained no loss at all; that by what he had done there was no diminution\nmade of the flesh; that he had taken nothing of his, and that therefore he\nwas not indebted to him in anything.  As for the smoke in question, that,\nalthough he had not been there, it would howsoever have been evaporated;\nbesides, that before that time it had never been seen nor heard that\nroastmeat smoke was sold upon the streets of Paris.  The cook hereto\nreplied, that he was not obliged nor any way bound to feed and nourish for\nnought a porter whom he had never seen before with the smoke of his roast\nmeat, and thereupon swore that if he would not forthwith content and\nsatisfy him with present payment for the repast which he had thereby got,\nthat he would take his crooked staves from off his back; which, instead of\nhaving loads thereafter laid upon them, should serve for fuel to his\nkitchen fires.  Whilst he was going about so to do, and to have pulled them\nto him by one of the bottom rungs which he had caught in his hand, the\nsturdy porter got out of his grip, drew forth the knotty cudgel, and stood\nto his own defence.  The altercation waxed hot in words, which moved the\ngaping hoidens of the sottish Parisians to run from all parts thereabouts,\nto see what the issue would be of that babbling strife and contention.  In\nthe interim of this dispute, to very good purpose Seyny John, the fool and\ncitizen of Paris, happened to be there, whom the cook perceiving, said to\nthe porter, Wilt thou refer and submit unto the noble Seyny John the\ndecision of the difference and controversy which is betwixt us?  Yes, by\nthe blood of a goose, answered the porter, I am content.  Seyny John the\nfool, finding that the cook and porter had compromised the determination of\ntheir variance and debate to the discretion of his award and arbitrament,\nafter that the reasons on either side whereupon was grounded the mutual\nfierceness of their brawling jar had been to the full displayed and laid\nopen before him, commanded the porter to draw out of the fob of his belt a\npiece of money, if he had it.  Whereupon the porter immediately without\ndelay, in reverence to the authority of such a judicious umpire, put the\ntenth part of a silver Philip into his hand.  This little Philip Seyny John\ntook; then set it on his left shoulder, to try by feeling if it was of a\nsufficient weight.  After that, laying it on the palm of his hand, he made\nit ring and tingle, to understand by the ear if it was of a good alloy in\nthe metal whereof it was composed.  Thereafter he put it to the ball or\napple of his left eye, to explore by the sight if it was well stamped and\nmarked; all which being done, in a profound silence of the whole doltish\npeople who were there spectators of this pageantry, to the great hope of\nthe cook's and despair of the porter's prevalency in the suit that was in\nagitation, he finally caused the porter to make it sound several times upon\nthe stall of the cook's shop.  Then with a presidential majesty holding his\nbauble sceptre-like in his hand, muffling his head with a hood of marten\nskins, each side whereof had the resemblance of an ape's face sprucified up\nwith ears of pasted paper, and having about his neck a bucked ruff, raised,\nfurrowed, and ridged with pointing sticks of the shape and fashion of small\norgan pipes, he first with all the force of his lungs coughed two or three\ntimes, and then with an audible voice pronounced this following sentence:\nThe court declareth that the porter who ate his bread at the smoke of the\nroast, hath civilly paid the cook with the sound of his money.  And the\nsaid court ordaineth that everyone return to his own home, and attend his\nproper business, without cost and charges, and for a cause.  This verdict,\naward, and arbitrament of the Parisian fool did appear so equitable, yea,\nso admirable to the aforesaid doctors, that they very much doubted if the\nmatter had been brought before the sessions for justice of the said place,\nor that the judges of the Rota at Rome had been umpires therein, or yet\nthat the Areopagites themselves had been the deciders thereof, if by any\none part, or all of them together, it had been so judicially sententiated\nand awarded.  Therefore advise, if you will be counselled by a fool.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Triboulet is set forth and blazed by Pantagruel and Panurge.\n\nBy my soul, quoth Panurge, that overture pleaseth me exceedingly well.  I\nwill therefore lay hold thereon, and embrace it.  At the very motioning\nthereof my very right entrail seemeth to be widened and enlarged, which was\nbut just now hard-bound, contracted, and costive.  But as we have hitherto\nmade choice of the purest and most refined cream of wisdom and sapience for\nour counsel, so would I now have to preside and bear the prime sway in our\nconsultation as very a fool in the supreme degree.  Triboulet, quoth\nPantagruel, is completely foolish, as I conceive.  Yes, truly, answered\nPanurge, he is properly and totally a fool, a\n\n\n    Pantagruel.                        Panurge.\nFatal f.                           Jovial f.\nNatural f.                         Mercurial f.\nCelestial f.                       Lunatic f.\nErratic f.                         Ducal f.\nEccentric f.                       Common f.\nAethereal and Junonian f.          Lordly f.\nArctic f.                          Palatine f.\nHeroic f.                          Principal f.\nGenial f.                          Pretorian f.\nInconstant f.                      Elected f.\nEarthly f.                         Courtly f.\nSalacious and sporting f.          Primipilary f.\nJocund and wanton f.               Triumphant f.\nPimpled f.                         Vulgar f.\nFreckled f.                        Domestic f.\nBell-tinging f.                    Exemplary f.\nLaughing and lecherous f.          Rare outlandish f.\nNimming and filching f.            Satrapal f.\nUnpressed f.                       Civil f.\nFirst broached f.                  Popular f.\nAugustal f.                        Familiar f.\nCaesarine f.                       Notable f.\nImperial f.                        Favourized f.\nRoyal f.                           Latinized f.\nPatriarchal f.                     Ordinary f.\nOriginal f.                        Transcendent f.\nLoyal f.                           Rising f.\nEpiscopal f.                       Papal f.\nDoctoral f.                        Consistorian f.\nMonachal f.                        Conclavist f.\nFiscal f.                          Bullist f.\nExtravagant f.                     Synodal f.\nWrithed f.                         Doting and raving f.\nCanonical f.                       Singular and surpassing f.\nSuch another f.                    Special and excelling f.\nGraduated f.                       Metaphysical f.\nCommensal f.                       Scatical f.\nPrimolicentiated f.                Predicamental and categoric f.\nTrain-bearing f.                   Predicable and enunciatory f.\nSupererogating f.                  Decumane and superlative f.\nCollateral f.                      Dutiful and officious f.\nHaunch and side f.                 Optical and perspective f.\nNestling, ninny, and youngling f.  Algoristic f.\nFlitting, giddy, and unsteady f.   Algebraical f.\nBrancher, novice, and cockney f.   Cabalistical and Massoretical f.\nHaggard, cross, and froward f.     Talmudical f.\nGentle, mild, and tractable f.     Algamalized f.\nMail-coated f.                     Compendious f.\nPilfering and purloining f.        Abbreviated f.\nTail-grown f.                      Hyperbolical f.\nGrey peckled f.                    Anatomastical f.\nPleonasmical f.                    Allegorical f.\nCapital f.                         Tropological f.\nHair-brained f.                    Micher pincrust f.\nCordial f.                         Heteroclit f.\nIntimate f.                        Summist f.\nHepatic f.                         Abridging f.\nCupshotten and swilling f.         Morrish f.\nSplenetic f.                       Leaden-sealed f.\nWindy f.                           Mandatory f.\nLegitimate f.                      Compassionate f.\nAzymathal f.                       Titulary f.\nAlmicantarized f.                  Crouching, showking, ducking f.\nProportioned f.                    Grim, stern, harsh, and wayward f.\nChinnified f.                      Well-hung and timbered f.\nSwollen and puffed up f.           Ill-clawed, pounced, and pawed f.\nOvercockrifedlid and lified f.     Well-stoned f.\nCorallory f.                       Crabbed and unpleasing f.\nEastern f.                         Winded and untainted f.\nSublime f.                         Kitchen haunting f.\nCrimson f.                         Lofty and stately f.\nIngrained f.                       Spitrack f.\nCity f.                            Architrave f.\nBasely accoutred f.                Pedestal f.\nMast-headed f.                     Tetragonal f.\nModal f.                           Renowned f.\nSecond notial f.                   Rheumatic f.\nCheerful and buxom f.              Flaunting and braggadocio f.\nSolemn f.                          Egregious f.\nAnnual f.                          Humourous and capricious f.\nFestival f.                        Rude, gross, and absurd f.\nRecreative f.                      Large-measured f.\nBoorish and counterfeit f.         Babble f.\nPleasant f.                        Down-right f.\nPrivileged f.                      Broad-listed f.\nRustical f.                        Duncical-bearing f.\nProper and peculiar f.             Stale and over-worn f.\nEver ready f.                      Saucy and swaggering f.\nDiapasonal f.                      Full-bulked f.\nResolute f.                        Gallant and vainglorious f.\nHieroglyphical f.                  Gorgeous and gaudy f.\nAuthentic f.                       Continual and intermitting f.\nWorthy f.                          Rebasing and roundling f.\nPrecious f.                        Prototypal and precedenting f.\nFanatic f.                         Prating f.\nFantastical f.                     Catechetic f.\nSymphatic f.                       Cacodoxical f.\nPanic f.                           Meridional f.\nLimbecked and distilled f.         Nocturnal f.\nComportable f.                     Occidental f.\nWretched and heartless f.          Trifling f.\nFooded f.                          Astrological and figure-flinging f.\nThick and threefold f.             Genethliac and horoscopal f.\nDamasked f.                        Knavish f.\nFearney f.                         Idiot f.\nUnleavened f.                      Blockish f.\nBaritonant f.                      Beetle-headed f.\nPink and spot-powdered f.          Grotesque f.\nMusket-proof f.                    Impertinent f.\nPedantic f.                        Quarrelsome f.\nStrouting f.                       Unmannerly f.\nWood f.                            Captious and sophistical f.\nGreedy f.                          Soritic f.\nSenseless f.                       Catholoproton f.\nGodderlich f.                      Hoti and Dioti f.\nObstinate f.                       Alphos and Catati f.\nContradictory f.\nPedagogical f.\nDaft f.\nDrunken f.\nPeevish f.\nProdigal f.\nRash f.\nPlodding f.\n\n  Pantagruel.  If there was any reason why at Rome the Quirinal holiday of\nold was called the Feast of Fools, I know not why we may not for the like\ncause institute in France the Tribouletic Festivals, to be celebrated and\nsolemnized over all the land.\n\n  Panurge.  If all fools carried cruppers.\n\n  Pantagruel.  If he were the god Fatuus of whom we have already made\nmention, the husband of the goddess Fatua, his father would be Good Day,\nand his grandmother Good Even.\n\n  Panurge.  If all fools paced, albeit he be somewhat wry-legged, he would\noverlay at least a fathom at every rake.  Let us go toward him without any\nfurther lingering or delay; we shall have, no doubt, some fine resolution\nof him.  I am ready to go, and long for the issue of our progress\nimpatiently.  I must needs, quoth Pantagruel, according to my former\nresolution therein, be present at Bridlegoose's trial.  Nevertheless,\nwhilst I shall be upon my journey towards Mirelingues, which is on the\nother side of the river of Loire, I will despatch Carpalin to bring along\nwith him from Blois the fool Triboulet.  Then was Carpalin instantly sent\naway, and Pantagruel, at the same time attended by his domestics, Panurge,\nEpistemon, Ponocrates, Friar John, Gymnast, Ryzotomus, and others, marched\nforward on the high road to Mirelingues.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel was present at the trial of Judge Bridlegoose, who decided\ncauses and controversies in law by the chance and fortune of the dice.\n\nOn the day following, precisely at the hour appointed, Pantagruel came to\nMirelingues.  At his arrival the presidents, senators, and counsellors\nprayed him to do them the honour to enter in with them, to hear the\ndecision of all the causes, arguments, and reasons which Bridlegoose in his\nown defence would produce, why he had pronounced a certain sentence against\nthe subsidy-assessor, Toucheronde, which did not seem very equitable to\nthat centumviral court.  Pantagruel very willingly condescended to their\ndesire, and accordingly entering in, found Bridlegoose sitting within the\nmiddle of the enclosure of the said court of justice; who immediately upon\nthe coming of Pantagruel, accompanied with the senatorian members of that\nworshipful judicatory, arose, went to the bar, had his indictment read, and\nfor all his reasons, defences, and excuses, answered nothing else but that\nhe was become old, and that his sight of late was very much failed, and\nbecome dimmer than it was wont to be; instancing therewithal many miseries\nand calamities which old age bringeth along with it, and are concomitant to\nwrinkled elders; which not. per Archid. d. lxxxvi. c. tanta.  By reason of\nwhich infirmity he was not able so distinctly and clearly to discern the\npoints and blots of the dice as formerly he had been accustomed to do;\nwhence it might very well have happened, said he, as old dim-sighted Isaac\ntook Jacob for Esau, that I after the same manner, at the decision of\ncauses and controversies in law, should have been mistaken in taking a\nquatre for a cinque, or a trey for a deuce.  This I beseech your worships,\nquoth he, to take into your serious consideration, and to have the more\nfavourable opinion of my uprightness, notwithstanding the prevarication\nwhereof I am accused in the matter of Toucheronde's sentence, that at the\ntime of that decree's pronouncing I only had made use of my small dice; and\nyour worships, said he, know very well how by the most authentic rules of\nthe law it is provided that the imperfections of nature should never be\nimputed unto any for crimes and transgressions; as appeareth, ff. de re\nmilit. l. qui cum uno. ff. de reg.  Jur. l. fere. ff. de aedil. edict. per\ntotum. ff. de term. mod. l. Divus Adrianus, resolved by Lud. Rom. in l. si\nvero. ff. Sol. Matr.  And who would offer to do otherwise, should not\nthereby accuse the man, but nature, and the all-seeing providence of God,\nas is evident in l. Maximum Vitium, c. de lib. praeter.\n\nWhat kind of dice, quoth Trinquamelle, grand-president of the said court,\ndo you mean, my friend Bridlegoose?  The dice, quoth Bridlegoose, of\nsentences at law, decrees, and peremptory judgments, Alea Judiciorum,\nwhereof is written, Per Doct. 26. qu. 2. cap. sort. l. nec emptio ff. de\ncontrahend. empt. l. quod debetur. ff. de pecul. et ibi Bartol., and which\nyour worships do, as well as I, use, in this glorious sovereign court of\nyours.  So do all other righteous judges in their decision of processes and\nfinal determination of legal differences, observing that which hath been\nsaid thereof by D. Henri. Ferrandat, et not. gl. in c. fin. de sortil. et\nl. sed cum ambo. ff. de jud.  Ubi Docto.  Mark, that chance and fortune are\ngood, honest, profitable, and necessary for ending of and putting a final\nclosure to dissensions and debates in suits at law.  The same hath more\nclearly been declared by Bald. Bartol. et Alex. c. communia de leg. l. Si\nduo.  But how is it that you do these things? asked Trinquamelle.  I very\nbriefly, quoth Bridlegoose, shall answer you, according to the doctrine and\ninstructions of Leg. ampliorem para. in refutatoriis. c. de appel.; which\nis conform to what is said in Gloss l. 1. ff. quod met. causa.  Gaudent\nbrevitate moderni.  My practice is therein the same with that of your other\nworships, and as the custom of the judicatory requires, unto which our law\ncommandeth us to have regard, and by the rule thereof still to direct and\nregulate our actions and procedures; ut not. extra. de consuet. in c. ex\nliteris et ibi innoc.  For having well and exactly seen, surveyed,\noverlooked, reviewed, recognized, read, and read over again, turned and\ntossed over, seriously perused and examined the bills of complaint,\naccusations, impeachments, indictments, warnings, citations, summonings,\ncomparitions, appearances, mandates, commissions, delegations,\ninstructions, informations, inquests, preparatories, productions,\nevidences, proofs, allegations, depositions, cross speeches,\ncontradictions, supplications, requests, petitions, inquiries, instruments\nof the deposition of witnesses, rejoinders, replies, confirmations of\nformer assertions, duplies, triplies, answers to rejoinders, writings,\ndeeds, reproaches, disabling of exceptions taken, grievances, salvation\nbills, re-examination of witnesses, confronting of them together,\ndeclarations, denunciations, libels, certificates, royal missives, letters\nof appeal, letters of attorney, instruments of compulsion, delineatories,\nanticipatories, evocations, messages, dimissions, issues, exceptions,\ndilatory pleas, demurs, compositions, injunctions, reliefs, reports,\nreturns, confessions, acknowledgments, exploits, executions, and other\nsuch-like confects and spiceries, both at the one and the other side, as a\ngood judge ought to do, conform to what hath been noted thereupon.  Spec.\nde ordination. Paragr. 3. et Tit. de Offi. omn. jud. paragr. fin. et de\nrescriptis praesentat. parag. 1.--I posit on the end of a table in my\ncloset all the pokes and bags of the defendant, and then allow unto him the\nfirst hazard of the dice, according to the usual manner of your other\nworships.  And it is mentioned, l. favorabiliores. ff. de reg. jur. et in\ncap. cum sunt eod. tit. lib. 6, which saith, Quum sunt partium jura\nobscura, reo potius favendum est quam actori.  That being done, I\nthereafter lay down upon the other end of the same table the bags and\nsatchels of the plaintiff, as your other worships are accustomed to do,\nvisum visu, just over against one another; for Opposita juxta se posita\nclarius elucescunt:  ut not. in lib. 1. parag. Videamus. ff. de his qui\nsunt sui vel alieni juris, et in l. munerum. para. mixta ff. de mun. et\nhon.  Then do I likewise and semblably throw the dice for him, and\nforthwith livre him his chance.  But, quoth Trinquamelle, my friend, how\ncome you to know, understand, and resolve the obscurity of these various\nand seeming contrary passages in law, which are laid claim to by the\nsuitors and pleading parties?  Even just, quoth Bridlegoose, after the\nfashion of your other worships; to wit, when there are many bags on the one\nside and on the other, I then use my little small dice, after the customary\nmanner of your other worships, in obedience to the law, Semper in\nstipulationibus ff. de reg. jur.  And the law ver(s)ified versifieth that,\nEod. tit. Semper in obscuris quod minimum est sequimur; canonized in c. in\nobscuris. eod. tit. lib. 6.  I have other large great dice, fair and goodly\nones, which I employ in the fashion that your other worships use to do,\nwhen the matter is more plain, clear, and liquid, that is to say, when\nthere are fewer bags.  But when you have done all these fine things, quoth\nTrinquamelle, how do you, my friend, award your decrees, and pronounce\njudgment?  Even as your other worships, answered Bridlegoose; for I give\nout sentence in his favour unto whom hath befallen the best chance by dice,\njudiciary, tribunian, pretorial, what comes first.  So our laws command,\nff. qui pot. in pign. l. creditor, c. de consul. 1.  Et de regul. jur. in\n6.  Qui prior est tempore potior est jure.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Bridlegoose giveth reasons why he looked upon those law-actions which\nhe decided by the chance of the dice.\n\nYea but, quoth Trinquamelle, my friend, seeing it is by the lot, chance,\nand throw of the dice that you award your judgments and sentences, why do\nnot you livre up these fair throws and chances the very same day and hour,\nwithout any further procrastination or delay, that the controverting\nparty-pleaders appear before you?  To what use can those writings serve you,\nthose papers and other procedures contained in the bags and pokes of the\nlaw-suitors?  To the very same use, quoth Bridlegoose, that they serve your\nother worships.  They are behooveful unto me, and serve my turn in three\nthings very exquisite, requisite, and authentical.  First, for formality\nsake, the omission whereof, that it maketh all, whatever is done, to be of\nno force nor value, is excellently well proved, by Spec. 1. tit. de instr.\nedit. et tit. de rescript. praesent.  Besides that, it is not unknown to\nyou, who have had many more experiments thereof than I, how oftentimes, in\njudicial proceedings, the formalities utterly destroy the materialities and\nsubstances of the causes and matters agitated; for Forma mutata, mutatur\nsubstantia. ff. ad exhib. l. Julianus. ff. ad leg. Fal. l. si is qui\nquadraginta.  Et extra de decim. c. ad audientiam, et de celebrat. miss. c.\nin quadam.\n\nSecondly, they are useful and steadable to me, even as unto your other\nworships, in lieu of some other honest and healthful exercise.  The late\nMaster Othoman Vadet (Vadere), a prime physician, as you would say, Cod. de\nComit. et Archi. lib. 12, hath frequently told me that the lack and default\nof bodily exercise is the chief, if not the sole and only cause of the\nlittle health and short lives of all officers of justice, such as your\nworships and I am.  Which observation was singularly well before him noted\nand remarked by Bartholus in lib. 1. c. de sent. quae pro eo quod.\nTherefore it is that the practice of such-like exercitations is appointed\nto be laid hold on by your other worships, and consequently not to be\ndenied unto me, who am of the same profession; Quia accessorium naturam\nsequitur principalis. de reg. jur. l. 6. et l. cum principalis. et l. nihil\ndolo. ff. eod. tit. ff. de fide-juss. l. fide-juss. et extra de officio\ndeleg. cap. 1.  Let certain honest and recreative sports and plays of\ncorporeal exercises be allowed and approved of; and so far, (ff. de allus.\net aleat. l. solent. et authent.) ut omnes obed. in princ. coll. 7. et ff.\nde praescript. verb. l. si gratuitam et l. 1. cod. de spect. l. 11.  Such\nalso is the opinion of D. Thom, in secunda, secundae Q. I. 168.  Quoted in\nvery good purpose by D. Albert de Rosa, who fuit magnus practicus, and a\nsolemn doctor, as Barbatias attesteth in principiis consil.  Wherefore the\nreason is evidently and clearly deduced and set down before us in gloss. in\nprooemio. ff. par. ne autem tertii.\n\n  Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis.\n\nIn very deed, once, in the year a thousand four hundred fourscore and\nninth, having a business concerning the portion and inheritance of a\nyounger brother depending in the court and chamber of the four high\ntreasurers of France, whereinto as soon as ever I got leave to enter by a\npecuniary permission of the usher thereof,--as your other worships know\nvery well, that Pecuniae obediunt omnia, and there says Baldus, in l.\nsingularia. ff. si cert. pet. et Salic. in l. receptitia. Cod. de constit.\npecuni. et Card. in Clem. 1. de baptism.--I found them all recreating and\ndiverting themselves at the play called muss, either before or after\ndinner; to me, truly, it is a thing altogether indifferent whether of the\ntwo it was, provided that hic not., that the game of the muss is honest,\nhealthful, ancient, and lawful, a Muscho inventore, de quo cod. de petit.\nhaered. l. si post mortem. et Muscarii.  Such as play and sport it at the\nmuss are excusable in and by law, lib. 1. c. de excus. artific. lib. 10.\nAnd at the very same time was Master Tielman Picquet one of the players of\nthat game of muss.  There is nothing that I do better remember, for he\nlaughed heartily when his fellow-members of the aforesaid judicial chamber\nspoiled their caps in swingeing of his shoulders.  He, nevertheless, did\neven then say unto them, that the banging and flapping of him, to the waste\nand havoc of their caps, should not, at their return from the palace to\ntheir own houses, excuse them from their wives, Per. c. extra. de\npraesumpt. et ibi gloss.  Now, resolutorie loquendo, I should say,\naccording to the style and phrase of your other worships, that there is no\nexercise, sport, game, play, nor recreation in all this palatine, palatial,\nor parliamentary world, more aromatizing and fragrant than to empty and\nvoid bags and purses, turn over papers and writings, quote margins and\nbacks of scrolls and rolls, fill panniers, and take inspection of causes,\nEx. Bart. et Joan. de Pra. in l. falsa. de condit. et demonst. ff.\n\nThirdly, I consider, as your own worships use to do, that time ripeneth and\nbringeth all things to maturity, that by time everything cometh to be made\nmanifest and patent, and that time is the father of truth and virtue.\nGloss. in l. 1. cod. de servit. authent. de restit. et ea quae pa. et spec.\ntit. de requisit. cons.  Therefore is it that, after the manner and fashion\nof your other worships, I defer, protract, delay, prolong, intermit,\nsurcease, pause, linger, suspend, prorogate, drive out, wire-draw, and\nshift off the time of giving a definitive sentence, to the end that the\nsuit or process, being well fanned and winnowed, tossed and canvassed to\nand fro, narrowly, precisely, and nearly garbled, sifted, searched, and\nexamined, and on all hands exactly argued, disputed, and debated, may, by\nsuccession of time, come at last to its full ripeness and maturity.  By\nmeans whereof, when the fatal hazard of the dice ensueth thereupon, the\nparties cast or condemned by the said aleatory chance will with much\ngreater patience, and more mildly and gently, endure and bear up the\ndisastrous load of their misfortune, than if they had been sentenced at\ntheir first arrival unto the court, as not. gl. ff. de excus. tut. l. tria.\nonera.\n\n  Portatur leviter quod portat quisque libenter.\n\nOn the other part, to pass a decree or sentence when the action is raw,\ncrude, green, unripe, unprepared, as at the beginning, a danger would ensue\nof a no less inconveniency than that which the physicians have been wont to\nsay befalleth to him in whom an imposthume is pierced before it be ripe, or\nunto any other whose body is purged of a strong predominating humour before\nits digestion.  For as it is written, in authent. haec constit. in Innoc.\nde constit. princip., so is the same repeated in gloss. in c. caeterum.\nextra. de juram. calumn.  Quod medicamenta morbis exhibent, hoc jura\nnegotiis.  Nature furthermore admonisheth and teacheth us to gather and\nreap, eat and feed on fruits when they are ripe, and not before.  Instit.\nde rer. div. paragr. is ad quem et ff. de action. empt. l. Julianus.  To\nmarry likewise our daughters when they are ripe, and no sooner, ff. de\ndonation. inter vir. et uxor. l. cum hic status. paragr. si quis sponsam.\net 27 qu. 1. c. sicut dicit. gl.\n\n  Jam matura thoro plenis adoleverat annis\n  Virginitas.\n\nAnd, in a word, she instructeth us to do nothing of any considerable\nimportance, but in a full maturity and ripeness, 23. q. para ult. et 23. de\nc. ultimo.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Bridlegoose relateth the history of the reconcilers of parties at\nvariance in matters of law.\n\nI remember to the same purpose, quoth Bridlegoose, in continuing his\ndiscourse, that in the time when at Poictiers I was a student of law under\nBrocadium Juris, there was at Semerve one Peter Dandin, a very honest man,\ncareful labourer of the ground, fine singer in a church-desk, of good\nrepute and credit, and older than the most aged of all your worships; who\nwas wont to say that he had seen the great and goodly good man, the Council\nof Lateran, with his wide and broad-brimmed red hat.  As also, that he had\nbeheld and looked upon the fair and beautiful Pragmatical Sanction his\nwife, with her huge rosary or patenotrian chaplet of jet-beads hanging at a\nlarge sky-coloured ribbon.  This honest man compounded, atoned, and agreed\nmore differences, controversies, and variances at law than had been\ndetermined, voided, and finished during his time in the whole palace of\nPoictiers, in the auditory of Montmorillon, and in the town-house of the\nold Partenay.  This amicable disposition of his rendered him venerable and\nof great estimation, sway, power, and authority throughout all the\nneighbouring places of Chauvigny, Nouaille, Leguge, Vivonne, Mezeaux,\nEstables, and other bordering and circumjacent towns, villages, and\nhamlets.  All their debates were pacified by him; he put an end to their\nbrabbling suits at law and wrangling differences.  By his advice and\ncounsels were accords and reconcilements no less firmly made than if the\nverdict of a sovereign judge had been interposed therein, although, in very\ndeed, he was no judge at all, but a right honest man, as you may well\nconceive,--arg. in l. sed si unius. ff. de jure-jur. et de verbis\nobligatoriis l.continuus.  There was not a hog killed within three parishes\nof him whereof he had not some part of the haslet and puddings.  He was\nalmost every day invited either to a marriage banquet, christening feast,\nan uprising or women-churching treatment, a birthday's anniversary\nsolemnity, a merry frolic gossiping, or otherwise to some delicious\nentertainment in a tavern, to make some accord and agreement between\npersons at odds and in debate with one another.  Remark what I say; for he\nnever yet settled and compounded a difference betwixt any two at variance,\nbut he straight made the parties agreed and pacified to drink together as a\nsure and infallible token and symbol of a perfect and completely\nwell-cemented reconciliation, sign of a sound and sincere amity and proper\nmark of a new joy and gladness to follow thereupon,--Ut not. per (Doct.) ff.\nde peric. et com. rei vend. l. 1.  He had a son, whose name was Tenot\nDandin, a lusty, young, sturdy, frisking roister, so help me God! who\nlikewise, in imitation of his peace-making father, would have undertaken and\nmeddled with the making up of variances and deciding of controversies\nbetwixt disagreeing and contentious party-pleaders; as you know,\n\n  Saepe solet similis esse patri.\n  Et sequitur leviter filia matris iter.\n\nUt ait gloss. 6, quaest. 1. c. Si quis. gloss. de cons. dist. 5. c. 2. fin.\net est. not. per Doct. cod. de impub. et aliis substit. l. ult. et l.\nlegitime. ff. de stat. hom. gloss. in l. quod si nolit. ff. de aedil.\nedict. l. quisquis c. ad leg. Jul. Majest. Excipio filios a Moniali\nsusceptos ex Monacho. per glos. in c. impudicas. 27. quaestione. 1.  And\nsuch was his confidence to have no worse success than his father, he\nassumed unto himself the title of Law-strife-settler.  He was likewise in\nthese pacificatory negotiations so active and vigilant--for, Vigilantibus\njura subveniunt. ex l. pupillus. ff. quae in fraud. cred. et ibid. l. non\nenim. et instit. in prooem.--that when he had smelt, heard, and fully\nunderstood--ut ff.si quando paup. fec. l. Agaso. gloss. in verb. olfecit,\nid est, nasum ad culum posuit--and found that there was anywhere in the\ncountry a debatable matter at law, he would incontinently thrust in his\nadvice, and so forwardly intrude his opinion in the business, that he made\nno bones of making offer, and taking upon him to decide it, how difficult\nsoever it might happen to be, to the full contentment and satisfaction of\nboth parties.  It is written, Qui non laborat non manducat; and the said\ngl. ff. de damn. infect. l. quamvis, and Currere plus que le pas vetulam\ncompellit egestas. gloss. ff. de lib. agnosc. l. si quis. pro qua facit. l.\nsi plures. c. de cond. incert.  But so hugely great was his misfortune in\nthis his undertaking, that he never composed any difference, how little\nsoever you may imagine it might have been, but that, instead of reconciling\nthe parties at odds, he did incense, irritate, and exasperate them to a\nhigher point of dissension and enmity than ever they were at before.  Your\nworships know, I doubt not, that,\n\n  Sermo datur cunctis, animi sapientia paucis.\n\nGl. ff. de alien. jud. mut. caus. fa. lib.2.  This administered unto the\ntavern-keepers, wine-drawers, and vintners of Semerve an occasion to say,\nthat under him they had not in the space of a whole year so much\nreconciliation-wine, for so were they pleased to call the good wine of\nLeguge, as under his father they had done in one half-hour's time.  It\nhappened a little while thereafter that he made a most heavy regret thereof\nto his father, attributing the causes of his bad success in pacificatory\nenterprises to the perversity, stubbornness, froward, cross, and backward\ninclinations of the people of his time; roundly, boldly, and irreverently\nupbraiding, that if but a score of years before the world had been so\nwayward, obstinate, pervicacious, implacable, and out of all square, frame,\nand order as it was then, his father had never attained to and acquired the\nhonour and title of Strife-appeaser so irrefragably, inviolably, and\nirrevocably as he had done.  In doing whereof Tenot did heinously\ntransgress against the law which prohibiteth children to reproach the\nactions of their parents; per gl. et Bart. l. 3. paragr. si quis. ff. de\ncond. ob caus. et authent. de nupt. par. sed quod sancitum. col. 4.  To\nthis the honest old father answered thus:  My son Dandin, when Don Oportet\ntaketh place, this is the course which we must trace, gl. c. de appell. l.\neos etiam.  For the road that you went upon was not the way to the fuller's\nmill, nor in any part thereof was the form to be found wherein the hare did\nsit.  Thou hast not the skill and dexterity of settling and composing\ndifferences.  Why?  Because thou takest them at the beginning, in the very\ninfancy and bud as it were, when they are green, raw, and indigestible.\nYet I know handsomely and featly how to compose and settle them all.  Why?\nBecause I take them at their decadence, in their weaning, and when they are\npretty well digested.  So saith Gloss:\n\n  Dulcior est fructus post multa pericula ductus.\n\nL. non moriturus. c. de contrahend. et committ. stip.  Didst thou ever hear\nthe vulgar proverb, Happy is the physician whose coming is desired at the\ndeclension of a disease?  For the sickness being come to a crisis is then\nupon the decreasing hand, and drawing towards an end, although the\nphysician should not repair thither for the cure thereof; whereby, though\nnature wholly do the work, he bears away the palm and praise thereof.  My\npleaders, after the same manner, before I did interpose my judgment in the\nreconciling of them, were waxing faint in their contestations.  Their\naltercation heat was much abated, and, in declining from their former\nstrife, they of themselves inclined to a firm accommodation of their\ndifferences; because there wanted fuel to that fire of burning rancour and\ndespiteful wrangling whereof the lower sort of lawyers were the kindlers.\nThat is to say, their purses were emptied of coin, they had not a win in\ntheir fob, nor penny in their bag, wherewith to solicit and present their\nactions.\n\n  Deficiente pecu, deficit omne, nia.\n\nThere wanted then nothing but some brother to supply the place of a\nparanymph, brawl-broker, proxenete, or mediator, who, acting his part\ndexterously, should be the first broacher of the motion of an agreement,\nfor saving both the one and the other party from that hurtful and\npernicious shame whereof he could not have avoided the imputation when it\nshould have been said that he was the first who yielded and spoke of a\nreconcilement, and that therefore, his cause not being good, and being\nsensible where his shoe did pinch him, he was willing to break the ice, and\nmake the greater haste to prepare the way for a condescendment to an\namicable and friendly treaty.  Then was it that I came in pudding time,\nDandin, my son, nor is the fat of bacon more relishing to boiled peas than\nwas my verdict then agreeable to them.  This was my luck, my profit, and\ngood fortune.  I tell thee, my jolly son Dandin, that by this rule and\nmethod I could settle a firm peace, or at least clap up a cessation of arms\nand truce for many years to come, betwixt the Great King and the Venetian\nState, the Emperor and the Cantons of Switzerland, the English and the\nScots, and betwixt the Pope and the Ferrarians.  Shall I go yet further?\nYea, as I would have God to help me, betwixt the Turk and the Sophy, the\nTartars and the Muscoviters.  Remark well what I am to say unto thee.  I\nwould take them at that very instant nick of time when both those of the\none and the other side should be weary and tired of making war, when they\nhad voided and emptied their own cashes and coffers of all treasure and\ncoin, drained and exhausted the purses and bags of their subjects, sold and\nmortgaged their domains and proper inheritances, and totally wasted, spent,\nand consumed the munition, furniture, provision, and victuals that were\nnecessary for the continuance of a military expedition.  There I am sure,\nby God, or by his Mother, that, would they, would they not, in spite of all\ntheir teeths, they should be forced to have a little respite and breathing\ntime to moderate the fury and cruel rage of their ambitious aims.  This is\nthe doctrine in Gl. 37. d. c. si quando.\n\n  Odero, si potero; si non, invitus amabo.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow suits at law are bred at first, and how they come afterwards to their\nperfect growth.\n\nFor this cause, quoth Bridlegoose, going on in his discourse, I temporize\nand apply myself to the times, as your other worships use to do, waiting\npatiently for the maturity of the process, full growth and perfection\nthereof in all its members, to wit, the writings and the bags.  Arg. in l.\nsi major. c. commun. divid. et de cons. di. 1. c. solemnitates, et ibi gl.\nA suit in law at its production, birth, and first beginning, seemeth to me,\nas unto your other worships, shapeless, without form or fashion,\nincomplete, ugly and imperfect, even as a bear at his first coming into the\nworld hath neither hands, skin, hair, nor head, but is merely an inform,\nrude, and ill-favoured piece and lump of flesh, and would remain still so,\nif his dam, out of the abundance of her affection to her hopeful cub, did\nnot with much licking put his members into that figure and shape which\nnature had provided for those of an arctic and ursinal kind; ut not. Doct.\nff. ad l. Aquil. l. 3. in fin.  Just so do I see, as your other worships\ndo, processes and suits in law, at their first bringing forth, to be\nnumberless, without shape, deformed, and disfigured, for that then they\nconsist only of one or two writings, or copies of instruments, through\nwhich defect they appear unto me, as to your other worships, foul,\nloathsome, filthy, and misshapen beasts.  But when there are heaps of these\nlegiformal papers packed, piled, laid up together, impoked, insatchelled,\nand put up in bags, then is it that with a good reason we may term that\nsuit, to which, as pieces, parcels, parts, portions, and members thereof,\nthey do pertain and belong, well-formed and fashioned, big-limbed,\nstrong-set, and in all and each of its dimensions most completely membered.\nBecause forma dat esse. rei. l. si is qui. ff. ad leg.  Falcid. in c. cum\ndilecta. de rescript. Barbat. consil. 12. lib. 2, and before him, Baldus,\nin c. ult. extra. de consuet. et l. Julianus ad exhib. ff. et l. quaesitum.\nff. de leg. 3.  The manner is such as is set down in gl. p. quaest. 1. c.\nPaulus.\n\n  Debile principium melior fortuna sequetur.\n\nLike your other worships, also the sergeants, catchpoles, pursuivants,\nmessengers, summoners, apparitors, ushers, door-keepers, pettifoggers,\nattorneys, proctors, commissioners, justices of the peace, judge delegates,\narbitrators, overseers, sequestrators, advocates, inquisitors, jurors,\nsearchers, examiners, notaries, tabellions, scribes, scriveners, clerks,\npregnotaries, secondaries, and expedanean judges, de quibus tit. est. l. 3.\nc., by sucking very much, and that exceeding forcibly, and licking at the\npurses of the pleading parties, they, to the suits already begot and\nengendered, form, fashion, and frame head, feet, claws, talons, beaks,\nbills, teeth, hands, veins, sinews, arteries, muscles, humours, and so\nforth, through all the similary and dissimilary parts of the whole; which\nparts, particles, pendicles, and appurtenances are the law pokes and bags,\ngl. de cons. d. 4. c. accepisti.  Qualis vestis erit, talia corda gerit.\nHic notandum est, that in this respect the pleaders, litigants, and\nlaw-suitors are happier than the officers, ministers, and administrators of\njustice.  For beatius est dare quam accipere. ff. commun. l. 3. extra. de\ncelebr. Miss. c. cum Marthae. et 24. quaest. 1. cap. Od. gl.\n\n  Affectum dantis pensat censura tonantis.\n\nThus becometh the action or process by their care and industry to be of a\ncomplete and goodly bulk, well shaped, framed, formed, and fashioned\naccording to the canonical gloss.\n\n  Accipe, sume, cape, sunt verba placentia Papae.\n\nWhich speech hath been more clearly explained by Albert de Ros, in verbo\nRoma.\n\n  Roma manus rodit, quas rodere non valet, odit.\n  Dantes custodit, non dantes spernit, et odit.\n\nThe reason whereof is thought to be this:\n\n  Ad praesens ova cras pullis sunt meliora.\n\nut est gl. in l. quum hi. ff. de transact.  Nor is this all; for the\ninconvenience of the contrary is set down in gloss. c. de allu. l. fin.\n\n  Quum labor in damno est, crescit mortalis egestas.\n\nIn confirmation whereof we find that the true etymology and exposition of\nthe word process is purchase, viz. of good store of money to the lawyers,\nand of many pokes--id est, prou-sacks--to the pleaders, upon which subject\nwe have most celestial quips, gibes, and girds.\n\n  Ligitando jura crescunt; litigando jus acquiritur.\n\nItem gl. in cap. illud extrem. de praesumpt. et c. de prob. l. instrum. l.\nnon epistolis. l. non nudis.\n\n  Et si non prosunt singula, multa juvant.\n\nYea but, asked Trinquamelle, how do you proceed, my friend, in criminal\ncauses, the culpable and guilty party being taken and seized upon flagrante\ncrimine?  Even as your other worships use to do, answered Bridlegoose.\nFirst, I permit the plaintiff to depart from the court, enjoining him not\nto presume to return thither till he preallably should have taken a good\nsound and profound sleep, which is to serve for the prime entry and\nintroduction to the legal carrying on of the business.  In the next place,\na formal report is to be made to me of his having slept.  Thirdly, I issue\nforth a warrant to convene him before me.  Fourthly, he is to produce a\nsufficient and authentic attestation of his having thoroughly and entirely\nslept, conform to the Gloss. 37. Quest. 7. c. Si quis cum.\n\n  Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.\n\nBeing thus far advanced in the formality of the process, I find that this\nconsopiating act engendereth another act, whence ariseth the articulating\nof a member.  That again produceth a third act, fashionative of another\nmember; which third bringing forth a fourth, procreative of another act.\nNew members in a no fewer number are shapen and framed, one still breeding\nand begetting another--as, link after link, the coat of mail at length is\nmade--till thus, piece after piece, by little and little, by information\nupon information, the process be completely well formed and perfect in all\nhis members.  Finally, having proceeded this length, I have recourse to my\ndice, nor is it to be thought that this interruption, respite, or\ninterpellation is by me occasioned without very good reason inducing me\nthereunto, and a notable experience of a most convincing and irrefragable\nforce.\n\nI remember, on a time, that in the camp at Stockholm there was a certain\nGascon named Gratianauld, native of the town of Saint Sever, who having\nlost all his money at play, and consecutively being very angry thereat--as\nyou know, Pecunia est alter sanguis, ut ait Anto. de Burtio, in c.\naccedens. 2. extra ut lit. non contest. et Bald. in l. si tuis. c. de opt.\nleg. per tot.in l. advocati. c. de advoc. div. jud.  Pecunia est vita\nhominis et optimus fide-jussor in necessitatibus--did, at his coming forth\nof the gaming-house, in the presence of the whole company that was there,\nwith a very loud voice speak in his own language these following words:\nPao cap de bious hillots, que maux de pipes bous tresbire:  ares que de\npergudes sont les mires bingt, et quouatre bagnelles, ta pla donnerien\npics, trucs, et patacts, Sey degun de bous aulx, qui boille truquar ambe\niou a bels embis.  Finding that none would make him any answer, he passed\nfrom thence to that part of the leaguer where the huff-snuff, honder\nsponder, swashbuckling High Germans were, to whom he renewed these very\nterms, provoking them to fight with him; but all the return he had from\nthem to his stout challenge was only, Der Gasconner thut sich ausz mit ein\niedem zu schlagen, aber er ist geneigter zu stehlen, darum, liebe frawen,\nhabt sorg zu euerm hauszrath.  Finding also that none of that band of\nTeutonic soldiers offered himself to the combat, he passed to that quarter\nof the leaguer where the French freebooting adventurers were encamped, and\nreiterating unto them what he had before repeated to the Dutch warriors,\nchallenged them likewise to fight with him, and therewithal made some\npretty little Gasconado frisking gambols to oblige them the more cheerfully\nand gallantly to cope with him in the lists of a duellizing engagement; but\nno answer at all was made unto him.  Whereupon the Gascon, despairing of\nmeeting with any antagonists, departed from thence, and laying himself down\nnot far from the pavilions of the grand Christian cavalier Crissie, fell\nfast asleep.  When he had thoroughly slept an hour or two, another\nadventurous and all-hazarding blade of the forlorn hope of the lavishingly\nwasting gamesters, having also lost all his moneys, sallied forth with\nsword in his hand, of a firm resolution to fight with the aforesaid Gascon,\nseeing he had lost as well as he.\n\n  Ploratur lachrymis amissa pecunia veris,\n\nsaith the Gl. de poenitent. distinct. 3. c. sunt plures.  To this effect\nhaving made inquiry and search for him throughout the whole camp, and in\nsequel thereof found him asleep, he said unto him, Up, ho, good fellow, in\nthe name of all the devils of hell, rise up, rise up, get up!  I have lost\nmy money as well as thou hast done; let us therefore go fight lustily\ntogether, grapple and scuffle it to some purpose.  Thou mayest look and see\nthat my tuck is no longer than thy rapier.  The Gascon, altogether\nastonished at his unexpected provocation, without altering his former\ndialect spoke thus:  Cap de Saint Arnault, quau seys to you, qui me\nrebeillez?  Que mau de taberne te gire.  Ho Saint Siobe, cap de Gascoigne,\nta pla dormy jou, quand aquoest taquain me bingut estee.  The venturous\nroister inviteth him again to the duel, but the Gascon, without\ncondescending to his desire, said only this:  He paovret jou tesquinerie\nares, que son pla reposat.  Vayne un pauque te pausar com jou, peusse\ntruqueren.  Thus, in forgetting his loss, he forgot the eagerness which he\nhad to fight.  In conclusion, after that the other had likewise slept a\nlittle, they, instead of fighting, and possibly killing one another, went\njointly to a sutler's tent, where they drank together very amicably, each\nupon the pawn of his sword.  Thus by a little sleep was pacified the ardent\nfury of two warlike champions.  There, gossip, comes the golden word of\nJohn Andr. in cap. ult. de sent. et re. judic. l. sexto.\n\n  Sedendo, et dormiendo fit anima prudens.\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel excuseth Bridlegoose in the matter of sentencing actions at\nlaw by the chance of the dice.\n\nWith this Bridlegoose held his peace.  Whereupon Trinquamelle bid him\nwithdraw from the court--which accordingly was done--and then directed his\ndiscourse to Pantagruel after this manner:  It is fitting, most illustrious\nprince, not only by reason of the deep obligations wherein this present\nparliament, together with the whole marquisate of Mirelingues, stand bound\nto your royal highness for the innumerable benefits which, as effects of\nmere grace, they have received from your incomparable bounty, but for that\nexcellent wit also, prime judgment, and admirable learning wherewith\nAlmighty God, the giver of all good things, hath most richly qualified and\nendowed you, we tender and present unto you the decision of this new,\nstrange, and paradoxical case of Bridlegoose; who, in your presence, to\nyour both hearing and seeing, hath plainly confessed his final judging and\ndeterminating of suits of law by the mere chance and fortune of the dice.\nTherefore do we beseech you that you may be pleased to give sentence\ntherein as unto you shall seem most just and equitable.  To this Pantagruel\nanswered:  Gentlemen, it is not unknown to you how my condition is somewhat\nremote from the profession of deciding law controversies; yet, seeing you\nare pleased to do me the honour to put that task upon me, instead of\nundergoing the office of a judge I will become your humble supplicant.  I\nobserve, gentlemen, in this Bridlegoose several things which induce me to\nrepresent before you that it is my opinion he should be pardoned.  In the\nfirst place, his old age; secondly, his simplicity; to both which qualities\nour statute and common laws, civil and municipal together, allow many\nexcuses for any slips or escapes which, through the invincible imperfection\nof either, have been inconsiderately stumbled upon by a person so\nqualified.  Thirdly, gentlemen, I must needs display before you another\ncase, which in equity and justice maketh much for the advantage of\nBridlegoose, to wit, that this one, sole, and single fault of his ought to\nbe quite forgotten, abolished, and swallowed up by that immense and vast\nocean of just dooms and sentences which heretofore he hath given and\npronounced; his demeanours, for these forty years and upwards that he hath\nbeen a judge, having been so evenly balanced in the scales of uprightness,\nthat envy itself till now could not have been so impudent as to accuse and\ntwit him with any act worthy of a check or reprehension; as, if a drop of\nthe sea were thrown into the Loire, none could perceive or say that by this\nsingle drop the whole river should be salt and brackish.\n\nTruly, it seemeth unto me, that in the whole series of Bridlegoose's\njuridical decrees there hath been I know not what of extraordinary\nsavouring of the unspeakable benignity of God, that all those his preceding\nsentences, awards, and judgments, have been confirmed and approved of by\nyourselves in this your own venerable and sovereign court.  For it is\nusual, as you know well, with him whose ways are inscrutable, to manifest\nhis own ineffable glory in blunting the perspicacy of the eyes of the wise,\nin weakening the strength of potent oppressors, in depressing the pride of\nrich extortioners, and in erecting, comforting, protecting, supporting,\nupholding, and shoring up the poor, feeble, humble, silly, and foolish ones\nof the earth.  But, waiving all these matters, I shall only beseech you,\nnot by the obligations which you pretend to owe to my family, for which I\nthank you, but for that constant and unfeigned love and affection which you\nhave always found in me, both on this and on the other side of Loire, for\nthe maintenance and establishment of your places, offices, and dignities,\nthat for this one time you would pardon and forgive him upon these two\nconditions.  First, that he satisfy, or put a sufficient surety for the\nsatisfaction of the party wronged by the injustice of the sentence in\nquestion.  For the fulfilment of this article I will provide sufficiently.\nAnd, secondly, that for his subsidiary aid in the weighty charge of\nadministrating justice you would be pleased to appoint and assign unto him\nsome pretty little virtuous counsellor, younger, learneder, and wiser than\nhe, by the square and rule of whose advice he may regulate, guide, temper,\nand moderate in times coming all his judiciary procedures; or otherwise, if\nyou intend totally to depose him from his office, and to deprive him\naltogether of the state and dignity of a judge, I shall cordially entreat\nyou to make a present and free gift of him to me, who shall find in my\nkingdoms charges and employments enough wherewith to embusy him, for the\nbettering of his own fortunes and furtherance of my service.  In the\nmeantime, I implore the Creator, Saviour, and Sanctifier of all good\nthings, in his grace, mercy, and kindness, to preserve you all now and\nevermore, world without end.\n\nThese words thus spoken, Pantagruel, vailing his cap and making a leg with\nsuch a majestic garb as became a person of his paramount degree and\neminency, farewelled Trinquamelle, the president and master-speaker of that\nMirelinguesian parliament, took his leave of the whole court, and went out\nof the chamber; at the door whereof finding Panurge, Epistemon, Friar John,\nand others, he forthwith, attended by them, walked to the outer gate, where\nall of them immediately took horse to return towards Gargantua.  Pantagruel\nby the way related to them from point to point the manner of Bridlegoose's\nsententiating differences at law.  Friar John said that he had seen Peter\nDandin, and was acquainted with him at that time when he sojourned in the\nmonastery of Fontaine le Comte, under the noble Abbot Ardillon.  Gymnast\nlikewise affirmed that he was in the tent of the grand Christian cavalier\nDe Crissie, when the Gascon, after his sleep, made answer to the\nadventurer.  Panurge was somewhat incredulous in the matter of believing\nthat it was morally possible Bridlegoose should have been for such a long\nspace of time so continually fortunate in that aleatory way of deciding law\ndebates.  Epistemon said to Pantagruel, Such another story, not much unlike\nto that in all the circumstances thereof, is vulgarly reported of the\nprovost of Montlehery.  In good sooth, such a perpetuity of good luck is to\nbe wondered at.  To have hit right twice or thrice in a judgment so given\nby haphazard might have fallen out well enough, especially in controversies\nthat were ambiguous, intricate, abstruse, perplexed, and obscure.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel relateth a strange history of the perplexity of human\njudgment.\n\nSeeing you talk, quoth Pantagruel, of dark, difficult, hard, and knotty\ndebates, I will tell you of one controverted before Cneius Dolabella,\nproconsul in Asia.  The case was this.\n\nA wife in Smyrna had of her first husband a child named Abece.  He dying,\nshe, after the expiring of a year and day, married again, and to her second\nhusband bore a boy called Effege.  A pretty long time thereafter it\nhappened, as you know the affection of stepfathers and stepdams is very\nrare towards the children of the first fathers and mothers deceased, that\nthis husband, with the help of his son Effege, secretly, wittingly,\nwillingly, and treacherously murdered Abece.  The woman came no sooner to\nget information of the fact, but, that it might not go unpunished, she\ncaused kill them both, to revenge the death of her first son.  She was\napprehended and carried before Cneius Dolabella, in whose presence she,\nwithout dissembling anything, confessed all that was laid to her charge;\nyet alleged that she had both right and reason on her side for the killing\nof them.  Thus was the state of the question.  He found the business so\ndubious and intricate, that he knew not what to determine therein, nor\nwhich of the parties to incline to.  On the one hand, it was an execrable\ncrime to cut off at once both her second husband and her son.  On the other\nhand, the cause of the murder seemed to be so natural, as to be grounded\nupon the law of nations and the rational instinct of all the people of the\nworld, seeing they two together had feloniously and murderously destroyed\nher first son; not that they had been in any manner of way wronged,\noutraged, or injured by him, but out of an avaricious intent to possess his\ninheritance.  In this doubtful quandary and uncertainty what to pitch upon,\nhe sent to the Areopagites then sitting at Athens to learn and obtain their\nadvice and judgment.  That judicious senate, very sagely perpending the\nreasons of his perplexity, sent him word to summon her personally to\ncompear before him a precise hundred years thereafter, to answer to some\ninterrogatories touching certain points which were not contained in the\nverbal defence.  Which resolution of theirs did import that it was in their\nopinion a so difficult and inextricable matter that they knew not what to\nsay or judge therein.  Who had decided that plea by the chance and fortune\nof the dice, could not have erred nor awarded amiss on which side soever he\nhad passed his casting and condemnatory sentence.  If against the woman,\nshe deserved punishment for usurping sovereign authority by taking that\nvengeance at her own hand, the inflicting whereof was only competent to the\nsupreme power to administer justice in criminal cases.  If for her, the\njust resentment of a so atrocious injury done unto her, in murdering her\ninnocent son, did fully excuse and vindicate her of any trespass or offence\nabout that particular committed by her.  But this continuation of\nBridlegoose for so many years still hitting the nail on the head, never\nmissing the mark, and always judging aright, by the mere throwing of the\ndice and chance thereof, is that which most astonisheth and amazeth me.\n\nTo answer, quoth Pantagruel (Epistemon, says the English edition of 1694,\nfollowing the reading of the modern French editions.  Le Duchat has pointed\nout the mistake.--M.), categorically to that which you wonder at, I must\ningeniously confess and avow that I cannot; yet, conjecturally to guess at\nthe reason of it, I would refer the cause of that marvellously\nlong-continued happy success in the judiciary results of his definitive\nsentences to the favourable aspect of the heavens and benignity of the\nintelligences; who, out of their love to goodness, after having\ncontemplated the pure simplicity and sincere unfeignedness of Judge\nBridlegoose in the acknowledgment of his inabilities, did regulate that for\nhim by chance which by the profoundest act of his maturest deliberation he\nwas not able to reach unto.  That, likewise, which possibly made him to\ndiffide in his own skill and capacity, notwithstanding his being an expert\nand understanding lawyer, for anything that I know to the contrary, was the\nknowledge and experience which he had of the antinomies, contrarieties,\nantilogies, contradictions, traversings, and thwartings of laws, customs,\nedicts, statutes, orders, and ordinances, in which dangerous opposition,\nequity and justice being structured and founded on either of the opposite\nterms, and a gap being thereby opened for the ushering in of injustice and\niniquity through the various interpretations of self-ended lawyers, being\nassuredly persuaded that the infernal calumniator, who frequently\ntransformeth himself into the likeness of a messenger or angel of light,\nmaketh use of these cross glosses and expositions in the mouths and pens of\nhis ministers and servants, the perverse advocates, bribing judges,\nlaw-monging attorneys, prevaricating counsellors, and other such-like\nlaw-wresting members of a court of justice, to turn by those means black to\nwhite, green to grey, and what is straight to a crooked ply.  For the more\nexpedient doing whereof, these diabolical ministers make both the pleading\nparties believe that their cause is just and righteous; for it is well\nknown that there is no cause, how bad soever, which doth not find an\nadvocate to patrocinate and defend it,--else would there be no process in\nthe world, no suits at law, nor pleadings at the bar.  He did in these\nextremities, as I conceive, most humbly recommend the direction of his\njudicial proceedings to the upright judge of judges, God Almighty; did\nsubmit himself to the conduct and guideship of the blessed Spirit in the\nhazard and perplexity of the definitive sentence, and, by this aleatory\nlot, did as it were implore and explore the divine decree of his goodwill\nand pleasure, instead of that which we call the final judgment of a court.\nTo this effect, to the better attaining to his purpose, which was to judge\nrighteously, he did, in my opinion, throw and turn the dice, to the end\nthat by the providence aforesaid the best chance might fall to him whose\naction was uprightest, and backed with greatest reason.  In doing whereof\nhe did not stray from the sense of Talmudists, who say that there is so\nlittle harm in that manner of searching the truth, that in the anxiety and\nperplexedness of human wits God oftentimes manifesteth the secret pleasure\nof his divine will.\n\nFurthermore, I will neither think nor say, nor can I believe, that the\nunstraightness is so irregular, or the corruption so evident, of those of\nthe parliament of Mirelingois in Mirelingues, before whom Bridlegoose was\narraigned for prevarication, that they will maintain it to be a worse\npractice to have the decision of a suit at law referred to the chance and\nhazard of a throw of the dice, hab nab, or luck as it will, than to have it\nremitted to and passed by the determination of those whose hands are full\nof blood and hearts of wry affections.  Besides that, their principal\ndirection in all law matters comes to their hands from one Tribonian, a\nwicked, miscreant, barbarous, faithless and perfidious knave, so\npernicious, unjust, avaricious, and perverse in his ways, that it was his\nordinary custom to sell laws, edicts, declarations, constitutions, and\nordinances, as at an outroop or putsale, to him who offered most for them.\nThus did he shape measures for the pleaders, and cut their morsels to them\nby and out of these little parcels, fragments, bits, scantlings, and shreds\nof the law now in use, altogether concealing, suppressing, disannulling,\nand abolishing the remainder, which did make for the total law; fearing\nthat, if the whole law were made manifest and laid open to the knowledge of\nsuch as are interested in it, and the learned books of the ancient doctors\nof the law upon the exposition of the Twelve Tables and Praetorian Edicts,\nhis villainous pranks, naughtiness, and vile impiety should come to the\npublic notice of the world.  Therefore were it better, in my conceit, that\nis to say, less inconvenient, that parties at variance in any juridical\ncase should in the dark march upon caltrops than submit the determination\nof what is their right to such unhallowed sentences and horrible decrees;\nas Cato in his time wished and advised that every judiciary court should be\npaved with caltrops.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge taketh advice of Triboulet.\n\nOn the sixth day thereafter Pantagruel was returned home at the very same\nhour that Triboulet was by water come from Blois.  Panurge, at his arrival,\ngave him a hog's bladder puffed up with wind, and resounding because of the\nhard peas that were within it.  Moreover he did present him with a gilt\nwooden sword, a hollow budget made of a tortoise shell, an osier-wattled\nwicker-bottle full of Breton wine, and five-and-twenty apples of the\norchard of Blandureau.\n\nIf he be such a fool, quoth Carpalin, as to be won with apples, there is no\nmore wit in his pate than in the head of an ordinary cabbage.  Triboulet\ngirded the sword and scrip to his side, took the bladder in his hand, ate\nsome few of the apples, and drunk up all the wine.  Panurge very wistly and\nheedfully looking upon him said, I never yet saw a fool, and I have seen\nten thousand francs worth of that kind of cattle, who did not love to drink\nheartily, and by good long draughts.  When Triboulet had done with his\ndrinking, Panurge laid out before him and exposed the sum of the business\nwherein he was to require his advice, in eloquent and choicely-sorted\nterms, adorned with flourishes of rhetoric.  But, before he had altogether\ndone, Triboulet with his fist gave him a bouncing whirret between the\nshoulders, rendered back into his hand again the empty bottle, fillipped\nand flirted him in the nose with the hog's bladder, and lastly, for a final\nresolution, shaking and wagging his head strongly and disorderly, he\nanswered nothing else but this, By God, God, mad fool, beware the monk,\nBuzansay hornpipe!  These words thus finished, he slipped himself out of\nthe company, went aside, and, rattling the bladder, took a huge delight in\nthe melody of the rickling crackling noise of the peas.  After which time\nit lay not in the power of them all to draw out of his chaps the articulate\nsound of one syllable, insomuch that, when Panurge went about to\ninterrogate him further, Triboulet drew his wooden sword, and would have\nstuck him therewith.  I have fished fair now, quoth Panurge, and brought my\npigs to a fine market.  Have I not got a brave determination of all my\ndoubts, and a response in all things agreeable to the oracle that gave it?\nHe is a great fool, that is not to be denied, yet is he a greater fool who\nbrought him hither to me,--That bolt, quoth Carpalin, levels point-blank at\nme,--but of the three I am the greatest fool, who did impart the secret of\nmy thoughts to such an idiot ass and native ninny.\n\nWithout putting ourselves to any stir or trouble in the least, quoth\nPantagruel, let us maturely and seriously consider and perpend the gestures\nand speech which he hath made and uttered.  In them, veritably, quoth he,\nhave I remarked and observed some excellent and notable mysteries; yea, of\nsuch important worth and weight, that I shall never henceforth be\nastonished, nor think strange, why the Turks with a great deal of worship\nand reverence honour and respect natural fools equally with their primest\ndoctors, muftis, divines, and prophets.  Did not you take heed, quoth he, a\nlittle before he opened his mouth to speak, what a shogging, shaking, and\nwagging his head did keep?  By the approved doctrine of the ancient\nphilosophers, the customary ceremonies of the most expert magicians, and\nthe received opinions of the learnedest lawyers, such a brangling agitation\nand moving should by us all be judged to proceed from, and be quickened and\nsuscitated by the coming and inspiration of the prophetizing and fatidical\nspirit, which, entering briskly and on a sudden into a shallow receptacle\nof a debile substance (for, as you know, and as the proverb shows it, a\nlittle head containeth not much brains), was the cause of that commotion.\nThis is conform to what is avouched by the most skilful physicians, when\nthey affirm that shakings and tremblings fall upon the members of a human\nbody, partly because of the heaviness and violent impetuosity of the burden\nand load that is carried, and, other part, by reason of the weakness and\nimbecility that is in the virtue of the bearing organ.  A manifest example\nwhereof appeareth in those who, fasting, are not able to carry to their\nhead a great goblet full of wine without a trembling and a shaking in the\nhand that holds it.  This of old was accounted a prefiguration and mystical\npointing out of the Pythian divineress, who used always, before the\nuttering of a response from the oracle, to shake a branch of her domestic\nlaurel.  Lampridius also testifieth that the Emperor Heliogabalus, to\nacquire unto himself the reputation of a soothsayer, did, on several holy\ndays of prime solemnnity, in the presence of the fanatic rabble, make the\nhead of his idol by some slight within the body thereof publicly to shake.\nPlautus, in his Asinaria, declareth likewise, that Saurias, whithersoever\nhe walked, like one quite distracted of his wits kept such a furious\nlolling and mad-like shaking of his head, that he commonly affrighted those\nwho casually met with him in his way.  The said author in another place,\nshowing a reason why Charmides shook and brangled his head, assevered that\nhe was transported and in an ecstasy.  Catullus after the same manner\nmaketh mention, in his Berecynthia and Atys, of the place wherein the\nMenades, Bacchical women, she-priests of the Lyaean god, and demented\nprophetesses, carrying ivy boughs in their hands, did shake their heads.\nAs in the like case, amongst the Galli, the gelded priests of Cybele were\nwont to do in the celebrating of their festivals.  Whence, too, according\nto the sense of the ancient theologues, she herself has her denomination,\nfor kubistan signifieth to turn round, whirl about, shake the head, and\nplay the part of one that is wry-necked.\n\nSemblably Titus Livius writeth that, in the solemnization time of the\nBacchanalian holidays at Rome, both men and women seemed to prophetize and\nvaticinate, because of an affected kind of wagging of the head, shrugging\nof the shoulders, and jectigation of the whole body, which they used then\nmost punctually.  For the common voice of the philosophers, together with\nthe opinion of the people, asserteth for an irrefragable truth that\nvaticination is seldom by the heavens bestowed on any without the\nconcomitancy of a little frenzy and a head-shaking, not only when the said\npresaging virtue is infused, but when the person also therewith inspired\ndeclareth and manifesteth it unto others.  The learned lawyer Julian, being\nasked on a time if that slave might be truly esteemed to be healthful and\nin a good plight who had not only conversed with some furious, maniac, and\nenraged people, but in their company had also prophesied, yet without a\nnoddle-shaking concussion, answered that, seeing there was no head-wagging\nat the time of his predictions, he might be held for sound and compotent\nenough.  Is it not daily seen how schoolmasters, teachers, tutors, and\ninstructors of children shake the heads of their disciples, as one would do\na pot in holding it by the lugs, that by this erection, vellication,\nstretching, and pulling their ears, which, according to the doctrine of the\nsage Egyptians, is a member consecrated to the memory, they may stir them\nup to recollect their scattered thoughts, bring home those fancies of\ntheirs which perhaps have been extravagantly roaming abroad upon strange\nand uncouth objects, and totally range their judgments, which possibly by\ndisordinate affections have been made wild, to the rule and pattern of a\nwise, discreet, virtuous, and philosophical discipline.  All which Virgil\nacknowledgeth to be true, in the branglement of Apollo Cynthius.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel and Panurge diversely interpret the words of Triboulet.\n\nHe says you are a fool.  And what kind of fool?  A mad fool, who in your\nold age would enslave yourself to the bondage of matrimony, and shut your\npleasures up within a wedlock whose key some ruffian carries in his\ncodpiece.  He says furthermore, Beware of the monk.  Upon mine honour, it\ngives me in my mind that you will be cuckolded by a monk.  Nay, I will\nengage mine honour, which is the most precious pawn I could have in my\npossession although I were sole and peaceable dominator over all Europe,\nAsia, and Africa, that, if you marry, you will surely be one of the horned\nbrotherhood of Vulcan.  Hereby may you perceive how much I do attribute to\nthe wise foolery of our morosoph Triboulet.  The other oracles and\nresponses did in the general prognosticate you a cuckold, without\ndescending so near to the point of a particular determination as to pitch\nupon what vocation amongst the several sorts of men he should profess who\nis to be the copesmate of your wife and hornifier of your proper self.\nThus noble Triboulet tells it us plainly, from whose words we may gather\nwith all ease imaginable that your cuckoldry is to be infamous, and so much\nthe more scandalous that your conjugal bed will be incestuously\ncontaminated with the filthiness of a monkery lecher.  Moreover, he says\nthat you will be the hornpipe of Buzansay, that is to say, well-horned,\nhornified, and cornuted.  And, as Triboulet's uncle asked from Louis the\nTwelfth, for a younger brother of his own who lived at Blois, the hornpipes\nof Buzansay, for the organ pipes, through the mistake of one word for\nanother, even so, whilst you think to marry a wise, humble, calm, discreet,\nand honest wife, you shall unhappily stumble upon one witless, proud, loud,\nobstreperous, bawling, clamorous, and more unpleasant than any Buzansay\nhornpipe.  Consider withal how he flirted you on the nose with the bladder,\nand gave you a sound thumping blow with his fist upon the ridge of the\nback.  This denotates and presageth that you shall be banged, beaten, and\nfillipped by her, and that also she will steal of your goods from you, as\nyou stole the hog's bladder from the little boys of Vaubreton.\n\nFlat contrary, quoth Panurge;--not that I would impudently exempt myself\nfrom being a vassal in the territory of folly.  I hold of that\njurisdiction, and am subject thereto, I confess it.  And why should I not?\nFor the whole world is foolish.  In the old Lorraine language, fou for tou,\nall and fool, were the same thing.  Besides, it is avouched by Solomon that\ninfinite is the number of fools.  From an infinity nothing can be deducted\nor abated, nor yet, by the testimony of Aristotle, can anything thereto be\nadded or subjoined.  Therefore were I a mad fool if, being a fool, I should\nnot hold myself a fool.  After the same manner of speaking, we may aver the\nnumber of the mad and enraged folks to be infinite.  Avicenna maketh no\nbones to assert that the several kinds of madness are infinite.  Though\nthis much of Triboulet's words tend little to my advantage, howbeit the\nprejudice which I sustain thereby be common with me to all other men, yet\nthe rest of his talk and gesture maketh altogether for me.  He said to my\nwife, Be wary of the monkey; that is as much as if she should be cheery,\nand take as much delight in a monkey as ever did the Lesbia of Catullus in\nher sparrow; who will for his recreation pass his time no less joyfully at\nthe exercise of snatching flies than heretofore did the merciless\nfly-catcher Domitian.  Withal he meant, by another part of his discourse,\nthat she should be of a jovial country-like humour, as gay and pleasing as a\nharmonious hornpipe of Saulieau or Buzansay.  The veridical Triboulet did\ntherein hint at what I liked well, as perfectly knowing the inclinations and\npropensions of my mind, my natural disposition, and the bias of my interior\npassions and affections.  For you may be assured that my humour is much\nbetter satisfied and contented with the pretty, frolic, rural, dishevelled\nshepherdesses, whose bums through their coarse canvas smocks smell of the\nclover grass of the field, than with those great ladies in magnific courts,\nwith their flandan top-knots and sultanas, their polvil, pastillos, and\ncosmetics.  The homely sound, likewise, of a rustical hornpipe is more\nagreeable to my ears than the curious warbling and musical quavering of\nlutes, theorbos, viols, rebecs, and violins.  He gave me a lusty rapping\nthwack on my back,--what then?  Let it pass, in the name and for the love of\nGod, as an abatement of and deduction from so much of my future pains in\npurgatory.  He did it not out of any evil intent.  He thought, belike, to\nhave hit some of the pages.  He is an honest fool, and an innocent\nchangeling.  It is a sin to harbour in the heart any bad conceit of him.  As\nfor myself, I heartily pardon him.  He flirted me on the nose.  In that\nthere is no harm; for it importeth nothing else but that betwixt my wife and\nme there will occur some toyish wanton tricks which usually happen to all\nnew-married folks.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel and Panurge resolved to make a visit to the oracle of the\nholy bottle.\n\nThere is as yet another point, quoth Panurge, which you have not at all\nconsidered on, although it be the chief and principal head of the matter.\nHe put the bottle in my hand and restored it me again.  How interpret you\nthat passage?  What is the meaning of that?  He possibly, quoth Pantagruel,\nsignifieth thereby that your wife will be such a drunkard as shall daily\ntake in her liquor kindly, and ply the pots and bottles apace.  Quite\notherwise, quoth Panurge; for the bottle was empty.  I swear to you, by the\nprickling brambly thorn of St. Fiacre in Brie, that our unique morosoph,\nwhom I formerly termed the lunatic Triboulet, referreth me, for attaining\nto the final resolution of my scruple, to the response-giving bottle.\nTherefore do I renew afresh the first vow which I made, and here in your\npresence protest and make oath, by Styx and Acheron, to carry still\nspectacles in my cap, and never to wear a codpiece in my breeches, until\nupon the enterprise in hand of my nuptial undertaking I shall have obtained\nan answer from the holy bottle.  I am acquainted with a prudent,\nunderstanding, and discreet gentleman, and besides a very good friend of\nmine, who knoweth the land, country, and place where its temple and oracle\nis built and posited.  He will guide and conduct us thither sure and\nsafely.  Let us go thither, I beseech you.  Deny me not, and say not nay;\nreject not the suit I make unto you, I entreat you.  I will be to you an\nAchates, a Damis, and heartily accompany you all along in the whole voyage,\nboth in your going forth and coming back.  I have of a long time known you\nto be a great lover of peregrination, desirous still to learn new things,\nand still to see what you had never seen before.\n\nVery willingly, quoth Pantagruel, I condescend to your request.  But before\nwe enter in upon our progress towards the accomplishment of so far a\njourney, replenished and fraught with eminent perils, full of innumerable\nhazards, and every way stored with evident and manifest dangers,--What\ndangers? quoth Panurge, interrupting him.  Dangers fly back, run from, and\nshun me whithersoever I go, seven leagues around, as in the presence of the\nsovereign a subordinate magistracy is eclipsed; or as clouds and darkness\nquite evanish at the bright coming of a radiant sun; or as all sores and\nsicknesses did suddenly depart at the approach of the body of St. Martin a\nQuande.  Nevertheless, quoth Pantagruel, before we adventure to set\nforwards on the road of our projected and intended voyage, some few points\nare to be discussed, expedited, and despatched.  First, let us send back\nTriboulet to Blois.  Which was instantly done, after that Pantagruel had\ngiven him a frieze coat.  Secondly, our design must be backed with the\nadvice and counsel of the king my father.  And, lastly, it is most needful\nand expedient for us that we search for and find out some sibyl to serve us\nfor a guide, truchman, and interpreter.  To this Panurge made answer, that\nhis friend Xenomanes would abundantly suffice for the plenary discharge and\nperformance of the sibyl's office; and that, furthermore, in passing\nthrough the Lanternatory revelling country, they should take along with\nthem a learned and profitable Lanternesse, which would be no less useful to\nthem in their voyage than was the sibyl to Aeneas in his descent to the\nElysian fields.  Carpalin, in the interim, as he was upon the conducting\naway of Triboulet, in his passing by hearkened a little to the discourse\nthey were upon; then spoke out, saying, Ho, Panurge, master freeman, take\nmy Lord Debitis at Calais alongst with you, for he is goud-fallot, a good\nfellow.  He will not forget those who have been debitors; these are\nLanternes.  Thus shall you not lack for both fallot and lanterne.  I may\nsafely with the little skill I have, quoth Pantagruel, prognosticate that\nby the way we shall engender no melancholy.  I clearly perceive it already.\nThe only thing that vexeth me is, that I cannot speak the Lanternatory\nlanguage.  I shall, answered Panurge, speak for you all.  I understand it\nevery whit as well as I do mine own maternal tongue; I have been no less\nused to it than to the vulgar French.\n\n  Briszmarg dalgotbrick nubstzne zos.\n  Isquebsz prusq:  albok crinqs zacbac.\n  Mizbe dilbarskz morp nipp stancz bos,\n  Strombtz, Panurge, walmap quost gruszbac.\n\nNow guess, friend Epistemon, what this is.  They are, quoth Epistemon,\nnames of errant devils, passant devils, and rampant devils.  These words of\nthine, dear friend of mine, are true, quoth Panurge; yet are they terms\nused in the language of the court of the Lanternish people.  By the way, as\nwe go upon our journey, I will make to thee a pretty little dictionary,\nwhich, notwithstanding, shall not last you much longer than a pair of new\nshoes.  Thou shalt have learned it sooner than thou canst perceive the\ndawning of the next subsequent morning.  What I have said in the foregoing\ntetrastich is thus translated out of the Lanternish tongue into our vulgar\ndialect:\n\n  All miseries attended me, whilst I\n  A lover was, and had no good thereby.\n  Of better luck the married people tell;\n  Panurge is one of those, and knows it well.\n\nThere is little more, then, quoth Pantagruel, to be done, but that we\nunderstand what the will of the king my father will be therein, and\npurchase his consent.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gargantua showeth that the children ought not to marry without the\nspecial knowledge and advice of their fathers and mothers.\n\nNo sooner had Pantagruel entered in at the door of the great hall of the\ncastle, than that he encountered full butt with the good honest Gargantua\ncoming forth from the council board, unto whom he made a succinct and\nsummary narrative of what had passed and occurred, worthy of his\nobservation, in his travels abroad, since their last interview; then,\nacquainting him with the design he had in hand, besought him that it might\nstand with his goodwill and pleasure to grant him leave to prosecute and go\nthrough-stitch with the enterprise which he had undertaken.  The good man\nGargantua, having in one hand two great bundles of petitions endorsed and\nanswered, and in the other some remembrancing notes and bills, to put him\nin mind of such other requests of supplicants, which, albeit presented, had\nnevertheless been neither read nor heard, he gave both to Ulric Gallet, his\nancient and faithful Master of Requests; then drew aside Pantagruel, and,\nwith a countenance more serene and jovial than customary, spoke to him\nthus:  I praise God, and have great reason so to do, my most dear son, that\nhe hath been pleased to entertain in you a constant inclination to virtuous\nactions.  I am well content that the voyage which you have motioned to me\nbe by you accomplished, but withal I could wish you would have a mind and\ndesire to marry, for that I see you are of competent years.  Panurge in the\nmeanwhile was in a readiness of preparing and providing for remedies,\nsalves, and cures against all such lets, obstacles, and impediments as he\ncould in the height of his fancy conceive might by Gargantua be cast in the\nway of their itinerary design.  Is it your pleasure, most dear father, that\nyou speak? answered Pantagruel.  For my part, I have not yet thought upon\nit.  In all this affair I wholly submit and rest in your good liking and\npaternal authority.  For I shall rather pray unto God that he would throw\nme down stark dead at your feet, in your pleasure, than that against your\npleasure I should be found married alive.  I never yet heard that by any\nlaw, whether sacred or profane, yea, amongst the rudest and most barbarous\nnations in the world, it was allowed and approved of that children may be\nsuffered and tolerated to marry at their own goodwill and pleasure, without\nthe knowledge, advice, or consent asked and had thereto of their fathers,\nmothers, and nearest kindred.  All legislators, everywhere upon the face of\nthe whole earth, have taken away and removed this licentious liberty from\nchildren, and totally reserved it to the discretion of the parents.\n\nMy dearly beloved son, quoth Gargantua, I believe you, and from my heart\nthank God for having endowed you with the grace of having both a perfect\nnotice of and entire liking to laudable and praiseworthy things; and that\nthrough the windows of your exterior senses he hath vouchsafed to transmit\nunto the interior faculties of your mind nothing but what is good and\nvirtuous.  For in my time there hath been found on the continent a certain\ncountry, wherein are I know not what kind of Pastophorian mole-catching\npriests, who, albeit averse from engaging their proper persons into a\nmatrimonial duty, like the pontifical flamens of Cybele in Phrygia, as if\nthey were capons, and not cocks full of lasciviousness, salacity, and\nwantonness, who yet have, nevertheless, in the matter of conjugal affairs,\ntaken upon them to prescribe laws and ordinances to married folks.  I\ncannot goodly determine what I should most abhor, detest, loathe, and\nabominate,--whether the tyrannical presumption of those dreaded sacerdotal\nmole-catchers, who, not being willing to contain and coop up themselves\nwithin the grates and trellises of their own mysterious temples, do deal\nin, meddle with, obtrude upon, and thrust their sickles into harvests of\nsecular businesses quite contrary and diametrically opposite to the\nquality, state, and condition of their callings, professions, and\nvocations; or the superstitious stupidity and senseless scrupulousness of\nmarried folks, who have yielded obedience, and submitted their bodies,\nfortunes, and estates to the discretion and authority of such odious,\nperverse, barbarous, and unreasonable laws.  Nor do they see that which is\nclearer than the light and splendour of the morning star,--how all these\nnuptial and connubial sanctions, statutes, and ordinances have been\ndecreed, made, and instituted for the sole benefit, profit, and advantage\nof the flaminal mysts and mysterious flamens, and nothing at all for the\ngood, utility, or emolument of the silly hoodwinked married people.  Which\nadministereth unto others a sufficient cause for rendering these churchmen\nsuspicious of iniquity, and of an unjust and fraudulent manner of dealing,\nno more to be connived at nor countenanced, after that it be well weighed\nin the scales of reason, than if with a reciprocal temerity the laics, by\nway of compensation, would impose laws to be followed and observed by those\nmysts and flamens, how they should behave themselves in the making and\nperformance of their rites and ceremonies, and after what manner they ought\nto proceed in the offering up and immolating of their various oblations,\nvictims, and sacrifices; seeing that, besides the decimation and\ntithe-haling of their goods, they cut off and take parings, shreddings, and\nclippings of the gain proceeding from the labour of their hands and sweat\nof their brows, therewith to entertain themselves the better.  Upon which\nconsideration, in my opinion, their injunctions and commands would not\nprove so pernicious and impertinent as those of the ecclesiastic power unto\nwhich they had tendered their blind obedience.  For, as you have very well\nsaid, there is no place in the world where, legally, a licence is granted\nto the children to marry without the advice and consent of their parents\nand kindred.  Nevertheless, by those wicked laws and mole-catching customs,\nwhereat there is a little hinted in what I have already spoken to you,\nthere is no scurvy, measly, leprous, or pocky ruffian, pander, knave,\nrogue, skellum, robber, or thief, pilloried, whipped, and burn-marked in\nhis own country for his crimes and felonies, who may not violently snatch\naway and ravish what maid soever he had a mind to pitch upon, how noble,\nhow fair, how rich, honest, and chaste soever she be, and that out of the\nhouse of her own father, in his own presence, from the bosom of her mother,\nand in the sight and despite of her friends and kindred looking on a so\nwoeful spectacle, provided that the rascal villain be so cunning as to\nassociate unto himself some mystical flamen, who, according to the covenant\nmade betwixt them two, shall be in hope some day to participate of the\nprey.\n\nCould the Goths, the Scyths, or Massagets do a worse or more cruel act to\nany of the inhabitants of a hostile city, when, after the loss of many of\ntheir most considerable commanders, the expense of a great deal of money,\nand a long siege, they shall have stormed and taken it by a violent and\nimpetuous assault?  May not these fathers and mothers, think you, be\nsorrowful and heavy-hearted when they see an unknown fellow, a vagabond\nstranger, a barbarous lout, a rude cur, rotten, fleshless, putrified,\nscraggy, boily, botchy, poor, a forlorn caitiff and miserable sneak, by an\nopen rapt snatch away before their own eyes their so fair, delicate, neat,\nwell-behavioured, richly-provided-for and healthful daughters, on whose\nbreeding and education they had spared no cost nor charges, by bringing\nthem up in an honest discipline to all the honourable and virtuous\nemployments becoming one of their sex descended of a noble parentage,\nhoping by those commendable and industrious means in an opportune and\nconvenient time to bestow them on the worthy sons of their well-deserving\nneighbours and ancient friends, who had nourished, entertained, taught,\ninstructed, and schooled their children with the same care and solicitude,\nto make them matches fit to attain to the felicity of a so happy marriage,\nthat from them might issue an offspring and progeny no less heirs to the\nlaudable endowments and exquisite qualifications of their parents, whom\nthey every way resemble, than to their personal and real estates, movables,\nand inheritances?  How doleful, trist, and plangorous would such a sight\nand pageantry prove unto them?  You shall not need to think that the\ncollachrymation of the Romans and their confederates at the decease of\nGermanicus Drusus was comparable to this lamentation of theirs?  Neither\nwould I have you to believe that the discomfort and anxiety of the\nLacedaemonians, when the Greek Helen, by the perfidiousness of the\nadulterous Trojan, Paris, was privily stolen away out of their country, was\ngreater or more pitiful than this ruthful and deplorable collugency of\ntheirs?  You may very well imagine that Ceres at the ravishment of her\ndaughter Proserpina was not more attristed, sad, nor mournful than they.\nTrust me, and your own reason, that the loss of Osiris was not so\nregrettable to Isis, nor did Venus so deplore the death of Adonis, nor yet\ndid Hercules so bewail the straying of Hylas, nor was the rapt of Polyxena\nmore throbbingly resented and condoled by Priamus and Hecuba, than this\naforesaid accident would be sympathetically bemoaned, grievous, ruthful,\nand anxious to the woefully desolate and disconsolate parents.\n\nNotwithstanding all this, the greater part of so vilely abused parents are\nso timorous and afraid of devils and hobgoblins, and so deeply plunged in\nsuperstition, that they dare not gainsay nor contradict, much less oppose\nand resist those unnatural and impious actions, when the mole-catcher hath\nbeen present at the perpetrating of the fact, and a party contractor and\ncovenanter in that detestable bargain.  What do they do then?  They\nwretchedly stay at their own miserable homes, destitute of their\nwell-beloved daughters, the fathers cursing the days and the hours wherein\nthey were married, and the mothers howling and crying that it was not their\nfortune to have brought forth abortive issues when they happened to be\ndelivered of such unfortunate girls, and in this pitiful plight spend at\nbest the remainder of their time with tears and weeping for those their\nchildren, of and from whom they expected, (and, with good reason, should\nhave obtained and reaped,) in these latter days of theirs, joy and comfort.\nOther parents there have been, so impatient of that affront and indignity\nput upon them and their families, that, transported with the extremity of\npassion, in a mad and frantic mood, through the vehemency of a grievous\nfury and raging sorrow, have drowned, hanged, killed, and otherwise put\nviolent hands on themselves.  Others, again, of that parental relation\nhave, upon the reception of the like injury, been of a more magnanimous and\nheroic spirit, who, in imitation and at the example of the children of\nJacob revenging upon the Sichemites the rapt of their sister Dinah, having\nfound the rascally ruffian in the association of his mystical mole-catcher\nclosely and in hugger-mugger conferring, parleying, and coming with their\ndaughters, for the suborning, corrupting, depraving, perverting, and\nenticing these innocent unexperienced maids unto filthy lewdnesses, have,\nwithout any further advisement on the matter, cut them instantly into\npieces, and thereupon forthwith thrown out upon the fields their so\ndismembered bodies, to serve for food unto the wolves and ravens.  Upon the\nchivalrous, bold, and courageous achievement of a so valiant, stout, and\nmanlike act, the other mole-catching symmysts have been so highly incensed,\nand have so chafed, fretted, and fumed thereat, that, bills of complaint\nand accusations having been in a most odious and detestable manner put in\nbefore the competent judges, the arm of secular authority hath with much\nimportunity and impetuosity been by them implored and required, they\nproudly contending that the servants of God would become contemptible if\nexemplary punishment were not speedily taken upon the persons of the\nperpetrators of such an enormous, horrid, sacrilegious, crying, heinous,\nand execrable crime.\n\nYet neither by natural equity, by the law of nations, nor by any imperial\nlaw whatsoever, hath there been found so much as one rubric, paragraph,\npoint, or tittle, by the which any kind of chastisement or correction hath\nbeen adjudged due to be inflicted upon any for their delinquency in that\nkind.  Reason opposeth, and nature is repugnant.  For there is no virtuous\nman in the world who both naturally and with good reason will not be more\nhugely troubled in mind, hearing of the news of the rapt, disgrace,\nignominy, and dishonour of his daughter, than of her death.  Now any man,\nfinding in hot blood one who with a forethought felony hath murdered his\ndaughter, may, without tying himself to the formalities and circumstances\nof a legal proceeding, kill him on a sudden and out of hand without\nincurring any hazard of being attainted and apprehended by the officers of\njustice for so doing.  What wonder is it then?  Or how little strange\nshould it appear to any rational man, if a lechering rogue, together with\nhis mole-catching abettor, be entrapped in the flagrant act of suborning\nhis daughter, and stealing her out of his house, though herself consent\nthereto, that the father in such a case of stain and infamy by them brought\nupon his family, should put them both to a shameful death, and cast their\ncarcasses upon dunghills to be devoured and eaten up by dogs and swine, or\notherwise fling them a little further off to the direption, tearing, and\nrending asunder of their joints and members by the wild beasts of the field\n(as unworthy to receive the gentle, the desired, the last kind embraces of\nthe great Alma Mater, the earth, commonly called burial).\n\nDearly beloved son, have an especial care that after my decease none of\nthese laws be received in any of your kingdoms; for whilst I breathe, by\nthe grace and assistance of God, I shall give good order.  Seeing,\ntherefore, you have totally referred unto my discretion the disposure of\nyou in marriage, I am fully of an opinion that I shall provide sufficiently\nwell for you in that point.  Make ready and prepare yourself for Panurge's\nvoyage.  Take along with you Epistemon, Friar John, and such others as you\nwill choose.  Do with my treasures what unto yourself shall seem most\nexpedient.  None of your actions, I promise you, can in any manner of way\ndisplease me.  Take out of my arsenal Thalasse whatsoever equipage,\nfurniture, or provision you please, together with such pilots, mariners,\nand truchmen as you have a mind to, and with the first fair and favourable\nwind set sail and make out to sea in the name of God our Saviour.  In the\nmeanwhile, during your absence, I shall not be neglective of providing a\nwife for you, nor of those preparations which are requisite to be made for\nthe more sumptuous solemnizing of your nuptials with a most splendid feast,\nif ever there was any in the world, since the days of Ahasuerus.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel did put himself in a readiness to go to sea; and of the herb\nnamed Pantagruelion.\n\nWithin very few days after that Pantagruel had taken his leave of the good\nGargantua, who devoutly prayed for his son's happy voyage, he arrived at\nthe seaport, near to Sammalo, accompanied with Panurge, Epistemon, Friar\nJohn of the Funnels, Abbot of Theleme, and others of the royal house,\nespecially with Xenomanes the great traveller and thwarter of dangerous\nways, who was come at the bidding and appointment of Panurge, of whose\ncastlewick of Salmigondin he did hold some petty inheritance by the tenure\nof a mesne fee.  Pantagruel, being come thither, prepared and made ready\nfor launching a fleet of ships, to the number of those which Ajax of\nSalamine had of old equipped in convoy of the Grecian soldiery against the\nTrojan state.  He likewise picked out for his use so many mariners, pilots,\nsailors, interpreters, artificers, officers, and soldiers, as he thought\nfitting, and therewithal made provision of so much victuals of all sorts,\nartillery, munition of divers kinds, clothes, moneys, and other such\nluggage, stuff, baggage, chaffer, and furniture, as he deemed needful for\ncarrying on the design of a so tedious, long, and perilous voyage.  Amongst\nother things, it was observed how he caused some of his vessels to be\nfraught and loaded with a great quantity of an herb of his called\nPantagruelion, not only of the green and raw sort of it, but of the\nconfected also, and of that which was notably well befitted for present use\nafter the fashion of conserves.  The herb Pantagruelion hath a little root\nsomewhat hard and rough, roundish, terminating in an obtuse and very blunt\npoint, and having some of its veins, strings, or filaments coloured with\nsome spots of white, never fixeth itself into the ground above the\nprofoundness almost of a cubit, or foot and a half.  From the root thereof\nproceedeth the only stalk, orbicular, cane-like, green without, whitish\nwithin, and hollow like the stem of smyrnium, olus atrum, beans, and\ngentian, full of long threads, straight, easy to be broken, jagged,\nsnipped, nicked, and notched a little after the manner of pillars and\ncolumns, slightly furrowed, chamfered, guttered, and channelled, and full\nof fibres, or hairs like strings, in which consisteth the chief value and\ndignity of the herb, especially in that part thereof which is termed mesa,\nas he would say the mean, and in that other, which hath got the\ndenomination of milasea.  Its height is commonly of five or six foot.  Yet\nsometimes it is of such a tall growth as doth surpass the length of a\nlance, but that is only when it meeteth with a sweet, easy, warm, wet, and\nwell-soaked soil--as is the ground of the territory of Olone, and that of\nRasea, near to Preneste in Sabinia--and that it want not for rain enough\nabout the season of the fishers' holidays and the estival solstice.  There\nare many trees whose height is by it very far exceeded, and you might call\nit dendromalache by the authority of Theophrastus.  The plant every year\nperisheth,--the tree neither in the trunk, root, bark, or boughs being\ndurable.\n\nFrom the stalk of this Pantagruelian plant there issue forth several large\nand great branches, whose leaves have thrice as much length as breadth,\nalways green, roughish, and rugged like the orcanet, or Spanish bugloss,\nhardish, slit round about like unto a sickle, or as the saxifragum, betony,\nand finally ending as it were in the points of a Macedonian spear, or of\nsuch a lancet as surgeons commonly make use of in their phlebotomizing\ntiltings.  The figure and shape of the leaves thereof is not much different\nfrom that of those of the ash-tree, or of agrimony; the herb itself being\nso like the Eupatorian plant that many skilful herbalists have called it\nthe Domestic Eupator, and the Eupator the Wild Pantagruelion.  These leaves\nare in equal and parallel distances spread around the stalk by the number\nin every rank either of five or seven, nature having so highly favoured and\ncherished this plant that she hath richly adorned it with these two odd,\ndivine, and mysterious numbers.  The smell thereof is somewhat strong, and\nnot very pleasing to nice, tender, and delicate noses.  The seed enclosed\ntherein mounteth up to the very top of its stalk, and a little above it.\n\nThis is a numerous herb; for there is no less abundance of it than of any\nother whatsoever.  Some of these plants are spherical, some rhomboid, and\nsome of an oblong shape, and all of those either black, bright-coloured, or\ntawny, rude to the touch, and mantled with a quickly-blasted-away coat, yet\nsuch a one as is of a delicious taste and savour to all shrill and\nsweetly-singing birds, such as linnets, goldfinches, larks, canary birds,\nyellow-hammers, and others of that airy chirping choir; but it would quite\nextinguish the natural heat and procreative virtue of the semence of any\nman who would eat much and often of it.  And although that of old amongst\nthe Greeks there was certain kinds of fritters and pancakes, buns and\ntarts, made thereof, which commonly for a liquorish daintiness were\npresented on the table after supper to delight the palate and make the wine\nrelish the better; yet is it of a difficult concoction, and offensive to\nthe stomach.  For it engendereth bad and unwholesome blood, and with its\nexorbitant heat woundeth them with grievous, hurtful, smart, and noisome\nvapours.  And, as in divers plants and trees there are two sexes, male and\nfemale, which is perceptible in laurels, palms, cypresses, oaks, holms, the\ndaffodil, mandrake, fern, the agaric, mushroom, birthwort, turpentine,\npennyroyal, peony, rose of the mount, and many other such like, even so in\nthis herb there is a male which beareth no flower at all, yet it is very\ncopious of and abundant in seed.  There is likewise in it a female, which\nhath great store and plenty of whitish flowers, serviceable to little or no\npurpose, nor doth it carry in it seed of any worth at all, at least\ncomparable to that of the male.  It hath also a larger leaf, and much\nsofter than that of the male, nor doth it altogether grow to so great a\nheight.  This Pantagruelion is to be sown at the first coming of the\nswallows, and is to be plucked out of the ground when the grasshoppers\nbegin to be a little hoarse.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the famous Pantagruelion ought to be prepared and wrought.\n\nThe herb Pantagruelion, in September, under the autumnal equinox, is\ndressed and prepared several ways, according to the various fancies of the\npeople and diversity of the climates wherein it groweth.  The first\ninstruction which Pantagruel gave concerning it was to divest and despoil\nthe stalk and stem thereof of all its flowers and seeds, to macerate and\nmortify it in pond, pool, or lake water, which is to be made run a little\nfor five days together (Properly--'lake water, which is to be made\nstagnant, not current, for five days together.'--M.) if the season be dry\nand the water hot, or for full nine or twelve days if the weather be\ncloudish and the water cold.  Then must it be parched before the sun till\nit be drained of its moisture.  After this it is in the shadow, where the\nsun shines not, to be peeled and its rind pulled off.  Then are the fibres\nand strings thereof to be parted, wherein, as we have already said,\nconsisteth its prime virtue, price, and efficacy, and severed from the\nwoody part thereof, which is unprofitable, and serveth hardly to any other\nuse than to make a clear and glistering blaze, to kindle the fire, and for\nthe play, pastime, and disport of little children, to blow up hogs'\nbladders and make them rattle.  Many times some use is made thereof by\ntippling sweet-lipped bibbers, who out of it frame quills and pipes,\nthrough which they with their liquor-attractive breath suck up the new\ndainty wine from the bung of the barrel.  Some modern Pantagruelists, to\nshun and avoid that manual labour which such a separating and partitional\nwork would of necessity require, employ certain cataractic instruments,\ncomposed and formed after the same manner that the froward, pettish, and\nangry Juno did hold the fingers of both her hands interwovenly clenched\ntogether when she would have hindered the childbirth delivery of Alcmena at\nthe nativity of Hercules; and athwart those cataracts they break and bruise\nto very trash the woody parcels, thereby to preserve the better the fibres,\nwhich are the precious and excellent parts.  In and with this sole\noperation do these acquiesce and are contented, who, contrary to the\nreceived opinion of the whole earth, and in a manner paradoxical to all\nphilosophers, gain their livelihoods backwards, and by recoiling.  But\nthose that love to hold it at a higher rate, and prize it according to its\nvalue, for their own greater profit do the very same which is told us of\nthe recreation of the three fatal sister Parcae, or of the nocturnal\nexercise of the noble Circe, or yet of the excuse which Penelope made to\nher fond wooing youngsters and effeminate courtiers during the long absence\nof her husband Ulysses.\n\nBy these means is this herb put into a way to display its inestimable\nvirtues, whereof I will discover a part; for to relate all is a thing\nimpossible to do.  I have already interpreted and exposed before you the\ndenomination thereof.  I find that plants have their names given and\nbestowed upon them after several ways.  Some got the name of him who first\nfound them out, knew them, sowed them, improved them by culture, qualified\nthem to tractability, and appropriated them to the uses and subserviences\nthey were fit for, as the Mercuriale from Mercury; Panacea from Panace, the\ndaughter of Aesculapius; Armois from Artemis, who is Diana; Eupatoria from\nthe king Eupator; Telephion from Telephus; Euphorbium from Euphorbus, King\nJuba's physician; Clymenos from Clymenus; Alcibiadium from Alcibiades;\nGentiane from Gentius, King of Sclavonia, and so forth, through a great\nmany other herbs or plants.  Truly, in ancient times this prerogative of\nimposing the inventor's name upon an herb found out by him was held in a so\ngreat account and estimation, that, as a controversy arose betwixt Neptune\nand Pallas from which of them two that land should receive its denomination\nwhich had been equally found out by them both together--though thereafter\nit was called and had the appellation of Athens, from Athene, which is\nMinerva--just so would Lynceus, King of Scythia, have treacherously slain\nthe young Triptolemus, whom Ceres had sent to show unto mankind the\ninvention of corn, which until then had been utterly unknown, to the end\nthat, after the murder of the messenger, whose death he made account to\nhave kept secret, he might, by imposing, with the less suspicion of false\ndealing, his own name upon the said found out seed, acquire unto himself an\nimmortal honour and glory for having been the inventor of a grain so\nprofitable and necessary to and for the use of human life.  For the\nwickedness of which treasonable attempt he was by Ceres transformed into\nthat wild beast which by some is called a lynx and by others an ounce.\nSuch also was the ambition of others upon the like occasion, as appeareth\nby that very sharp wars and of a long continuance have been made of old\nbetwixt some residentiary kings in Cappadocia upon this only debate, of\nwhose name a certain herb should have the appellation; by reason of which\ndifference, so troublesome and expensive to them all, it was by them called\nPolemonion, and by us for the same cause termed Make-bate.\n\nOther herbs and plants there are which retain the names of the countries\nfrom whence they were transported, as the Median apples from Media, where\nthey first grew; Punic apples from Punicia, that is to say, Carthage;\nLigusticum, which we call lovage, from Liguria, the coast of Genoa; Rhubarb\nfrom a flood in Barbary, as Ammianus attesteth, called Ru; Santonica from a\nregion of that name; Fenugreek from Greece; Gastanes from a country so\ncalled; Persicaria from Persia; Sabine from a territory of that\nappellation; Staechas from the Staechad Islands; Spica Celtica from the\nland of the Celtic Gauls, and so throughout a great many other, which were\ntedious to enumerate.  Some others, again, have obtained their\ndenominations by way of antiphrasis, or contrariety; as Absinth, because it\nis contrary to Psinthos, for it is bitter to the taste in drinking;\nHolosteon, as if it were all bones, whilst, on the contrary, there is no\nfrailer, tenderer, nor brittler herb in the whole production of nature than\nit.\n\nThere are some other sorts of herbs which have got their names from their\nvirtues and operations, as Aristolochia, because it helpeth women in\nchildbirth; Lichen, for that it cureth the disease of that name; Mallow,\nbecause it mollifieth; Callithricum, because it maketh the hair of a bright\ncolour; Alyssum, Ephemerum, Bechium, Nasturtium, Aneban (Henbane), and so\nforth through many more.\n\nOther some there are which have obtained their names from the admirable\nqualities that are found to be in them, as Heliotropium, which is the\nmarigold, because it followeth the sun, so that at the sun rising it\ndisplayeth and spreads itself out, at his ascending it mounteth, at his\ndeclining it waneth, and when he is set it is close shut; Adianton,\nbecause, although it grow near unto watery places, and albeit you should\nlet it lie in water a long time, it will nevertheless retain no moisture\nnor humidity; Hierachia, Eringium, and so throughout a great many more.\nThere are also a great many herbs and plants which have retained the very\nsame names of the men and women who have been metamorphosed and transformed\nin them, as from Daphne the laurel is called also Daphne; Myrrh from\nMyrrha, the daughter of Cinarus; Pythis from Pythis; Cinara, which is the\nartichoke, from one of that name; Narcissus, with Saffron, Smilax, and\ndivers others.\n\nMany herbs likewise have got their names of those things which they seem to\nhave some resemblance to; as Hippuris, because it hath the likeness of a\nhorse's tail; Alopecuris, because it representeth in similitude the tail of\na fox; Psyllion, from a flea which it resembleth; Delphinium, for that it\nis like a dolphin fish; Bugloss is so called because it is an herb like an\nox's tongue; Iris, so called because in its flowers it hath some\nresemblance of the rainbow; Myosota, because it is like the ear of a mouse;\nCoronopus, for that it is of the likeness of a crow's foot.  A great many\nother such there are, which here to recite were needless.  Furthermore, as\nthere are herbs and plants which have had their names from those of men, so\nby a reciprocal denomination have the surnames of many families taken their\norigin from them, as the Fabii, a fabis, beans; the Pisons, a pisis, peas;\nthe Lentuli from lentils; the Cicerons; a ciceribus, vel ciceris, a sort of\npulse called chickpease, and so forth.  In some plants and herbs the\nresemblance or likeness hath been taken from a higher mark or object, as\nwhen we say Venus' navel, Venus' hair, Venus' tub, Jupiter's beard,\nJupiter's eye, Mars' blood, the Hermodactyl or Mercury's fingers, which are\nall of them names of herbs, as there are a great many more of the like\nappellation.  Others, again, have received their denomination from their\nforms, such as the Trefoil, because it is three-leaved; Pentaphylon, for\nhaving five leaves; Serpolet, because it creepeth along the ground;\nHelxine, Petast, Myrobalon, which the Arabians called Been, as if you would\nsay an acorn, for it hath a kind of resemblance thereto, and withal is very\noily.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhy it is called Pantagruelion, and of the admirable virtues thereof.\n\nBy such-like means of attaining to a denomination--the fabulous ways being\nonly from thence excepted, for the Lord forbid that we should make use of\nany fables in this a so veritable history--is this herb called\nPantagruelion, for Pantagruel was the inventor thereof.  I do not say of\nthe plant itself, but of a certain use which it serves for, exceeding\nodious and hateful to thieves and robbers, unto whom it is more contrarious\nand hurtful than the strangle-weed and chokefitch is to the flax, the\ncats-tail to the brakes, the sheave-grass to the mowers of hay, the fitches\nto the chickney-pease, the darnel to barley, the hatchet-fitch to the lentil\npulse, the antramium to the beans, tares to wheat, ivy to walls, the\nwater-lily to lecherous monks, the birchen rod to the scholars of the\ncollege of Navarre in Paris, colewort to the vine-tree, garlic to the\nloadstone, onions to the sight, fern-seed to women with child, willow-grain\nto vicious nuns, the yew-tree shade to those that sleep under it, wolfsbane\nto wolves and libbards, the smell of fig-tree to mad bulls, hemlock to\ngoslings, purslane to the teeth, or oil to trees.  For we have seen many of\nthose rogues, by virtue and right application of this herb, finish their\nlives short and long, after the manner of Phyllis, Queen of Thracia, of\nBonosus, Emperor of Rome, of Amata, King Latinus's wife, of Iphis,\nAutolycus, Lycambe, Arachne, Phaedra, Leda, Achius, King of Lydia, and many\nthousands more, who were chiefly angry and vexed at this disaster therein,\nthat, without being otherwise sick or evil-disposed in their bodies, by a\ntouch only of the Pantagruelion they came on a sudden to have the passage\nobstructed, and their pipes, through which were wont to bolt so many jolly\nsayings and to enter so many luscious morsels, stopped, more cleverly than\never could have done the squinancy.\n\nOthers have been heard most woefully to lament, at the very instant when\nAtropos was about to cut the thread of their life, that Pantagruel held\nthem by the gorge.  But, well-a-day, it was not Pantagruel; he never was an\nexecutioner.  It was the Pantagruelion, manufactured and fashioned into an\nhalter; and serving in the place and office of a cravat.  In that, verily,\nthey solecized and spoke improperly, unless you would excuse them by a\ntrope, which alloweth us to posit the inventor in the place of the thing\ninvented, as when Ceres is taken for bread, and Bacchus put instead of\nwine.  I swear to you here, by the good and frolic words which are to issue\nout of that wine-bottle which is a-cooling below in the copper vessel full\nof fountain water, that the noble Pantagruel never snatched any man by the\nthroat, unless it was such a one as was altogether careless and neglective\nof those obviating remedies which were preventive of the thirst to come.\n\nIt is also termed Pantagruelion by a similitude.  For Pantagruel, at the\nvery first minute of his birth, was no less tall than this herb is long\nwhereof I speak unto you, his measure having been then taken the more easy\nthat he was born in the season of the great drought, when they were busiest\nin the gathering of the said herb, to wit, at that time when Icarus's dog,\nwith his fiery bawling and barking at the sun, maketh the whole world\nTroglodytic, and enforceth people everywhere to hide themselves in dens and\nsubterranean caves.  It is likewise called Pantagruelion because of the\nnotable and singular qualities, virtues, and properties thereof.  For as\nPantagruel hath been the idea, pattern, prototype, and exemplary of all\njovial perfection and accomplishment--in the truth whereof I believe there\nis none of you gentlemen drinkers that putteth any question--so in this\nPantagruelion have I found so much efficacy and energy, so much\ncompleteness and excellency, so much exquisiteness and rarity, and so many\nadmirable effects and operations of a transcendent nature, that if the\nworth and virtue thereof had been known when those trees, by the relation\nof the prophet, made election of a wooden king to rule and govern over\nthem, it without all doubt would have carried away from all the rest the\nplurality of votes and suffrages.\n\nShall I yet say more?  If Oxylus, the son of Orius, had begotten this plant\nupon his sister Hamadryas, he had taken more delight in the value and\nperfection of it alone than in all his eight children, so highly renowned\nby our ablest mythologians that they have sedulously recommended their\nnames to the never-failing tuition of an eternal remembrance.  The eldest\nchild was a daughter, whose name was Vine; the next born was a boy, and his\nname was Fig-tree; the third was called Walnut-tree; the fourth Oak; the\nfifth Sorbapple-tree; the sixth Ash; the seventh Poplar, and the last had\nthe name of Elm, who was the greatest surgeon in his time.  I shall forbear\nto tell you how the juice or sap thereof, being poured and distilled within\nthe ears, killeth every kind of vermin that by any manner of putrefaction\ncometh to be bred and engendered there, and destroyeth also any whatsoever\nother animal that shall have entered in thereat.  If, likewise, you put a\nlittle of the said juice within a pail or bucket full of water, you shall\nsee the water instantly turn and grow thick therewith as if it were\nmilk-curds, whereof the virtue is so great that the water thus curded is a\npresent remedy for horses subject to the colic, and such as strike at their\nown flanks.  The root thereof well boiled mollifieth the joints, softeneth\nthe hardness of shrunk-in sinews, is every way comfortable to the nerves,\nand good against all cramps and convulsions, as likewise all cold and\nknotty gouts.  If you would speedily heal a burning, whether occasioned by\nwater or fire, apply thereto a little raw Pantagruelion, that is to say,\ntake it so as it cometh out of the ground, without bestowing any other\npreparation or composition upon it; but have a special care to change it\nfor some fresher in lieu thereof as soon as you shall find it waxing dry\nupon the sore.\n\nWithout this herb kitchens would be detested, the tables of dining-rooms\nabhorred, although there were great plenty and variety of most dainty and\nsumptuous dishes of meat set down upon them, and the choicest beds also,\nhow richly soever adorned with gold, silver, amber, ivory, porphyry, and\nthe mixture of most precious metals, would without it yield no delight or\npleasure to the reposers in them.  Without it millers could neither carry\nwheat, nor any other kind of corn to the mill, nor would they be able to\nbring back from thence flour, or any other sort of meal whatsoever.\nWithout it, how could the papers and writs of lawyers' clients be brought\nto the bar?  Seldom is the mortar, lime, or plaster brought to the\nworkhouse without it.  Without it, how should the water be got out of a\ndraw-well?  In what case would tabellions, notaries, copists, makers of\ncounterpanes, writers, clerks, secretaries, scriveners, and such-like\npersons be without it?  Were it not for it, what would become of the\ntoll-rates and rent-rolls?  Would not the noble art of printing perish\nwithout it?  Whereof could the chassis or paper-windows be made?  How should\nthe bells be rung?  The altars of Isis are adorned therewith, the\nPastophorian priests are therewith clad and accoutred, and whole human\nnature covered and wrapped therein at its first position and production in\nand into this world.  All the lanific trees of Seres, the bumbast and cotton\nbushes in the territories near the Persian Sea and Gulf of Bengala, the\nArabian swans, together with the plants of Malta, do not all the them\nclothe, attire, and apparel so many persons as this one herb alone.\nSoldiers are nowadays much better sheltered under it than they were in\nformer times, when they lay in tents covered with skins.  It overshadows the\ntheatres and amphitheatres from the heat of a scorching sun.  It begirdeth\nand encompasseth forests, chases, parks, copses, and groves, for the\npleasure of hunters.  It descendeth into the salt and fresh of both sea and\nriver-waters for the profit of fishers.  By it are boots of all sizes,\nbuskins, gamashes, brodkins, gambadoes, shoes, pumps, slippers, and every\ncobbled ware wrought and made steadable for the use of man.  By it the butt\nand rover-bows are strung, the crossbows bended, and the slings made fixed.\nAnd, as if it were an herb every whit as holy as the vervain, and reverenced\nby ghosts, spirits, hobgoblins, fiends, and phantoms, the bodies of deceased\nmen are never buried without it.\n\nI will proceed yet further.  By the means of this fine herb the invisible\nsubstances are visibly stopped, arrested, taken, detained, and\nprisoner-like committed to their receptive gaols.  Heavy and ponderous\nweights are by it heaved, lifted up, turned, veered, drawn, carried, and\nevery way moved quickly, nimbly, and easily, to the great profit and\nemolument of humankind.  When I perpend with myself these and such-like\nmarvellous effects of this wonderful herb, it seemeth strange unto me how\nthe invention of so useful a practice did escape through so many by-past\nages the knowledge of the ancient philosophers, considering the inestimable\nutility which from thence proceeded, and the immense labour which without it\nthey did undergo in their pristine elucubrations.  By virtue thereof,\nthrough the retention of some aerial gusts, are the huge rambarges, mighty\ngalleons, the large floats, the Chiliander, the Myriander ships launched\nfrom their stations and set a-going at the pleasure and arbitrament of their\nrulers, conders, and steersmen.  By the help thereof those remote nations\nwhom nature seemed so unwilling to have discovered to us, and so desirous to\nhave kept them still in abscondito and hidden from us, that the ways through\nwhich their countries were to be reached unto were not only totally unknown,\nbut judged also to be altogether impermeable and inaccessible, are now\narrived to us, and we to them.\n\nThose voyages outreached flights of birds and far surpassed the scope of\nfeathered fowls, how swift soever they had been on the wing, and\nnotwithstanding that advantage which they have of us in swimming through\nthe air.  Taproban hath seen the heaths of Lapland, and both the Javas and\nRiphaean mountains; wide distant Phebol shall see Theleme, and the\nIslanders drink of the flood Euphrates.  By it the chill-mouthed Boreas\nhath surveyed the parched mansions of the torrid Auster, and Eurus visited\nthe regions which Zephyrus hath under his command; yea, in such sort have\ninterviews been made by the assistance of this sacred herb, that, maugre\nlongitudes and latitudes, and all the variations of the zones, the\nPeriaecian people, and Antoecian, Amphiscian, Heteroscian, and Periscian\nhad oft rendered and received mutual visits to and from other, upon all the\nclimates.  These strange exploits bred such astonishment to the celestial\nintelligences, to all the marine and terrestrial gods, that they were on a\nsudden all afraid.  From which amazement, when they saw how, by means of\nthis blest Pantagruelion, the Arctic people looked upon the Antarctic,\nscoured the Atlantic Ocean, passed the tropics, pushed through the torrid\nzone, measured all the zodiac, sported under the equinoctial, having both\npoles level with their horizon, they judged it high time to call a council\nfor their own safety and preservation.\n\nThe Olympic gods, being all and each of them affrighted at the sight of\nsuch achievements, said:  Pantagruel hath shapen work enough for us, and\nput us more to a plunge and nearer our wits' end by this sole herb of his\nthan did of old the Aloidae by overturning mountains.  He very speedily is\nto be married, and shall have many children by his wife.  It lies not in\nour power to oppose this destiny; for it hath passed through the hands and\nspindles of the Fatal Sisters, necessity's inexorable daughters.  Who knows\nbut by his sons may be found out an herb of such another virtue and\nprodigious energy, as that by the aid thereof, in using it aright according\nto their father's skill, they may contrive a way for humankind to pierce\ninto the high aerian clouds, get up unto the springhead of the hail, take\nan inspection of the snowy sources, and shut and open as they please the\nsluices from whence proceed the floodgates of the rain; then, prosecuting\ntheir aethereal voyage, they may step in unto the lightning workhouse and\nshop, where all the thunderbolts are forged, where, seizing on the magazine\nof heaven and storehouse of our warlike fire-munition, they may discharge a\nbouncing peal or two of thundering ordnance for joy of their arrival to\nthese new supernal places, and, charging those tonitrual guns afresh, turn\nthe whole force of that artillery against ourselves wherein we most\nconfided.  Then is it like they will set forward to invade the territories\nof the Moon, whence, passing through both Mercury and Venus, the Sun will\nserve them for a torch, to show the way from Mars to Jupiter and Saturn.\nWe shall not then be able to resist the impetuosity of their intrusion, nor\nput a stoppage to their entering in at all, whatever regions, domiciles, or\nmansions of the spangled firmament they shall have any mind to see, to stay\nin, to travel through for their recreation.  All the celestial signs\ntogether, with the constellations of the fixed stars, will jointly be at\ntheir devotion then.  Some will take up their lodging at the Ram, some at\nthe Bull, and others at the Twins; some at the Crab, some at the Lion Inn,\nand others at the sign of the Virgin; some at the Balance, others at the\nScorpion, and others will be quartered at the Archer; some will be\nharboured at the Goat, some at the Water-pourer's sign, some at the Fishes;\nsome will lie at the Crown, some at the Harp, some at the Golden Eagle and\nthe Dolphin; some at the Flying Horse, some at the Ship, some at the great,\nsome at the little Bear; and so throughout the glistening hostelries of the\nwhole twinkling asteristic welkin.  There will be sojourners come from the\nearth, who, longing after the taste of the sweet cream, of their own\nskimming off, from the best milk of all the dairy of the Galaxy, will set\nthemselves at table down with us, drink of our nectar and ambrosia, and\ntake to their own beds at night for wives and concubines our fairest\ngoddesses, the only means whereby they can be deified.  A junto hereupon\nbeing convocated, the better to consult upon the manner of obviating a so\ndreadful danger, Jove, sitting in his presidential throne, asked the votes\nof all the other gods, which, after a profound deliberation amongst\nthemselves on all contingencies, they freely gave at last, and then\nresolved unanimously to withstand the shocks of all whatsoever sublunary\nassaults.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow a certain kind of Pantagruelion is of that nature that the fire is not\nable to consume it.\n\nI have already related to you great and admirable things; but, if you might\nbe induced to adventure upon the hazard of believing some other divinity of\nthis sacred Pantagruelion, I very willingly would tell it you.  Believe it,\nif you will, or otherwise, believe it not, I care not which of them you do,\nthey are both alike to me.  It shall be sufficient for my purpose to have\ntold you the truth, and the truth I will tell you.  But to enter in\nthereat, because it is of a knaggy, difficult, and rugged access, this is\nthe question which I ask of you.  If I had put within this bottle two\npints, the one of wine and the other of water, thoroughly and exactly\nmingled together, how would you unmix them?  After what manner would you go\nabout to sever them, and separate the one liquor from the other, in such\nsort that you render me the water apart, free from the wine, and the wine\nalso pure, without the intermixture of one drop of water, and both of them\nin the same measure, quantity, and taste that I had embottled them?  Or, to\nstate the question otherwise.  If your carmen and mariners, entrusted for\nthe provision of your houses with the bringing of a certain considerable\nnumber of tuns, puncheons, pipes, barrels, and hogsheads of Graves wine, or\nof the wine of Orleans, Beaune, and Mireveaux, should drink out the half,\nand afterwards with water fill up the other empty halves of the vessels as\nfull as before, as the Limosins use to do in their carriages by wains and\ncarts of the wines of Argenton and Sangaultier; after that, how would you\npart the water from the wine, and purify them both in such a case?  I\nunderstand you well enough.  Your meaning is, that I must do it with an ivy\nfunnel.  That is written, it is true, and the verity thereof explored by a\nthousand experiments; you have learned to do this feat before, I see it.\nBut those that have never known it, nor at any time have seen the like,\nwould hardly believe that it were possible.  Let us nevertheless proceed.\n\nBut put the case, we were now living in the age of Sylla, Marius, Caesar,\nand other such Roman emperors, or that we were in the time of our ancient\nDruids, whose custom was to burn and calcine the dead bodies of their\nparents and lords, and that you had a mind to drink the ashes or cinders of\nyour wives or fathers in the infused liquor of some good white-wine, as\nArtemisia drunk the dust and ashes of her husband Mausolus; or otherwise,\nthat you did determine to have them reserved in some fine urn or reliquary\npot; how would you save the ashes apart, and separate them from those other\ncinders and ashes into which the fuel of the funeral and bustuary fire hath\nbeen converted?  Answer, if you can.  By my figgins, I believe it will\ntrouble you so to do.\n\nWell, I will despatch, and tell you that, if you take of this celestial\nPantagruelion so much as is needful to cover the body of the defunct, and\nafter that you shall have enwrapped and bound therein as hard and closely\nas you can the corpse of the said deceased persons, and sewed up the\nfolding-sheet with thread of the same stuff, throw it into the fire, how\ngreat or ardent soever it be it matters not a straw, the fire through this\nPantagruelion will burn the body and reduce to ashes the bones thereof, and\nthe Pantagruelion shall be not only not consumed nor burnt, but also shall\nneither lose one atom of the ashes enclosed within it, nor receive one atom\nof the huge bustuary heap of ashes resulting from the blazing conflagration\nof things combustible laid round about it, but shall at last, when taken\nout of the fire, be fairer, whiter, and much cleaner than when you did put\nit in at first.  Therefore it is called Asbeston, which is as much to say\nas incombustible.  Great plenty is to be found thereof in Carpasia, as\nlikewise in the climate Dia Sienes, at very easy rates.  O how rare and\nadmirable a thing it is, that the fire which devoureth, consumeth, and\ndestroyeth all such things else, should cleanse, purge, and whiten this\nsole Pantagruelion Carpasian Asbeston!  If you mistrust the verity of this\nrelation, and demand for further confirmation of my assertion a visible\nsign, as the Jews and such incredulous infidels use to do, take a fresh\negg, and orbicularly, or rather ovally, enfold it within this divine\nPantagruelion.  When it is so wrapped up, put it in the hot embers of a\nfire, how great or ardent soever it be, and having left it there as long as\nyou will, you shall at last, at your taking it out of the fire, find the\negg roasted hard, and as it were burnt, without any alteration, change,\nmutation, or so much as a calefaction of the sacred Pantagruelion.  For\nless than a million of pounds sterling, modified, taken down, and\namoderated to the twelfth part of one fourpence halfpenny farthing, you are\nable to put it to a trial and make proof thereof.\n\nDo not think to overmatch me here, by paragoning with it in the way of a\nmore eminent comparison the Salamander.  That is a fib; for, albeit a\nlittle ordinary fire, such as is used in dining-rooms and chambers,\ngladden, cheer up, exhilarate, and quicken it, yet may I warrantably enough\nassure that in the flaming fire of a furnace it will, like any other\nanimated creature, be quickly suffocated, choked, consumed, and destroyed.\nWe have seen the experiment thereof, and Galen many ages ago hath clearly\ndemonstrated and confirmed it, Lib. 3, De temperamentis, and Dioscorides\nmaintaineth the same doctrine, Lib. 2.  Do not here instance in competition\nwith this sacred herb the feather alum or the wooden tower of Pyraeus,\nwhich Lucius Sylla was never able to get burnt; for that Archelaus,\ngovernor of the town for Mithridates, King of Pontus, had plastered it all\nover on the outside with the said alum.  Nor would I have you to compare\ntherewith the herb which Alexander Cornelius called Eonem, and said that it\nhad some resemblance with that oak which bears the mistletoe, and that it\ncould neither be consumed nor receive any manner of prejudice by fire nor\nby water, no more than the mistletoe, of which was built, said he, the so\nrenowned ship Argos.  Search where you please for those that will believe\nit.  I in that point desire to be excused.  Neither would I wish you to\nparallel therewith--although I cannot deny but that it is of a very\nmarvellous nature--that sort of tree which groweth alongst the mountains of\nBrianson and Ambrun, which produceth out of his root the good agaric.  From\nits body it yieldeth unto us a so excellent rosin, that Galen hath been\nbold to equal it to the turpentine.  Upon the delicate leaves thereof it\nretaineth for our use that sweet heavenly honey which is called the manna,\nand, although it be of a gummy, oily, fat, and greasy substance, it is,\nnotwithstanding, unconsumable by any fire.  It is in Greek and Latin called\nLarix.  The Alpinese name is Melze.  The Antenorides and Venetians term it\nLarege; which gave occasion to that castle in Piedmont to receive the\ndenomination of Larignum, by putting Julius Caesar to a stand at his return\nfrom amongst the Gauls.\n\nJulius Caesar commanded all the yeomen, boors, hinds, and other inhabitants\nin, near unto, and about the Alps and Piedmont, to bring all manner of\nvictuals and provision for an army to those places which on the military\nroad he had appointed to receive them for the use of his marching soldiery.\nTo which ordinance all of them were obedient, save only those as were\nwithin the garrison of Larignum, who, trusting in the natural strength of\nthe place, would not pay their contribution.  The emperor, purposing to\nchastise them for their refusal, caused his whole army to march straight\ntowards that castle, before the gate whereof was erected a tower built of\nhuge big spars and rafters of the larch-tree, fast bound together with pins\nand pegs of the same wood, and interchangeably laid on one another, after\nthe fashion of a pile or stack of timber, set up in the fabric thereof to\nsuch an apt and convenient height that from the parapet above the\nportcullis they thought with stones and levers to beat off and drive away\nsuch as should approach thereto.\n\nWhen Caesar had understood that the chief defence of those within the\ncastle did consist in stones and clubs, and that it was not an easy matter\nto sling, hurl, dart, throw, or cast them so far as to hinder the\napproaches, he forthwith commanded his men to throw great store of bavins,\nfaggots, and fascines round about the castle, and when they had made the\nheap of a competent height, to put them all in a fair fire; which was\nthereupon incontinently done.  The fire put amidst the faggots was so great\nand so high that it covered the whole castle, that they might well imagine\nthe tower would thereby be altogether burnt to dust, and demolished.\nNevertheless, contrary to all their hopes and expectations, when the flame\nceased, and that the faggots were quite burnt and consumed, the tower\nappeared as whole, sound, and entire as ever.  Caesar, after a serious\nconsideration had thereof, commanded a compass to be taken without the\ndistance of a stone cast from the castle round about it there, with ditches\nand entrenchments to form a blockade; which when the Larignans understood,\nthey rendered themselves upon terms.  And then by a relation from them it\nwas that Caesar learned the admirable nature and virtue of this wood, which\nof itself produceth neither fire, flame, nor coal, and would, therefore, in\nregard of that rare quality of incombustibility, have been admitted into\nthis rank and degree of a true Pantagruelional plant; and that so much the\nrather, for that Pantagruel directed that all the gates, doors, angiports,\nwindows, gutters, fretticed and embowed ceilings, cans, (cants?) and other\nwhatsoever wooden furniture in the abbey of Theleme, should be all\nmateriated of this kind of timber.  He likewise caused to cover therewith\nthe sterns, stems, cook-rooms or laps, hatches, decks, courses, bends, and\nwalls of his carricks, ships, galleons, galleys, brigantines, foists,\nfrigates, crears, barques, floats, pinks, pinnaces, hoys, ketches, capers,\nand other vessels of his Thalassian arsenal; were it not that the wood or\ntimber of the larch-tree, being put within a large and ample furnace full\nof huge vehemently flaming fire proceeding from the fuel of other sorts and\nkinds of wood, cometh at last to be corrupted, consumed, dissipated, and\ndestroyed, as are stones in a lime-kiln.  But this Pantagruelion Asbeston\nis rather by the fire renewed and cleansed than by the flames thereof\nconsumed or changed.  Therefore,\n\n  Arabians, Indians, Sabaeans,\n  Sing not, in hymns and Io Paeans,\n  Your incense, myrrh, or ebony.\n  Come here, a nobler plant to see,\n  And carry home, at any rate,\n  Some seed, that you may propagate.\n  If in your soil it takes, to heaven\n  A thousand thousand thanks be given;\n  And say with France, it goodly goes,\n  Where the Pantagruelion grows.\n\nEND OF BOOK III\n\n\nBOOK IV.\n\n\nTHE FOURTH BOOK\n\n\nThe Translator's Preface.\n\nReader,--I don't know what kind of a preface I must write to find thee\ncourteous, an epithet too often bestowed without a cause.  The author of\nthis work has been as sparing of what we call good nature, as most readers\nare nowadays.  So I am afraid his translator and commentator is not to\nexpect much more than has been showed them.  What's worse, there are but\ntwo sorts of taking prefaces, as there are but two kinds of prologues to\nplays; for Mr. Bays was doubtless in the right when he said that if thunder\nand lightning could not fright an audience into complaisance, the sight of\nthe poet with a rope about his neck might work them into pity.  Some,\nindeed, have bullied many of you into applause, and railed at your faults\nthat you might think them without any; and others, more safely, have spoken\nkindly of you, that you might think, or at least speak, as favourably of\nthem, and be flattered into patience.  Now, I fancy, there's nothing less\ndifficult to attempt than the first method; for, in this blessed age, 'tis\nas easy to find a bully without courage, as a whore without beauty, or a\nwriter without wit; though those qualifications are so necessary in their\nrespective professions.  The mischief is, that you seldom allow any to rail\nbesides yourselves, and cannot bear a pride which shocks your own.  As for\nwheedling you into a liking of a work, I must confess it seems the safest\nway; but though flattery pleases you well when it is particular, you hate\nit, as little concerning you, when it is general.  Then we knights of the\nquill are a stiff-necked generation, who as seldom care to seem to doubt\nthe worth of our writings, and their being liked, as we love to flatter\nmore than one at a time; and had rather draw our pens, and stand up for the\nbeauty of our works (as some arrant fools use to do for that of their\nmistresses) to the last drop of our ink.  And truly this submission, which\nsometimes wheedles you into pity, as seldom decoys you into love, as the\nawkward cringing of an antiquated fop, as moneyless as he is ugly, affects\nan experienced fair one.  Now we as little value your pity as a lover his\nmistress's, well satisfied that it is only a less uncivil way of dismissing\nus.  But what if neither of these two ways will work upon you, of which\ndoleful truth some of our playwrights stand so many living monuments?  Why,\nthen, truly I think on no other way at present but blending the two into\none; and, from this marriage of huffing and cringing, there will result a\nnew kind of careless medley, which, perhaps, will work upon both sorts of\nreaders, those who are to be hectored, and those whom we must creep to.  At\nleast, it is like to please by its novelty; and it will not be the first\nmonster that has pleased you when regular nature could not do it.\n\nIf uncommon worth, lively wit, and deep learning, wove into wholesome\nsatire, a bold, good, and vast design admirably pursued, truth set out in\nits true light, and a method how to arrive to its oracle, can recommend a\nwork, I am sure this has enough to please any reasonable man.  The three\nbooks published some time since, which are in a manner an entire work, were\nkindly received; yet, in the French, they come far short of these two,\nwhich are also entire pieces; for the satire is all general here, much more\nobvious, and consequently more entertaining.  Even my long explanatory\npreface was not thought improper.  Though I was so far from being allowed\ntime to make it methodical, that at first only a few pages were intended;\nyet as fast as they were printed I wrote on, till it proved at last like\none of those towns built little at first, then enlarged, where you see\npromiscuously an odd variety of all sorts of irregular buildings.  I hope\nthe remarks I give now will not please less; for, as I have translated the\nwork which they explain, I had more time to make them, though as little to\nwrite them.  It would be needless to give here a large account of my\nperformance; for, after all, you readers care no more for this or that\napology, or pretence of Mr. Translator, if the version does not please you,\nthan we do for a blundering cook's excuse after he has spoiled a good dish\nin the dressing.  Nor can the first pretend to much praise, besides that of\ngiving his author's sense in its full extent, and copying his style, if it\nis to be copied; since he has no share in the invention or disposition of\nwhat he translates.  Yet there was no small difficulty in doing Rabelais\njustice in that double respect; the obsolete words and turns of phrase, and\ndark subjects, often as darkly treated, make the sense hard to be\nunderstood even by a Frenchman, and it cannot be easy to give it the free\neasy air of an original; for even what seems most common talk in one\nlanguage, is what is often the most difficult to be made so in another; and\nHorace's thoughts of comedy may be well applied to this:\n\n  Creditur, ex medio quia res arcessit, habere\n  Sudoris minimum; sed habet commoedia tantum\n  Plus oneris, quanto veniae minus.\n\nFar be it from me, for all this, to value myself upon hitting the words of\ncant in which my drolling author is so luxuriant; for though such words\nhave stood me in good stead, I scarce can forbear thinking myself unhappy\nin having insensibly hoarded up so much gibberish and Billingsgate trash in\nmy memory; nor could I forbear asking of myself, as an Italian cardinal\nsaid on another account, D'onde hai tu pigliato tante coglionerie?  Where\nthe devil didst thou rake up all these fripperies?\n\nIt was not less difficult to come up to the author's sublime expressions.\nNor would I have attempted such a task, but that I was ambitious of giving\na view of the most valuable work of the greatest genius of his age, to the\nMecaenas and best genius of this.  For I am not overfond of so ungrateful a\ntask as translating, and would rejoice to see less versions and more\noriginals; so the latter were not as bad as many of the first are, through\nwant of encouragement.  Some indeed have deservedly gained esteem by\ntranslating; yet not many condescend to translate, but such as cannot\ninvent; though to do the first well requires often as much genius as to do\nthe latter.\n\nI wish, reader, thou mayest be as willing to do my author justice, as I\nhave strove to do him right.  Yet, if thou art a brother of the quill, it\nis ten to one thou art too much in love with thy own dear productions to\nadmire those of one of thy trade.  However, I know three or four who have\nnot such a mighty opinion of themselves; but I'll not name them, lest I\nshould be obliged to place myself among them.  If thou art one of those\nwho, though they never write, criticise everyone that does; avaunt!--Thou\nart a professed enemy of mankind and of thyself, who wilt never be pleased\nnor let anybody be so, and knowest no better way to fame than by striving\nto lessen that of others; though wouldst thou write thou mightst be soon\nknown, even by the butterwomen, and fly through the world in bandboxes.  If\nthou art of the dissembling tribe, it is thy office to rail at those books\nwhich thou huggest in a corner.  If thou art one of those eavesdroppers,\nwho would have their moroseness be counted gravity, thou wilt condemn a\nmirth which thou art past relishing; and I know no other way to quit the\nscore than by writing (as like enough I may) something as dull, or duller\nthan thyself, if possible.  If thou art one of those critics in dressing,\nthose extempores of fortune, who, having lost a relation and got an estate,\nin an instant set up for wit and every extravagance, thou'lt either praise\nor discommend this book, according to the dictates of some less foolish\nthan thyself, perhaps of one of those who, being lodged at the sign of the\nbox and dice, will know better things than to recommend to thee a work\nwhich bids thee beware of his tricks.  This book might teach thee to leave\nthy follies; but some will say it does not signify much to some fools\nwhether they are so or not; for when was there a fool that thought himself\none?  If thou art one of those who would put themselves upon us for learned\nmen in Greek and Hebrew, yet are mere blockheads in English, and patch\ntogether old pieces of the ancients to get themselves clothes out of them,\nthou art too severely mauled in this work to like it.  Who then will? some\nwill cry.  Nay, besides these, many societies that make a great figure in\nthe world are reflected on in this book; which caused Rabelais to study to\nbe dark, and even bedaub it with many loose expressions, that he might not\nbe thought to have any other design than to droll; in a manner bewraying\nhis book that his enemies might not bite it.  Truly, though now the riddle\nis expounded, I would advise those who read it not to reflect on the\nauthor, lest he be thought to have been beforehand with them, and they be\nranked among those who have nothing to show for their honesty but their\nmoney, nothing for their religion but their dissembling, or a fat benefice,\nnothing for their wit but their dressing, for their nobility but their\ntitle, for their gentility but their sword, for their courage but their\nhuffing, for their preferment but their assurance, for their learning but\ntheir degrees, or for their gravity but their wrinkles or dulness.  They\nhad better laugh at one another here, as it is the custom of the world.\nLaughing is of all professions; the miser may hoard, the spendthrift\nsquander, the politician plot, the lawyer wrangle, and the gamester cheat;\nstill their main design is to be able to laugh at one another; and here\nthey may do it at a cheap and easy rate.  After all, should this work fail\nto please the greater number of readers, I am sure it cannot miss being\nliked by those who are for witty mirth and a chirping bottle; though not by\nthose solid sots who seem to have drudged all their youth long only that\nthey might enjoy the sweet blessing of getting drunk every night in their\nold age.  But those men of sense and honour who love truth and the good of\nmankind in general above all other things will undoubtedly countenance this\nwork.  I will not gravely insist upon its usefulness, having said enough of\nit in the preface (Motteux' Preface to vol. I of Rabelais, ed. 1694.) to\nthe first part.  I will only add, that as Homer in his Odyssey makes his\nhero wander ten years through most parts of the then known world, so\nRabelais, in a three months' voyage, makes Pantagruel take a view of almost\nall sorts of people and professions; with this difference, however, between\nthe ancient mythologist and the modern, that while the Odyssey has been\ncompared to a setting sun in respect to the Iliads, Rabelais' last work,\nwhich is this Voyage to the Oracle of the Bottle (by which he means truth)\nis justly thought his masterpiece, being wrote with more spirit, salt, and\nflame, than the first part of his works.  At near seventy years of age, his\ngenius, far from being drained, seemed to have acquired fresh vigour and\nnew graces the more it exerted itself; like those rivers which grow more\ndeep, large, majestic, and useful by their course.  Those who accuse the\nFrench of being as sparing of their wit as lavish of their words will find\nan Englishman in our author.  I must confess indeed that my countrymen and\nother southern nations temper the one with the other in a manner as they do\ntheir wine with water, often just dashing the latter with a little of the\nfirst.  Now here men love to drink their wine pure; nay, sometimes it will\nnot satisfy unless in its very quintessence, as in brandies; though an\nexcess of this betrays want of sobriety, as much as an excess of wit\nbetrays a want of judgment.  But I must conclude, lest I be justly taxed\nwith wanting both.  I will only add, that as every language has its\npeculiar graces, seldom or never to be acquired by a foreigner, I cannot\nthink I have given my author those of the English in every place; but as\nnone compelled me to write, I fear to ask a pardon which yet the generous\ntemper of this nation makes me hope to obtain.  Albinus, a Roman, who had\nwritten in Greek, desired in his preface to be forgiven his faults of\nlanguage; but Cato asked him in derision whether any had forced him to\nwrite in a tongue of which he was not an absolute master.  Lucullus wrote a\nhistory in the same tongue, and said he had scattered some false Greek in\nit to let the world know it was the work of a Roman.  I will not say as\nmuch of my writings, in which I study to be as little incorrect as the\nhurry of business and shortness of time will permit; but I may better say,\nas Tully did of the history of his consulship, which he also had written in\nGreek, that what errors may be found in the diction are crept in against my\nintent.  Indeed, Livius Andronicus and Terence, the one a Greek, the other\na Carthaginian, wrote successfully in Latin, and the latter is perhaps the\nmost perfect model of the purity and urbanity of that tongue; but I ought\nnot to hope for the success of those great men.  Yet am I ambitious of\nbeing as subservient to the useful diversion of the ingenious of this\nnation as I can, which I have endeavoured in this work, with hopes to\nattempt some greater tasks if ever I am happy enough to have more leisure.\nIn the meantime it will not displease me, if it is known that this is given\nby one who, though born and educated in France, has the love and veneration\nof a loyal subject for this nation, one who, by a fatality, which with many\nmore made him say,\n\n  Nos patriam fugimus et dulcia linquimus arva,\n\nis obliged to make the language of these happy regions as natural to him as\nhe can, and thankfully say with the rest, under this Protestant government,\n\n  Deus nobis haec otia fecit.\n\n\n\nThe Author's Epistle Dedicatory.\n\nTo the most Illustrious Prince and most Reverend Lord Odet, Cardinal de\nChastillon.\n\nYou know, most illustrious prince, how often I have been, and am daily\npressed and required by great numbers of eminent persons, to proceed in the\nPantagruelian fables; they tell me that many languishing, sick, and\ndisconsolate persons, perusing them, have deceived their grief, passed\ntheir time merrily, and been inspired with new joy and comfort.  I commonly\nanswer that I aimed not at glory and applause when I diverted myself with\nwriting, but only designed to give by my pen, to the absent who labour\nunder affliction, that little help which at all times I willingly strive to\ngive to the present that stand in need of my art and service.  Sometimes I\nat large relate to them how Hippocrates in several places, and particularly\nin lib. 6. Epidem., describing the institution of the physician his\ndisciple, and also Soranus of Ephesus, Oribasius, Galen, Hali Abbas, and\nother authors, have descended to particulars, in the prescription of his\nmotions, deportment, looks, countenance, gracefulness, civility,\ncleanliness of face, clothes, beard, hair, hands, mouth, even his very\nnails; as if he were to play the part of a lover in some comedy, or enter\nthe lists to fight some enemy.  And indeed the practice of physic is\nproperly enough compared by Hippocrates to a fight, and also to a farce\nacted between three persons, the patient, the physician, and the disease.\nWhich passage has sometimes put me in mind of Julia's saying to Augustus\nher father.  One day she came before him in a very gorgeous, loose,\nlascivious dress, which very much displeased him, though he did not much\ndiscover his discontent.  The next day she put on another, and in a modest\ngarb, such as the chaste Roman ladies wore, came into his presence.  The\nkind father could not then forbear expressing the pleasure which he took to\nsee her so much altered, and said to her:  Oh! how much more this garb\nbecomes and is commendable in the daughter of Augustus.  But she, having\nher excuse ready, answered:  This day, sir, I dressed myself to please my\nfather's eye; yesterday, to gratify that of my husband.  Thus disguised in\nlooks and garb, nay even, as formerly was the fashion, with a rich and\npleasant gown with four sleeves, which was called philonium according to\nPetrus Alexandrinus in 6. Epidem., a physician might answer to such as\nmight find the metamorphosis indecent:  Thus have I accoutred myself, not\nthat I am proud of appearing in such a dress, but for the sake of my\npatient, whom alone I wholly design to please, and no wise offend or\ndissatisfy.  There is also a passage in our father Hippocrates, in the book\nI have named, which causes some to sweat, dispute, and labour; not indeed\nto know whether the physician's frowning, discontented, and morose Catonian\nlook render the patient sad, and his joyful, serene, and pleasing\ncountenance rejoice him; for experience teaches us that this is most\ncertain; but whether such sensations of grief or pleasure are produced by\nthe apprehension of the patient observing his motions and qualities in his\nphysician, and drawing from thence conjectures of the end and catastrophe\nof his disease; as, by his pleasing look, joyful and desirable events, and\nby his sorrowful and unpleasing air, sad and dismal consequences; or\nwhether those sensations be produced by a transfusion of the serene or\ngloomy, aerial or terrestrial, joyful or melancholic spirits of the\nphysician into the person of the patient, as is the opinion of Plato,\nAverroes, and others.\n\nAbove all things, the forecited authors have given particular directions to\nphysicians about the words, discourse, and converse which they ought to\nhave with their patients; everyone aiming at one point, that is, to rejoice\nthem without offending God, and in no wise whatsoever to vex or displease\nthem.  Which causes Herophilus much to blame the physician Callianax, who,\nbeing asked by a patient of his, Shall I die? impudently made him this\nanswer:\n\n  Patroclus died, whom all allow\n  By much a better man than you.\n\nAnother, who had a mind to know the state of his distemper, asking him,\nafter our merry Patelin's way:  Well, doctor, does not my water tell you I\nshall die?  He foolishly answered, No; if Latona, the mother of those\nlovely twins, Phoebus and Diana, begot thee.  Galen, lib. 4, Comment. 6.\nEpidem., blames much also Quintus his tutor, who, a certain nobleman of\nRome, his patient, saying to him, You have been at breakfast, my master,\nyour breath smells of wine; answered arrogantly, Yours smells of fever;\nwhich is the better smell of the two, wine or a putrid fever?  But the\ncalumny of certain cannibals, misanthropes, perpetual eavesdroppers, has\nbeen so foul and excessive against me, that it had conquered my patience,\nand I had resolved not to write one jot more.  For the least of their\ndetractions were that my books are all stuffed with various heresies, of\nwhich, nevertheless, they could not show one single instance; much, indeed,\nof comical and facetious fooleries, neither offending God nor the king (and\ntruly I own they are the only subject and only theme of these books), but\nof heresy not a word, unless they interpreted wrong, and against all use of\nreason and common language, what I had rather suffer a thousand deaths, if\nit were possible, than have thought; as who should make bread to be stone,\na fish to be a serpent, and an egg to be a scorpion.  This, my lord,\nemboldened me once to tell you, as I was complaining of it in your\npresence, that if I did not esteem myself a better Christian than they show\nthemselves towards me, and if my life, writings, words, nay thoughts,\nbetrayed to me one single spark of heresy, or I should in a detestable\nmanner fall into the snares of the spirit of detraction, Diabolos, who, by\ntheir means, raises such crimes against me; I would then, like the phoenix,\ngather dry wood, kindle a fire, and burn myself in the midst of it.  You\nwere then pleased to say to me that King Francis, of eternal memory, had\nbeen made sensible of those false accusations; and that having caused my\nbooks (mine, I say, because several, false and infamous, have been wickedly\nlaid to me) to be carefully and distinctly read to him by the most learned\nand faithful anagnost in this kingdom, he had not found any passage\nsuspicious; and that he abhorred a certain envious, ignorant, hypocritical\ninformer, who grounded a mortal heresy on an n put instead of an m by the\ncarelessness of the printers.\n\nAs much was done by his son, our most gracious, virtuous, and blessed\nsovereign, Henry, whom Heaven long preserve! so that he granted you his\nroyal privilege and particular protection for me against my slandering\nadversaries.\n\nYou kindly condescended since to confirm me these happy news at Paris; and\nalso lately, when you visited my Lord Cardinal du Bellay, who, for the\nbenefit of his health, after a lingering distemper, was retired to St.\nMaur, that place (or rather paradise) of salubrity, serenity, conveniency,\nand all desirable country pleasures.\n\nThus, my lord, under so glorious a patronage, I am emboldened once more to\ndraw my pen, undaunted now and secure; with hopes that you will still prove\nto me, against the power of detraction, a second Gallic Hercules in\nlearning, prudence, and eloquence; an Alexicacos in virtue, power, and\nauthority; you, of whom I may truly say what the wise monarch Solomon saith\nof Moses, that great prophet and captain of Israel, Ecclesiast. 45:  A man\nfearing and loving God, who found favour in the sight of all flesh,\nwell-beloved both of God and man; whose memorial is blessed.  God made him\nlike to the glorious saints, and magnified him so, that his enemies stood in\nfear of him; and for him made wonders; made him glorious in the sight of\nkings, gave him a commandment for his people, and by him showed his light;\nhe sanctified him in his faithfulness and meekness, and chose him out of all\nmen.  By him he made us to hear his voice, and caused by him the law of life\nand knowledge to be given.\n\nAccordingly, if I shall be so happy as to hear anyone commend those merry\ncomposures, they shall be adjured by me to be obliged and pay their thanks\nto you alone, as also to offer their prayers to Heaven for the continuance\nand increase of your greatness; and to attribute no more to me than my\nhumble and ready obedience to your commands; for by your most honourable\nencouragement you at once have inspired me with spirit and with invention;\nand without you my heart had failed me, and the fountain-head of my animal\nspirits had been dry.  May the Lord keep you in his blessed mercy!\n\n               My Lord,\n\n  Your most humble, and most devoted Servant,\n\n                   Francis Rabelais, Physician.\n\n  Paris, this 28th of January, MDLII.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nGood people, God save and keep you!  Where are you?  I can't see you:\nstay--I'll saddle my nose with spectacles--oh, oh! 'twill be fair anon:  I\nsee you.  Well, you have had a good vintage, they say:  this is no bad news\nto Frank, you may swear.  You have got an infallible cure against thirst:\nrarely performed of you, my friends!  You, your wives, children, friends,\nand families are in as good case as hearts can wish; it is well, it is as I\nwould have it:  God be praised for it, and if such be his will, may you\nlong be so.  For my part, I am thereabouts, thanks to his blessed goodness;\nand by the means of a little Pantagruelism (which you know is a certain\njollity of mind, pickled in the scorn of fortune), you see me now hale and\ncheery, as sound as a bell, and ready to drink, if you will.  Would you\nknow why I'm thus, good people?  I will even give you a positive answer\n--Such is the Lord's will, which I obey and revere; it being said in his\nword, in great derision to the physician neglectful of his own health,\nPhysician, heal thyself.\n\nGalen had some knowledge of the Bible, and had conversed with the\nChristians of his time, as appears lib. 11. De Usu Partium; lib. 2. De\nDifferentiis Pulsuum, cap. 3, and ibid. lib. 3. cap. 2. and lib. De Rerum\nAffectibus (if it be Galen's).  Yet 'twas not for any such veneration of\nholy writ that he took care of his own health.  No, it was for fear of\nbeing twitted with the saying so well known among physicians:\n\n  Iatros allon autos elkesi bruon.\n\n  He boasts of healing poor and rich,\n  Yet is himself all over itch.\n\nThis made him boldly say, that he did not desire to be esteemed a\nphysician, if from his twenty-eighth year to his old age he had not lived\nin perfect health, except some ephemerous fevers, of which he soon rid\nhimself; yet he was not naturally of the soundest temper, his stomach being\nevidently bad.  Indeed, as he saith, lib. 5, De Sanitate tuenda, that\nphysician will hardly be thought very careful of the health of others who\nneglects his own.  Asclepiades boasted yet more than this; for he said that\nhe had articled with fortune not to be reputed a physician if he could be\nsaid to have been sick since he began to practise physic to his latter age,\nwhich he reached, lusty in all his members and victorious over fortune;\ntill at last the old gentleman unluckily tumbled down from the top of a\ncertain ill-propped and rotten staircase, and so there was an end of him.\n\nIf by some disaster health is fled from your worships to the right or to\nthe left, above or below, before or behind, within or without, far or near,\non this side or the other side, wheresoever it be, may you presently, with\nthe help of the Lord, meet with it.  Having found it, may you immediately\nclaim it, seize it, and secure it.  The law allows it; the king would have\nit so; nay, you have my advice for it.  Neither more nor less than the\nlaw-makers of old did fully empower a master to claim and seize his runaway\nservant wherever he might be found.  Odds-bodikins, is it not written and\nwarranted by the ancient customs of this noble, so rich, so flourishing\nrealm of France, that the dead seizes the quick?  See what has been\ndeclared very lately in that point by that learned, wise, courteous, humane\nand just civilian, Andrew Tiraqueau, one of the judges in the most\nhonourable court of Parliament at Paris.  Health is our life, as Ariphron\nthe Sicyonian wisely has it; without health life is not life, it is not\nliving life: abios bios, bios abiotos.  Without health life is only a\nlanguishment and an image of death.  Therefore, you that want your health,\nthat is to say, that are dead, seize the quick; secure life to yourselves,\nthat is to say, health.\n\nI have this hope in the Lord, that he will hear our supplications,\nconsidering with what faith and zeal we pray, and that he will grant this\nour wish because it is moderate and mean.  Mediocrity was held by the\nancient sages to be golden, that is to say, precious, praised by all men,\nand pleasing in all places.  Read the sacred Bible, you will find the\nprayers of those who asked moderately were never unanswered.  For example,\nlittle dapper Zaccheus, whose body and relics the monks of St. Garlick,\nnear Orleans, boast of having, and nickname him St. Sylvanus; he only\nwished to see our blessed Saviour near Jerusalem.  It was but a small\nrequest, and no more than anybody then might pretend to.  But alas! he was\nbut low-built; and one of so diminutive a size, among the crowd, could not\nso much as get a glimpse of him.  Well then he struts, stands on tiptoes,\nbustles, and bestirs his stumps, shoves and makes way, and with much ado\nclambers up a sycamore.  Upon this, the Lord, who knew his sincere\naffection, presented himself to his sight, and was not only seen by him,\nbut heard also; nay, what is more, he came to his house and blessed his\nfamily.\n\nOne of the sons of the prophets in Israel felling would near the river\nJordan, his hatchet forsook the helve and fell to the bottom of the river;\nso he prayed to have it again ('twas but a small request, mark ye me), and\nhaving a strong faith, he did not throw the hatchet after the helve, as\nsome spirits of contradiction say by way of scandalous blunder, but the\nhelve after the hatchet, as you all properly have it.  Presently two great\nmiracles were seen:  up springs the hatchet from the bottom of the water,\nand fixes itself to its old acquaintance the helve.  Now had he wished to\ncoach it to heaven in a fiery chariot like Elias, to multiply in seed like\nAbraham, be as rich as Job, strong as Samson, and beautiful as Absalom,\nwould he have obtained it, d'ye think?  I' troth, my friends, I question it\nvery much.\n\nNow I talk of moderate wishes in point of hatchet (but harkee me, be sure\nyou don't forget when we ought to drink), I will tell you what is written\namong the apologues of wise Aesop the Frenchman.  I mean the Phrygian and\nTrojan, as Max. Planudes makes him; from which people, according to the\nmost faithful chroniclers, the noble French are descended.  Aelian writes\nthat he was of Thrace and Agathias, after Herodotus, that he was of Samos;\n'tis all one to Frank.\n\nIn his time lived a poor honest country fellow of Gravot, Tom Wellhung by\nname, a wood-cleaver by trade, who in that low drudgery made shift so to\npick up a sorry livelihood.  It happened that he lost his hatchet.  Now\ntell me who ever had more cause to be vexed than poor Tom?  Alas, his whole\nestate and life depended on his hatchet; by his hatchet he earned many a\nfair penny of the best woodmongers or log-merchants among whom he went\na-jobbing; for want of his hatchet he was like to starve; and had death but\nmet with him six days after without a hatchet, the grim fiend would have\nmowed him down in the twinkling of a bedstaff.  In this sad case he began\nto be in a heavy taking, and called upon Jupiter with the most eloquent\nprayers--for you know necessity was the mother of eloquence.  With the\nwhites of his eyes turned up towards heaven, down on his marrow-bones, his\narms reared high, his fingers stretched wide, and his head bare, the poor\nwretch without ceasing was roaring out, by way of litany, at every\nrepetition of his supplications, My hatchet, Lord Jupiter, my hatchet! my\nhatchet! only my hatchet, O Jupiter, or money to buy another, and nothing\nelse! alas, my poor hatchet!\n\nJupiter happened then to be holding a grand council about certain urgent\naffairs, and old gammer Cybele was just giving her opinion, or, if you\nwould rather have it so, it was young Phoebus the beau; but, in short,\nTom's outcries and lamentations were so loud that they were heard with no\nsmall amazement at the council-board, by the whole consistory of the gods.\nWhat a devil have we below, quoth Jupiter, that howls so horridly?  By the\nmud of Styx, have not we had all along, and have not we here still enough\nto do, to set to rights a world of damned puzzling businesses of\nconsequence?  We made an end of the fray between Presthan, King of Persia,\nand Soliman the Turkish emperor, we have stopped up the passages between\nthe Tartars and the Muscovites; answered the Xeriff's petition; done the\nsame to that of Golgots Rays; the state of Parma's despatched; so is that\nof Maidenburg, that of Mirandola, and that of Africa, that town on the\nMediterranean which we call Aphrodisium; Tripoli by carelessness has got a\nnew master; her hour was come.\n\nHere are the Gascons cursing and damning, demanding the restitution of\ntheir bells.\n\nIn yonder corner are the Saxons, Easterlings, Ostrogoths, and Germans,\nnations formerly invincible, but now aberkeids, bridled, curbed, and\nbrought under a paltry diminutive crippled fellow; they ask us revenge,\nrelief, restitution of their former good sense and ancient liberty.\n\nBut what shall we do with this same Ramus and this Galland, with a pox to\nthem, who, surrounded with a swarm of their scullions, blackguard\nragamuffins, sizars, vouchers, and stipulators, set together by the ears\nthe whole university of Paris?  I am in a sad quandary about it, and for\nthe heart's blood of me cannot tell yet with whom of the two to side.\n\nBoth seem to me notable fellows, and as true cods as ever pissed.  The one\nhas rose-nobles, I say fine and weighty ones; the other would gladly have\nsome too.  The one knows something; the other's no dunce.  The one loves\nthe better sort of men; the other's beloved by 'em.  The one is an old\ncunning fox; the other with tongue and pen, tooth and nail, falls foul on\nthe ancient orators and philosophers, and barks at them like a cur.\n\nWhat thinkest thou of it, say, thou bawdy Priapus?  I have found thy\ncounsel just before now, et habet tua mentula mentem.\n\nKing Jupiter, answered Priapus, standing up and taking off his cowl, his\nsnout uncased and reared up, fiery and stiffly propped, since you compare\nthe one to a yelping snarling cur and the other to sly Reynard the fox, my\nadvice is, with submission, that without fretting or puzzling your brains\nany further about 'em, without any more ado, even serve 'em both as, in the\ndays of yore, you did the dog and the fox.  How? asked Jupiter; when? who\nwere they? where was it?  You have a rare memory, for aught I see! returned\nPriapus.  This right worshipful father Bacchus, whom we have here nodding\nwith his crimson phiz, to be revenged on the Thebans had got a fairy fox,\nwho, whatever mischief he did, was never to be caught or wronged by any\nbeast that wore a head.\n\nThe noble Vulcan here present had framed a dog of Monesian brass, and with\nlong puffing and blowing put the spirit of life into him; he gave it to\nyou, you gave it your Miss Europa, Miss Europa gave it Minos, Minos gave it\nProcris, Procris gave it Cephalus.  He was also of the fairy kind; so that,\nlike the lawyers of our age, he was too hard for all other sorts of\ncreatures; nothing could scape the dog.  Now who should happen to meet but\nthese two?  What do you think they did?  Dog by his destiny was to take\nfox, and fox by his fate was not to be taken.\n\nThe case was brought before your council:  you protested that you would not\nact against the fates; and the fates were contradictory.  In short, the end\nand result of the matter was, that to reconcile two contradictions was an\nimpossibility in nature.  The very pang put you into a sweat; some drops of\nwhich happening to light on the earth, produced what the mortals call\ncauliflowers.  All our noble consistory, for want of a categorical\nresolution, were seized with such a horrid thirst, that above seventy-eight\nhogsheads of nectar were swilled down at that sitting.  At last you took my\nadvice, and transmogrified them into stones; and immediately got rid of\nyour perplexity, and a truce with thirst was proclaimed through this vast\nOlympus.  This was the year of flabby cods, near Teumessus, between Thebes\nand Chalcis.\n\nAfter this manner, it is my opinion that you should petrify this dog and\nthis fox.  The metamorphosis will not be incongruous; for they both bear\nthe name of Peter.  And because, according to the Limosin proverb, to make\nan oven's mouth there must be three stones, you may associate them with\nMaster Peter du Coignet, whom you formerly petrified for the same cause.\nThen those three dead pieces shall be put in an equilateral trigone\nsomewhere in the great temple at Paris--in the middle of the porch, if you\nwill--there to perform the office of extinguishers, and with their noses\nput out the lighted candles, torches, tapers, and flambeaux; since, while\nthey lived, they still lighted, ballock-like, the fire of faction,\ndivision, ballock sects, and wrangling among those idle bearded boys, the\nstudents.  And this will be an everlasting monument to show that those puny\nself-conceited pedants, ballock-framers, were rather contemned than\ncondemned by you.  Dixi, I have said my say.\n\nYou deal too kindly by them, said Jupiter, for aught I see, Monsieur\nPriapus.  You do not use to be so kind to everybody, let me tell you; for\nas they seek to eternize their names, it would be much better for them to\nbe thus changed into hard stones than to return to earth and putrefaction.\nBut now to other matters.  Yonder behind us, towards the Tuscan sea and the\nneighbourhood of Mount Apennine, do you see what tragedies are stirred up\nby certain topping ecclesiastical bullies?  This hot fit will last its\ntime, like the Limosins' ovens, and then will be cooled, but not so fast.\n\nWe shall have sport enough with it; but I foresee one inconveniency; for\nmethinks we have but little store of thunder ammunition since the time that\nyou, my fellow gods, for your pastime lavished them away to bombard new\nAntioch, by my particular permission; as since, after your example, the\nstout champions who had undertaken to hold the fortress of Dindenarois\nagainst all comers fairly wasted their powder with shooting at sparrows,\nand then, not having wherewith to defend themselves in time of need,\nvaliantly surrendered to the enemy, who were already packing up their awls,\nfull of madness and despair, and thought on nothing but a shameful retreat.\nTake care this be remedied, son Vulcan; rouse up your drowsy Cyclopes,\nAsteropes, Brontes, Arges, Polyphemus, Steropes, Pyracmon, and so forth,\nset them at work, and make them drink as they ought.\n\nNever spare liquor to such as are at hot work.  Now let us despatch this\nbawling fellow below.  You, Mercury, go see who it is, and know what he\nwants.  Mercury looked out at heaven's trapdoor, through which, as I am\ntold, they hear what is said here below.  By the way, one might well enough\nmistake it for the scuttle of a ship; though Icaromenippus said it was like\nthe mouth of a well.  The light-heeled deity saw that it was honest Tom,\nwho asked for his lost hatchet; and accordingly he made his report to the\nsynod.  Marry, said Jupiter, we are finely helped up, as if we had now\nnothing else to do here but to restore lost hatchets.  Well, he must have\nit then for all this, for so 'tis written in the Book of Fate (do you\nhear?), as well as if it was worth the whole duchy of Milan.  The truth is,\nthe fellow's hatchet is as much to him as a kingdom to a king.  Come, come,\nlet no more words be scattered about it; let him have his hatchet again.\n\nNow, let us make an end of the difference betwixt the Levites and\nmole-catchers of Landerousse.  Whereabouts were we?  Priapus was standing in\nthe chimney-corner, and having heard what Mercury had reported, said in a\nmost courteous and jovial manner:  King Jupiter, while by your order and\nparticular favour I was garden-keeper-general on earth, I observed that this\nword hatchet is equivocal to many things; for it signifies a certain\ninstrument by the means of which men fell and cleave timber.  It also\nsignifies (at least I am sure it did formerly) a female soundly and\nfrequently thumpthumpriggletickletwiddletobyed.  Thus I perceived that every\ncock of the game used to call his doxy his hatchet; for with that same tool\n(this he said lugging out and exhibiting his nine-inch knocker) they so\nstrongly and resolutely shove and drive in their helves, that the females\nremain free from a fear epidemical amongst their sex, viz., that from the\nbottom of the male's belly the instrument should dangle at his heel for want\nof such feminine props.  And I remember, for I have a member, and a memory\ntoo, ay, and a fine memory, large enough to fill a butter-firkin; I\nremember, I say, that one day of tubilustre (horn-fair) at the festivals of\ngoodman Vulcan in May, I heard Josquin Des Prez, Olkegan, Hobrecht,\nAgricola, Brumel, Camelin, Vigoris, De la Fage, Bruyer, Prioris, Seguin, De\nla Rue, Midy, Moulu, Mouton, Gascogne, Loyset, Compere, Penet, Fevin,\nRousee, Richard Fort, Rousseau, Consilion, Constantio Festi, Jacquet Bercan,\nmelodiously singing the following catch on a pleasant green:\n\n  Long John to bed went to his bride,\n  And laid a mallet by his side:\n  What means this mallet, John? saith she.\n  Why! 'tis to wedge thee home, quoth he.\n  Alas! cried she, the man's a fool:\n  What need you use a wooden tool?\n  When lusty John does to me come,\n  He never shoves but with his bum.\n\nNine Olympiads, and an intercalary year after (I have a rare member, I\nwould say memory; but I often make blunders in the symbolization and\ncolligance of those two words), I heard Adrian Villart, Gombert, Janequin,\nArcadet, Claudin, Certon, Manchicourt, Auxerre, Villiers, Sandrin, Sohier,\nHesdin, Morales, Passereau, Maille, Maillart, Jacotin, Heurteur, Verdelot,\nCarpentras, L'Heritier, Cadeac, Doublet, Vermont, Bouteiller, Lupi,\nPagnier, Millet, Du Moulin, Alaire, Maraut, Morpain, Gendre, and other\nmerry lovers of music, in a private garden, under some fine shady trees,\nround about a bulwark of flagons, gammons, pasties, with several coated\nquails, and laced mutton, waggishly singing:\n\n  Since tools without their hafts are useless lumber,\n  And hatchets without helves are of that number;\n  That one may go in t'other, and may match it,\n  I'll be the helve, and thou shalt be the hatchet.\n\nNow would I know what kind of hatchet this bawling Tom wants?  This threw\nall the venerable gods and goddesses into a fit of laughter, like any\nmicrocosm of flies; and even set limping Vulcan a-hopping and jumping\nsmoothly three or four times for the sake of his dear.  Come, come, said\nJupiter to Mercury, run down immediately, and cast at the poor fellow's\nfeet three hatchets:  his own, another of gold, and a third of massy\nsilver, all of one size; then having left it to his will to take his\nchoice, if he take his own, and be satisfied with it, give him the other\ntwo; if he take another, chop his head off with his own; and henceforth\nserve me all those losers of hatchets after that manner.  Having said this,\nJupiter, with an awkward turn of his head, like a jackanapes swallowing of\npills, made so dreadful a phiz that all the vast Olympus quaked again.\nHeaven's foot messenger, thanks to his low-crowned narrow-brimmed hat, his\nplume of feathers, heel-pieces, and running stick with pigeon wings, flings\nhimself out at heaven's wicket, through the idle deserts of the air, and in\na trice nimbly alights upon the earth, and throws at friend Tom's feet the\nthree hatchets, saying unto him:  Thou hast bawled long enough to be a-dry;\nthy prayers and request are granted by Jupiter:  see which of these three\nis thy hatchet, and take it away with thee.  Wellhung lifts up the golden\nhatchet, peeps upon it, and finds it very heavy; then staring on Mercury,\ncries, Codszouks, this is none of mine; I won't ha't:  the same he did with\nthe silver one, and said, 'Tis not this neither, you may e'en take them\nagain.  At last he takes up his own hatchet, examines the end of the helve,\nand finds his mark there; then, ravished with joy, like a fox that meets\nsome straggling poultry, and sneering from the tip of the nose, he cried,\nBy the mass, this is my hatchet, master god; if you will leave it me, I\nwill sacrifice to you a very good and huge pot of milk brimful, covered\nwith fine strawberries, next ides of May.\n\nHonest fellow, said Mercury, I leave it thee; take it; and because thou\nhast wished and chosen moderately in point of hatchet, by Jupiter's command\nI give thee these two others; thou hast now wherewith to make thyself rich:\nbe honest.  Honest Tom gave Mercury a whole cartload of thanks, and revered\nthe most great Jupiter.  His old hatchet he fastens close to his leathern\ngirdle, and girds it above his breech like Martin of Cambray; the two\nothers, being more heavy, he lays on his shoulder.  Thus he plods on,\ntrudging over the fields, keeping a good countenance amongst his neighbours\nand fellow-parishioners, with one merry saying or other after Patelin's\nway.  The next day, having put on a clean white jacket, he takes on his\nback the two precious hatchets and comes to Chinon, the famous city, noble\ncity, ancient city, yea, the first city in the world, according to the\njudgment and assertion of the most learned Massorets.  At Chinon he turned\nhis silver hatchet into fine testons, crown-pieces, and other white cash;\nhis golden hatchet into fine angels, curious ducats, substantial ridders,\nspankers, and rose-nobles; then with them purchases a good number of farms,\nbarns, houses, out-houses, thatched houses, stables, meadows, orchards,\nfields, vineyards, woods, arable lands, pastures, ponds, mills, gardens,\nnurseries, oxen, cows, sheep, goats, swine, hogs, asses, horses, hens,\ncocks, capons, chickens, geese, ganders, ducks, drakes, and a world of all\nother necessaries, and in a short time became the richest man in the\ncountry, nay, even richer than that limping scrape-good Maulevrier.  His\nbrother bumpkins, and the other yeomen and country-puts thereabouts,\nperceiving his good fortune, were not a little amazed, insomuch that their\nformer pity of poor Tom was soon changed into an envy of his so great and\nunexpected rise; and as they could not for their souls devise how this came\nabout, they made it their business to pry up and down, and lay their heads\ntogether, to inquire, seek, and inform themselves by what means, in what\nplace, on what day, what hour, how, why, and wherefore, he had come by this\ngreat treasure.\n\nAt last, hearing it was by losing his hatchet, Ha, ha! said they, was there\nno more to do but to lose a hatchet to make us rich?  Mum for that; 'tis as\neasy as pissing a bed, and will cost but little.  Are then at this time the\nrevolutions of the heavens, the constellations of the firmament, and\naspects of the planets such, that whosoever shall lose a hatchet shall\nimmediately grow rich?  Ha, ha, ha! by Jove, you shall e'en be lost, an't\nplease you, my dear hatchet.  With this they all fairly lost their hatchets\nout of hand.  The devil of one that had a hatchet left; he was not his\nmother's son that did not lose his hatchet.  No more was wood felled or\ncleaved in that country through want of hatchets.  Nay, the Aesopian\napologue even saith that certain petty country gents of the lower class,\nwho had sold Wellhung their little mill and little field to have\nwherewithal to make a figure at the next muster, having been told that his\ntreasure was come to him by that only means, sold the only badge of their\ngentility, their swords, to purchase hatchets to go lose them, as the silly\nclodpates did, in hopes to gain store of chink by that loss.\n\nYou would have truly sworn they had been a parcel of your petty spiritual\nusurers, Rome-bound, selling their all, and borrowing of others, to buy\nstore of mandates, a pennyworth of a new-made pope.\n\nNow they cried out and brayed, and prayed and bawled, and lamented, and\ninvoked Jupiter:  My hatchet! my hatchet!  Jupiter, my hatchet! on this\nside, My hatchet! on that side, My hatchet!  Ho, ho, ho, ho, Jupiter, my\nhatchet!  The air round about rung again with the cries and howlings of\nthese rascally losers of hatchets.\n\nMercury was nimble in bringing them hatchets; to each offering that which\nhe had lost, as also another of gold, and a third of silver.\n\nEvery he still was for that of gold, giving thanks in abundance to the\ngreat giver, Jupiter; but in the very nick of time that they bowed and\nstooped to take it from the ground, whip, in a trice, Mercury lopped off\ntheir heads, as Jupiter had commanded; and of heads thus cut off the number\nwas just equal to that of the lost hatchets.\n\nYou see how it is now; you see how it goes with those who in the simplicity\nof their hearts wish and desire with moderation.  Take warning by this, all\nyou greedy, fresh-water sharks, who scorn to wish for anything under ten\nthousand pounds; and do not for the future run on impudently, as I have\nsometimes heard you wishing, Would to God I had now one hundred\nseventy-eight millions of gold!  Oh! how I should tickle it off.  The deuce\non you, what more might a king, an emperor, or a pope wish for?  For that\nreason, indeed, you see that after you have made such hopeful wishes, all\nthe good that comes to you of it is the itch or the scab, and not a cross in\nyour breeches to scare the devil that tempts you to make these wishes:  no\nmore than those two mumpers, wishers after the custom of Paris; one of whom\nonly wished to have in good old gold as much as hath been spent, bought, and\nsold in Paris, since its first foundations were laid, to this hour; all of\nit valued at the price, sale, and rate of the dearest year in all that space\nof time.  Do you think the fellow was bashful?  Had he eaten sour plums\nunpeeled?  Were his teeth on edge, I pray you?  The other wished Our Lady's\nChurch brimful of steel needles, from the floor to the top of the roof, and\nto have as many ducats as might be crammed into as many bags as might be\nsewed with each and everyone of those needles, till they were all either\nbroke at the point or eye.  This is to wish with a vengeance!  What think\nyou of it?  What did they get by't, in your opinion?  Why at night both my\ngentlemen had kibed heels, a tetter in the chin, a churchyard cough in the\nlungs, a catarrh in the throat, a swingeing boil at the rump, and the devil\nof one musty crust of a brown george the poor dogs had to scour their\ngrinders with.  Wish therefore for mediocrity, and it shall be given unto\nyou, and over and above yet; that is to say, provided you bestir yourself\nmanfully, and do your best in the meantime.\n\nAy, but say you, God might as soon have given me seventy-eight thousand as\nthe thirteenth part of one half; for he is omnipotent, and a million of\ngold is no more to him than one farthing.  Oh, ho! pray tell me who taught\nyou to talk at this rate of the power and predestination of God, poor silly\npeople?  Peace, tush, st, st, st! fall down before his sacred face and own\nthe nothingness of your nothing.\n\nUpon this, O ye that labour under the affliction of the gout, I ground my\nhopes; firmly believing, that if so it pleases the divine goodness, you\nshall obtain health; since you wish and ask for nothing else, at least for\nthe present.  Well, stay yet a little longer with half an ounce of\npatience.\n\nThe Genoese do not use, like you, to be satisfied with wishing health\nalone, when after they have all the livelong morning been in a brown study,\ntalked, pondered, ruminated, and resolved in the counting-houses of whom\nand how they may squeeze the ready, and who by their craft must be hooked\nin, wheedled,  bubbled, sharped, overreached, and choused; they go to the\nexchange, and greet one another with a Sanita e guadagno, Messer! health\nand gain to you, sir!  Health alone will not go down with the greedy\ncurmudgeons; they over and above must wish for gain, with a pox to 'em; ay,\nand for the fine crowns, or scudi di Guadaigne; whence, heaven be praised!\nit happens many a time that the silly wishers and woulders are baulked, and\nget neither.\n\nNow, my lads, as you hope for good health, cough once aloud with lungs of\nleather; take me off three swingeing bumpers; prick up your ears; and you\nshall hear me tell wonders of the noble and good Pantagruel.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went to sea to visit the oracle of Bacbuc, alias the Holy\nBottle.\n\nIn the month of June, on Vesta's holiday, the very numerical day on which\nBrutus, conquering Spain, taught its strutting dons to truckle under him,\nand that niggardly miser Crassus was routed and knocked on the head by the\nParthians, Pantagruel took his leave of the good Gargantua, his royal\nfather.  The old gentleman, according to the laudable custom of the\nprimitive Christians, devoutly prayed for the happy voyage of his son and\nhis whole company, and then they took shipping at the port of Thalassa.\nPantagruel had with him Panurge, Friar John des Entomeures, alias of the\nFunnels, Epistemon, Gymnast, Eusthenes, Rhizotome, Carpalin, cum multis\naliis, his ancient servants and domestics; also Xenomanes, the great\ntraveller, who had crossed so many dangerous roads, dikes, ponds, seas, and\nso forth, and was come some time before, having been sent for by Panurge.\n\nFor certain good causes and considerations him thereunto moving, he had\nleft with Gargantua, and marked out, in his great and universal\nhydrographical chart, the course which they were to steer to visit the\nOracle of the Holy Bottle Bacbuc.  The number of ships were such as I\ndescribed in the third book, convoyed by a like number of triremes, men of\nwar, galleons, and feluccas, well-rigged, caulked, and stored with a good\nquantity of Pantagruelion.\n\nAll the officers, droggermen, pilots, captains, mates, boatswains,\nmidshipmen, quartermasters, and sailors, met in the Thalamege, Pantagruel's\nprincipal flag-ship, which had in her stern for her ensign a huge large\nbottle, half silver well polished, the other half gold enamelled with\ncarnation; whereby it was easy to guess that white and red were the colours\nof the noble travellers, and that they went for the word of the Bottle.\n\nOn the stern of the second was a lantern like those of the ancients,\nindustriously made with diaphanous stone, implying that they were to pass\nby Lanternland.  The third ship had for her device a fine deep china ewer.\nThe fourth, a double-handed jar of gold, much like an ancient urn.  The\nfifth, a famous can made of sperm of emerald.  The sixth, a monk's mumping\nbottle made of the four metals together.  The seventh, an ebony funnel, all\nembossed and wrought with gold after the Tauchic manner.  The eighth, an\nivy goblet, very precious, inlaid with gold.  The ninth, a cup of fine\nObriz gold.  The tenth, a tumbler of aromatic agoloch (you call it lignum\naloes) edged with Cyprian gold, after the Azemine make.  The eleventh, a\ngolden vine-tub of mosaic work.  The twelfth, a runlet of unpolished gold,\ncovered with a small vine of large Indian pearl of Topiarian work.\nInsomuch that there was not a man, however in the dumps, musty,\nsour-looked, or melancholic he were, not even excepting that blubbering\nwhiner Heraclitus, had he been there, but seeing this noble convoy of ships\nand their devices, must have been seized with present gladness of heart,\nand, smiling at the conceit, have said that the travellers were all honest\ntopers, true pitcher-men, and have judged by a most sure prognostication\nthat their voyage, both outward and homeward-bound, would be performed in\nmirth and perfect health.\n\nIn the Thalamege, where was the general meeting, Pantagruel made a short\nbut sweet exhortation, wholly backed with authorities from Scripture upon\nnavigation; which being ended, with an audible voice prayers were said in\nthe presence and hearing of all the burghers of Thalassa, who had flocked\nto the mole to see them take shipping.  After the prayers was melodiously\nsung a psalm of the holy King David, which begins, When Israel went out of\nEgypt; and that being ended, tables were placed upon deck, and a feast\nspeedily served up. The Thalassians, who had also borne a chorus in the\npsalm, caused store of belly-timber to be brought out of their houses.  All\ndrank to them; they drank to all; which was the cause that none of the\nwhole company gave up what they had eaten, nor were sea-sick, with a pain\nat the head and stomach; which inconveniency they could not so easily have\nprevented by drinking, for some time before, salt water, either alone or\nmixed with wine; using quinces, citron peel, juice of pomegranates, sourish\nsweetmeats, fasting a long time, covering their stomachs with paper, or\nfollowing such other idle remedies as foolish physicians prescribe to those\nthat go to sea.\n\nHaving often renewed their tipplings, each mother's son retired on board\nhis own ship, and set sail all so fast with a merry gale at south-east; to\nwhich point of the compass the chief pilot, James Brayer by name, had\nshaped his course, and fixed all things accordingly.  For seeing that the\nOracle of the Holy Bottle lay near Cathay, in the Upper India, his advice,\nand that of Xenomanes also, was not to steer the course which the\nPortuguese use, while sailing through the torrid zone, and Cape Bona\nSperanza, at the south point of Africa, beyond the equinoctial line, and\nlosing sight of the northern pole, their guide, they make a prodigious long\nvoyage; but rather to keep as near the parallel of the said India as\npossible, and to tack to the westward of the said pole, so that winding\nunder the north, they might find themselves in the latitude of the port of\nOlone, without coming nearer it for fear of being shut up in the frozen\nsea; whereas, following this canonical turn, by the said parallel, they\nmust have that on the right to the eastward, which at their departure was\non their left.\n\nThis proved a much shorter cut; for without shipwreck, danger, or loss of\nmen, with uninterrupted good weather, except one day near the island of the\nMacreons, they performed in less than four months the voyage of Upper\nIndia, which the Portuguese, with a thousand inconveniences and innumerable\ndangers, can hardly complete in three years.  And it is my opinion, with\nsubmission to better judgments, that this course was perhaps steered by\nthose Indians who sailed to Germany, and were honourably received by the\nKing of the Swedes, while Quintus Metellus Celer was proconsul of the\nGauls; as Cornelius Nepos, Pomponius Mela, and Pliny after them tell us.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel bought many rarities in the island of Medamothy.\n\nThat day and the two following they neither discovered land nor anything\nnew; for they had formerly sailed that way:  but on the fourth they made an\nisland called Medamothy, of a fine and delightful prospect, by reason of\nthe vast number of lighthouses and high marble towers in its circuit, which\nis not less than that of Canada (sic).  Pantagruel, inquiring who governed\nthere, heard that it was King Philophanes, absent at that time upon account\nof the marriage of his brother Philotheamon with the infanta of the kingdom\nof Engys.\n\nHearing this, he went ashore in the harbour, and while every ship's crew\nwatered, passed his time in viewing divers pictures, pieces of tapestry,\nanimals, fishes, birds, and other exotic and foreign merchandises, which\nwere along the walks of the mole and in the markets of the port.  For it\nwas the third day of the great and famous fair of the place, to which the\nchief merchants of Africa and Asia resorted.  Out of these Friar John\nbought him two rare pictures; in one of which the face of a man that brings\nin an appeal was drawn to the life; and in the other a servant that wants a\nmaster, with every needful particular, action, countenance, look, gait,\nfeature, and deportment, being an original by Master Charles Charmois,\nprincipal painter to King Megistus; and he paid for them in the court\nfashion, with conge and grimace.  Panurge bought a large picture, copied\nand done from the needle-work formerly wrought by Philomela, showing to her\nsister Progne how her brother-in-law Tereus had by force handselled her\ncopyhold, and then cut out her tongue that she might not (as women will)\ntell tales.  I vow and swear by the handle of my paper lantern that it was\na gallant, a mirific, nay, a most admirable piece.  Nor do you think, I\npray you, that in it was the picture of a man playing the beast with two\nbacks with a female; this had been too silly and gross:  no, no; it was\nanother-guise thing, and much plainer.  You may, if you please, see it at\nTheleme, on the left hand as you go into the high gallery.  Epistemon\nbought another, wherein were painted to the life the ideas of Plato and the\natoms of Epicurus.  Rhizotome purchased another, wherein Echo was drawn to\nthe life.  Pantagruel caused to be bought, by Gymnast, the life and deeds\nof Achilles, in seventy-eight pieces of tapestry, four fathom long, and\nthree fathom broad, all of Phrygian silk, embossed with gold and silver;\nthe work beginning at the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis, continuing to the\nbirth of Achilles; his youth, described by Statius Papinius; his warlike\nachievements, celebrated by Homer; his death and obsequies, written by Ovid\nand Quintus Calaber; and ending at the appearance of his ghost, and\nPolyxena's sacrifice, rehearsed by Euripides.\n\nHe also caused to be bought three fine young unicorns; one of them a male\nof a chestnut colour, and two grey dappled females; also a tarand, whom he\nbought of a Scythian of the Gelones' country.\n\nA tarand is an animal as big as a bullock, having a head like a stag, or a\nlittle bigger, two stately horns with large branches, cloven feet, hair\nlong like that of a furred Muscovite, I mean a bear, and a skin almost as\nhard as steel armour.  The Scythian said that there are but few tarands to\nbe found in Scythia, because it varieth its colour according to the\ndiversity of the places where it grazes and abides, and represents the\ncolour of the grass, plants, trees, shrubs, flowers, meadows, rocks, and\ngenerally of all things near which it comes.  It hath this common with the\nsea-pulp, or polypus, with the thoes, with the wolves of India, and with\nthe chameleon, which is a kind of a lizard so wonderful that Democritus\nhath written a whole book of its figure and anatomy, as also of its virtue\nand propriety in magic.  This I can affirm, that I have seen it change its\ncolour, not only at the approach of things that have a colour, but by its\nown voluntary impulse, according to its fear or other affections; as, for\nexample, upon a green carpet I have certainly seen it become green; but\nhaving remained there some time, it turned yellow, blue, tanned, and purple\nin course, in the same manner as you see a turkey-cock's comb change colour\naccording to its passions.  But what we find most surprising in this tarand\nis, that not only its face and skin, but also its hair could take whatever\ncolour was about it.  Near Panurge, with his kersey coat, its hair used to\nturn grey; near Pantagruel, with his scarlet mantle, its hair and skin grew\nred; near the pilot, dressed after the fashion of the Isiacs of Anubis in\nEgypt, its hair seemed all white, which two last colours the chameleons\ncannot borrow.\n\nWhen the creature was free from any fear or affection, the colour of its\nhair was just such as you see that of the asses of Meung.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel received a letter from his father Gargantua, and of the\nstrange way to have speedy news from far distant places.\n\nWhile Pantagruel was taken up with the purchase of those foreign animals,\nthe noise of ten guns and culverins, together with a loud and joyful cheer\nof all the fleet, was heard from the mole.  Pantagruel looked towards the\nhaven, and perceived that this was occasioned by the arrival of one of his\nfather Gargantua's celoces, or advice-boats, named the Chelidonia; because\non the stern of it was carved in Corinthian brass a sea-swallow, which is a\nfish as large as a dare-fish of Loire, all flesh, without scale, with\ncartilaginous wings (like a bat's) very long and broad, by the means of\nwhich I have seen them fly about three fathom above water, about a\nbow-shot.  At Marseilles 'tis called lendole.  And indeed that ship was as\nlight as a swallow, so that it rather seemed to fly on the sea than to\nsail.  Malicorne, Gargantua's esquire carver, was come in her, being sent\nexpressly by his master to have an account of his son's health and\ncircumstances, and to bring him credentials.  When Malicorne had saluted\nPantagruel, before the prince opened the letters, the first thing he said\nto him was, Have you here the Gozal, the heavenly messenger?  Yes, sir,\nsaid he; here it is swaddled up in this basket.  It was a grey pigeon,\ntaken out of Gargantua's dove-house, whose young ones were just hatched\nwhen the advice-boat was going off.\n\nIf any ill fortune had befallen Pantagruel, he would have fastened some\nblack ribbon to his feet; but because all things had succeeded happily\nhitherto, having caused it to be undressed, he tied to its feet a white\nribbon, and without any further delay let it loose.  The pigeon presently\nflew away, cutting the air with an incredible speed, as you know that there\nis no flight like a pigeon's, especially when it hath eggs or young ones,\nthrough the extreme care which nature hath fixed in it to relieve and be\nwith its young; insomuch that in less than two hours it compassed in the\nair the long tract which the advice-boat, with all her diligence, with oars\nand sails, and a fair wind, could not go through in less than three days\nand three nights; and was seen as it went into the dove-house in its nest.\nWhereupon Gargantua, hearing that it had the white ribbon on, was joyful\nand secure of his son's welfare.  This was the custom of the noble\nGargantua and Pantagruel when they would have speedy news of something of\ngreat concern; as the event of some battle, either by sea or land; the\nsurrendering or holding out of some strong place; the determination of some\ndifference of moment; the safe or unhappy delivery of some queen or great\nlady; the death or recovery of their sick friends or allies, and so forth.\nThey used to take the gozal, and had it carried from one to another by the\npost, to the places whence they desired to have news.  The gozal, bearing\neither a black or white ribbon, according to the occurrences and accidents,\nused to remove their doubts at its return, making in the space of one hour\nmore way through the air than thirty postboys could have done in one\nnatural day.  May not this be said to redeem and gain time with a\nvengeance, think you?  For the like service, therefore, you may believe as\na most true thing that in the dove-houses of their farms there were to be\nfound all the year long store of pigeons hatching eggs or rearing their\nyoung.  Which may be easily done in aviaries and voleries by the help of\nsaltpetre and the sacred herb vervain.\n\nThe gozal being let fly, Pantagruel perused his father Gargantua's letter,\nthe contents of which were as followeth:\n\nMy dearest Son,--The affection that naturally a father bears a beloved son\nis so much increased in me by reflecting on the particular gifts which by\nthe divine goodness have been heaped on thee, that since thy departure it\nhath often banished all other thoughts out of my mind, leaving my heart\nwholly possessed with fear lest some misfortune has attended thy voyage;\nfor thou knowest that fear was ever the attendant of true and sincere love.\nNow because, as Hesiod saith, A good beginning of anything is the half of\nit; or, Well begun's half done, according to the old saying; to free my\nmind from this anxiety I have expressly despatched Malicorne, that he may\ngive me a true account of thy health at the beginning of thy voyage.  For\nif it be good, and such as I wish it, I shall easily foresee the rest.\n\nI have met with some diverting books, which the bearer will deliver thee;\nthou mayest read them when thou wantest to unbend and ease thy mind from\nthy better studies.  He will also give thee at large the news at court.\nThe peace of the Lord be with thee.  Remember me to Panurge, Friar John,\nEpistemon, Xenomanes, Gymnast, and thy other principal domestics.  Dated at\nour paternal seat, this 13th day of June.\n\n            Thy father and friend, Gargantua.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel writ to his father Gargantua, and sent him several\ncuriosities.\n\nPantagruel, having perused the letter, had a long conference with the\nesquire Malicorne; insomuch that Panurge, at last interrupting them, asked\nhim, Pray, sir, when do you design to drink?  When shall we drink?  When\nshall the worshipful esquire drink?  What a devil! have you not talked long\nenough to drink?  It is a good motion, answered Pantagruel:  go, get us\nsomething ready at the next inn; I think 'tis the Centaur.  In the meantime\nhe writ to Gargantua as followeth, to be sent by the aforesaid esquire:\n\nMost gracious Father,--As our senses and animal faculties are more\ndiscomposed at the news of events unexpected, though desired (even to an\nimmediate dissolution of the soul from the body), than if those accidents\nhad been foreseen, so the coming of Malicorne hath much surprised and\ndisordered me.  For I had no hopes to see any of your servants, or to hear\nfrom you, before I had finished our voyage; and contented myself with the\ndear remembrance of your august majesty, deeply impressed in the hindmost\nventricle of my brain, often representing you to my mind.\n\nBut since you have made me happy beyond expectation by the perusal of your\ngracious letter, and the faith I have in your esquire hath revived my\nspirits by the news of your welfare, I am as it were compelled to do what\nformerly I did freely, that is, first to praise the blessed Redeemer, who\nby his divine goodness preserves you in this long enjoyment of perfect\nhealth; then to return you eternal thanks for the fervent affection which\nyou have for me your most humble son and unprofitable servant.\n\nFormerly a Roman, named Furnius, said to Augustus, who had received his\nfather into favour, and pardoned him after he had sided with Antony, that\nby that action the emperor had reduced him to this extremity, that for want\nof power to be grateful, both while he lived and after it, he should be\nobliged to be taxed with ingratitude.  So I may say, that the excess of\nyour fatherly affection drives me into such a strait, that I shall be\nforced to live and die ungrateful; unless that crime be redressed by the\nsentence of the Stoics, who say that there are three parts in a benefit,\nthe one of the giver, the other of the receiver, the third of the\nremunerator; and that the receiver rewards the giver when he freely\nreceives the benefit and always remembers it; as, on the contrary, that man\nis most ungrateful who despises and forgets a benefit.  Therefore, being\noverwhelmed with infinite favours, all proceeding from your extreme\ngoodness, and on the other side wholly incapable of making the smallest\nreturn, I hope at least to free myself from the imputation of ingratitude,\nsince they can never be blotted out of my mind; and my tongue shall never\ncease to own that to thank you as I ought transcends my capacity.\n\nAs for us, I have this assurance in the Lord's mercy and help, that the end\nof our voyage will be answerable to its beginning, and so it will be\nentirely performed in health and mirth.  I will not fail to set down in a\njournal a full account of our navigation, that at our return you may have\nan exact relation of the whole.\n\nI have found here a Scythian tarand, an animal strange and wonderful for\nthe variations of colour on its skin and hair, according to the distinction\nof neighbouring things; it is as tractable and easily kept as a lamb.  Be\npleased to accept of it.\n\nI also send you three young unicorns, which are the tamest of creatures.\n\nI have conferred with the esquire, and taught him how they must be fed.\nThese cannot graze on the ground by reason of the long horn on their\nforehead, but are forced to browse on fruit trees, or on proper racks, or\nto be fed by hand, with herbs, sheaves, apples, pears, barley, rye, and\nother fruits and roots, being placed before them.\n\nI am amazed that ancient writers should report them to be so wild, furious,\nand dangerous, and never seen alive; far from it, you will find that they\nare the mildest things in the world, provided they are not maliciously\noffended.  Likewise I send you the life and deeds of Achilles in curious\ntapestry; assuring you whatever rarities of animals, plants, birds, or\nprecious stones, and others, I shall be able to find and purchase in our\ntravels, shall be brought to you, God willing, whom I beseech, by his\nblessed grace, to preserve you.\n\nFrom Medamothy, this 15th of June.  Panurge, Friar John, Epistemon,\nZenomanes, Gymnast, Eusthenes, Rhizotome, and Carpalin, having most humbly\nkissed your hand, return your salute a thousand times.\n\n       Your most dutiful son and servant, Pantagruel.\n\nWhile Pantagruel was writing this letter, Malicorne was made welcome by all\nwith a thousand goodly good-morrows and how-d'ye's; they clung about him so\nthat I cannot tell you how much they made of him, how many humble services,\nhow many from my love and to my love were sent with him.  Pantagruel,\nhaving writ his letters, sat down at table with him, and afterwards\npresented him with a large chain of gold, weighing eight hundred crowns,\nbetween whose septenary links some large diamonds, rubies, emeralds,\nturquoise stones, and unions were alternately set in.  To each of his\nbark's crew he ordered to be given five hundred crowns.  To Gargantua, his\nfather, he sent the tarand covered with a cloth of satin, brocaded with\ngold, and the tapestry containing the life and deeds of Achilles, with the\nthree unicorns in friezed cloth of gold trappings; and so they left\nMedamothy--Malicorne to return to Gargantua, Pantagruel to proceed in his\nvoyage, during which Epistemon read to him the books which the esquire had\nbrought, and because he found them jovial and pleasant, I shall give you an\naccount of them, if you earnestly desire it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel met a ship with passengers returning from Lanternland.\n\nOn the fifth day we began already to wind by little and little about the\npole; going still farther from the equinoctial line, we discovered a\nmerchant-man to the windward of us.  The joy for this was not small on both\nsides; we in hopes to hear news from sea, and those in the merchant-man\nfrom land.  So we bore upon 'em, and coming up with them we hailed them;\nand finding them to be Frenchmen of Xaintonge, backed our sails and lay by\nto talk to them.  Pantagruel heard that they came from Lanternland; which\nadded to his joy, and that of the whole fleet.  We inquired about the state\nof that country, and the way of living of the Lanterns; and were told that\nabout the latter end of the following July was the time prefixed for the\nmeeting of the general chapter of the Lanterns; and that if we arrived\nthere at that time, as we might easily, we should see a handsome,\nhonourable, and jolly company of Lanterns; and that great preparations were\nmaking, as if they intended to lanternize there to the purpose.  We were\ntold also that if we touched at the great kingdom of Gebarim, we should be\nhonourably received and treated by the sovereign of that country, King\nOhabe, who, as well as all his subjects, speaks Touraine French.\n\nWhile we were listening to these news, Panurge fell out with one Dingdong,\na drover or sheep-merchant of Taillebourg.  The occasion of the fray was\nthus:\n\nThis same Dingdong, seeing Panurge without a codpiece, with his spectacles\nfastened to his cap, said to one of his comrades, Prithee, look, is there\nnot a fine medal of a cuckold?  Panurge, by reason of his spectacles, as\nyou may well think, heard more plainly by half with his ears than usually;\nwhich caused him (hearing this) to say to the saucy dealer in mutton, in a\nkind of a pet:\n\nHow the devil should I be one of the hornified fraternity, since I am not\nyet a brother of the marriage-noose, as thou art; as I guess by thy\nill-favoured phiz?\n\nYea, verily, quoth the grazier, I am married, and would not be otherwise\nfor all the pairs of spectacles in Europe; nay, not for all the magnifying\ngimcracks in Africa; for I have got me the cleverest, prettiest,\nhandsomest, properest, neatest, tightest, honestest, and soberest piece of\nwoman's flesh for my wife that is in all the whole country of Xaintonge;\nI'll say that for her, and a fart for all the rest.  I bring her home a\nfine eleven-inch-long branch of red coral for her Christmas-box.  What hast\nthou to do with it? what's that to thee? who art thou? whence comest thou,\nO dark lantern of Antichrist?  Answer, if thou art of God.  I ask thee, by\nthe way of question, said Panurge to him very seriously, if with the\nconsent and countenance of all the elements, I had gingumbobbed, codpieced,\nand thumpthumpriggledtickledtwiddled thy so clever, so pretty, so handsome,\nso proper, so neat, so tight, so honest, and so sober female importance,\ninsomuch that the stiff deity that has no forecast, Priapus (who dwells\nhere at liberty, all subjection of fastened codpieces, or bolts, bars, and\nlocks, abdicated), remained sticking in her natural Christmas-box in such a\nlamentable manner that it were never to come out, but eternally should\nstick there unless thou didst pull it out with thy teeth; what wouldst thou\ndo?  Wouldst thou everlastingly leave it there, or wouldst thou pluck it\nout with thy grinders?  Answer me, O thou ram of Mahomet, since thou art\none of the devil's gang.  I would, replied the sheepmonger, take thee such\na woundy cut on this spectacle-bearing lug of thine with my trusty bilbo as\nwould smite thee dead as a herring.  Thus, having taken pepper in the nose,\nhe was lugging out his sword, but, alas!--cursed cows have short horns,--it\nstuck in the scabbard; as you know that at sea cold iron will easily take\nrust by reason of the excessive and nitrous moisture.  Panurge, so smitten\nwith terror that his heart sunk down to his midriff, scoured off to\nPantagruel for help; but Friar John laid hand on his flashing scimitar that\nwas new ground, and would certainly have despatched Dingdong to rights, had\nnot the skipper and some of his passengers beseeched Pantagruel not to\nsuffer such an outrage to be committed on board his ship.  So the matter\nwas made up, and Panurge and his antagonist shaked fists, and drank in\ncourse to one another in token of a perfect reconciliation.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow, the fray being over, Panurge cheapened one of Dingdong's sheep.\n\nThis quarrel being hushed, Panurge tipped the wink upon Epistemon and Friar\nJohn, and taking them aside, Stand at some distance out of the way, said\nhe, and take your share of the following scene of mirth.  You shall have\nrare sport anon, if my cake be not dough, and my plot do but take.  Then\naddressing himself to the drover, he took off to him a bumper of good\nlantern wine.  The other pledged him briskly and courteously.  This done,\nPanurge earnestly entreated him to sell him one of his sheep.\n\nBut the other answered him, Is it come to that, friend and neighbour?\nWould you put tricks upon travellers?  Alas, how finely you love to play\nupon poor folk!  Nay, you seem a rare chapman, that's the truth on't.  Oh,\nwhat a mighty sheep-merchant you are!  In good faith, you look liker one of\nthe diving trade than a buyer of sheep.  Adzookers, what a blessing it\nwould be to have one's purse well lined with chink near your worship at a\ntripe-house when it begins to thaw!  Humph, humph, did not we know you\nwell, you might serve one a slippery trick!  Pray do but see, good people,\nwhat a mighty conjuror the fellow would be reckoned.  Patience, said\nPanurge; but waiving that, be so kind as to sell me one of your sheep.\nCome, how much?  What do you mean, master of mine? answered the other.\nThey are long-wool sheep; from these did Jason take his golden fleece.  The\ngold of the house of Burgundy was drawn from them.  Zwoons, man, they are\noriental sheep, topping sheep, fatted sheep, sheep of quality.  Be it so,\nsaid Panurge; but sell me one of them, I beseech you; and that for a cause,\npaying you ready money upon the nail, in good and lawful occidental current\ncash.  Wilt say how much?  Friend, neighbour, answered the seller of\nmutton, hark ye me a little, on the ear.\n\n  Panurge.  On which side you please; I hear you.\n\n  Dingdong.  You are going to Lanternland, they say.\n\n  Panurge.  Yea, verily.\n\n  Dingdong.  To see fashions?\n\n  Panurge.  Even so.\n\n  Dingdong.  And be merry?\n\n  Panurge.  And be merry.\n\n  Dingdong.  Your name is, as I take it, Robin Mutton?\n\n  Panurge.  As you please for that, sweet sir.\n\n  Dingdong.  Nay, without offence.\n\n  Panurge.  So I would have it.\n\n  Dingdong.  You are, as I take it, the king's jester; aren't you?\n\n  Panurge.  Ay, ay, anything.\n\n  Dingdong.  Give me your hand--humph, humph, you go to see fashions, you\nare the king's jester, your name is Robin Mutton!  Do you see this same\nram?  His name, too, is Robin.  Here, Robin, Robin, Robin!  Baea, baea,\nbaea.  Hath he not a rare voice?\n\n  Panurge.  Ay, marry has he, a very fine and harmonious voice.\n\n  Dingdong.  Well, this bargain shall be made between you and me, friend\nand neighbour; we will get a pair of scales, then you Robin Mutton shall be\nput into one of them, and Tup Robin into the other.  Now I will hold you a\npeck of Busch oysters that in weight, value, and price he shall outdo you,\nand you shall be found light in the very numerical manner as when you shall\nbe hanged and suspended.\n\nPatience, said Panurge; but you would do much for me and your whole\nposterity if you would chaffer with me for him, or some other of his\ninferiors.  I beg it of you; good your worship, be so kind.  Hark ye,\nfriend of mine, answered the other; with the fleece of these your fine\nRouen cloth is to be made; your Leominster superfine wool is mine arse to\nit; mere flock in comparison.  Of their skins the best cordovan will be\nmade, which shall be sold for Turkey and Montelimart, or for Spanish\nleather at least.  Of the guts shall be made fiddle and harp strings that\nwill sell as dear as if they came from Munican or Aquileia.  What do you\nthink on't, hah?  If you please, sell me one of them, said Panurge, and I\nwill be yours for ever.  Look, here's ready cash.  What's the price?  This\nhe said exhibiting his purse stuffed with new Henricuses.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhich if you read you'll find how Panurge bargained with Dingdong.\n\nNeighbour, my friend, answered Dingdong, they are meat for none but kings\nand princes; their flesh is so delicate, so savoury, and so dainty that one\nwould swear it melted in the mouth.  I bring them out of a country where\nthe very hogs, God be with us, live on nothing but myrobolans.  The sows in\nthe styes when they lie-in (saving the honour of this good company) are fed\nonly with orange-flowers.  But, said Panurge, drive a bargain with me for\none of them, and I will pay you for't like a king, upon the honest word of\na true Trojan; come, come, what do you ask?  Not so fast, Robin, answered\nthe trader; these sheep are lineally descended from the very family of the\nram that wafted Phryxus and Helle over the sea since called the Hellespont.\nA pox on't, said Panurge, you are clericus vel addiscens!  Ita is a\ncabbage, and vere a leek, answered the merchant.  But, rr, rrr, rrrr,\nrrrrr, hoh Robin, rr, rrrrrrr, you don't understand that gibberish, do you?\nNow I think on't, over all the fields where they piss, corn grows as fast\nas if the Lord had pissed there; they need neither be tilled nor dunged.\nBesides, man, your chemists extract the best saltpetre in the world out of\ntheir urine.  Nay, with their very dung (with reverence be it spoken) the\ndoctors in our country make pills that cure seventy-eight kinds of\ndiseases, the least of which is the evil of St. Eutropius of Xaintes, from\nwhich, good Lord, deliver us!  Now what do you think on't, neighbour, my\nfriend?  The truth is, they cost me money, that they do.  Cost what they\nwill, cried Panurge, trade with me for one of them, paying you well.  Our\nfriend, quoth the quacklike sheepman, do but mind the wonders of nature\nthat are found in those animals, even in a member which one would think\nwere of no use.  Take me but these horns, and bray them a little with an\niron pestle, or with an andiron, which you please, it is all one to me;\nthen bury them wherever you will, provided it be where the sun may shine,\nand water them frequently; in a few months I'll engage you will have the\nbest asparagus in the world, not even excepting those of Ravenna.  Now,\ncome and tell me whether the horns of your other knights of the bull's\nfeather have such a virtue and wonderful propriety?\n\nPatience, said Panurge.  I don't know whether you be a scholar or no,\npursued Dingdong; I have seen a world of scholars, I say great scholars,\nthat were cuckolds, I'll assure you.  But hark you me, if you were a\nscholar, you should know that in the most inferior members of those\nanimals, which are the feet, there is a bone, which is the heel, the\nastragalus, if you will have it so, wherewith, and with that of no other\ncreature breathing, except the Indian ass and the dorcades of Libya, they\nused in old times to play at the royal game of dice, whereat Augustus the\nemperor won above fifty thousand crowns one evening.  Now such cuckolds as\nyou will be hanged ere you get half so much at it.  Patience, said Panurge;\nbut let us despatch.  And when, my friend and neighbour, continued the\ncanting sheepseller, shall I have duly praised the inward members, the\nshoulders, the legs, the knuckles, the neck, the breast, the liver, the\nspleen, the tripes, the kidneys, the bladder, wherewith they make\nfootballs; the ribs, which serve in Pigmyland to make little crossbows to\npelt the cranes with cherry-stones; the head, which with a little brimstone\nserves to make a miraculous decoction to loosen and ease the belly of\ncostive dogs?  A turd on't, said the skipper to his preaching passenger,\nwhat a fiddle-faddle have we here?  There is too long a lecture by half:\nsell him if thou wilt; if thou won't, don't let the man lose more time.  I\nhate a gibble-gabble and a rimble-ramble talk.  I am for a man of brevity.\nI will, for your sake, replied the holder-forth; but then he shall give me\nthree livres, French money, for each pick and choose.  It is a woundy\nprice, cried Panurge; in our country I could have five, nay six, for the\nmoney; see that you do not overreach me, master.  You are not the first man\nwhom I have known to have fallen, even sometimes to the endangering, if not\nbreaking, of his own neck, for endeavouring to rise all at once.  A murrain\nseize thee for a blockheaded booby, cried the angry seller of sheep; by the\nworthy vow of Our Lady of Charroux, the worst in this flock is four times\nbetter than those which the Coraxians in Tuditania, a country of Spain,\nused to sell for a gold talent each; and how much dost thou think, thou\nHibernian fool, that a talent of gold was worth?  Sweet sir, you fall into\na passion, I see, returned Panurge; well, hold, here is your money.\nPanurge, having paid his money, chose him out of all the flock a fine\ntopping ram; and as he was hauling it along, crying out and bleating, all\nthe rest, hearing and bleating in concert, stared to see whither their\nbrother-ram should be carried.  In the meanwhile the drover was saying to\nhis shepherds:  Ah! how well the knave could choose him out a ram; the\nwhoreson has skill in cattle.  On my honest word, I reserved that very\npiece of flesh for the Lord of Cancale, well knowing his disposition; for\nthe good man is naturally overjoyed when he holds a good-sized handsome\nshoulder of mutton, instead of a left-handed racket, in one hand, with a\ngood sharp carver in the other.  God wot, how he belabours himself then.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge caused Dingdong and his sheep to be drowned in the sea.\n\nOn a sudden, you would wonder how the thing was so soon done--for my part I\ncannot tell you, for I had not leisure to mind it--our friend Panurge,\nwithout any further tittle-tattle, throws you his ram overboard into the\nmiddle of the sea, bleating and making a sad noise.  Upon this all the\nother sheep in the ship, crying and bleating in the same tone, made all the\nhaste they could to leap nimbly into the sea, one after another; and great\nwas the throng who should leap in first after their leader.  It was\nimpossible to hinder them; for you know that it is the nature of sheep\nalways to follow the first wheresoever it goes; which makes Aristotle, lib.\n9. De. Hist. Animal., mark them for the most silly and foolish animals in\nthe world.  Dingdong, at his wits' end, and stark staring mad, as a man who\nsaw his sheep destroy and drown themselves before his face, strove to\nhinder and keep them back with might and main; but all in vain:  they all\none after t'other frisked and jumped into the sea, and were lost.  At last\nhe laid hold on a huge sturdy one by the fleece, upon the deck of the ship,\nhoping to keep it back, and so save that and the rest; but the ram was so\nstrong that it proved too hard for him, and carried its master into the\nherring pond in spite of his teeth--where it is supposed he drank somewhat\nmore than his fill, so that he was drowned--in the same manner as one-eyed\nPolyphemus' sheep carried out of the den Ulysses and his companions.  The\nlike happened to the shepherds and all their gang, some laying hold on\ntheir beloved tup, this by the horns, t'other by the legs, a third by the\nrump, and others by the fleece; till in fine they were all of them forced\nto sea, and drowned like so many rats.  Panurge, on the gunnel of the ship,\nwith an oar in his hand, not to help them you may swear, but to keep them\nfrom swimming to the ship and saving themselves from drowning, preached and\ncanted to them all the while like any little Friar (Oliver) Maillard, or\nanother Friar John Burgess; laying before them rhetorical commonplaces\nconcerning the miseries of this life and the blessings and felicity of the\nnext; assuring them that the dead were much happier than the living in this\nvale of misery, and promised to erect a stately cenotaph and honorary tomb\nto every one of them on the highest summit of Mount Cenis at his return\nfrom Lanternland; wishing them, nevertheless, in case they were not yet\ndisposed to shake hands with this life, and did not like their salt liquor,\nthey might have the good luck to meet with some kind whale which might set\nthem ashore safe and sound on some blessed land of Gotham, after a famous\nexample.\n\nThe ship being cleared of Dingdong and his tups:  Is there ever another\nsheepish soul left lurking on board? cried Panurge.  Where are those of\nToby Lamb and Robin Ram that sleep while the rest are a-feeding?  Faith, I\ncan't tell myself.  This was an old coaster's trick.  What think'st of it,\nFriar John, hah?  Rarely performed, answered Friar John; only methinks that\nas formerly in war, on the day of battle, a double pay was commonly\npromised the soldiers for that day; for if they overcame, there was enough\nto pay them; and if they lost, it would have been shameful for them to\ndemand it, as the cowardly foresters did after the battle of Cerizoles;\nlikewise, my friend, you ought not to have paid your man, and the money had\nbeen saved.  A fart for the money, said Panurge; have I not had above fifty\nthousand pounds' worth of sport?  Come now, let's be gone; the wind is\nfair.  Hark you me, my friend John; never did man do me a good turn, but I\nreturned, or at least acknowledged it; no, I scorn to be ungrateful; I\nnever was, nor ever will be.  Never did man do me an ill one without rueing\nthe day that he did it, either in this world or the next.  I am not yet so\nmuch a fool neither.  Thou damn'st thyself like any old devil, quoth Friar\nJohn; it is written, Mihi vindictam, &c.  Matter of breviary, mark ye me\n(Motteux adds unnecessarily (by way of explanation), 'that's holy stuff.').\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel arrived at the island of Ennasin, and of the strange ways of\nbeing akin in that country.\n\nWe had still the wind at south-south-west, and had been a whole day without\nmaking land.  On the third day, at the flies' uprising (which, you know, is\nsome two or three hours after the sun's), we got sight of a triangular\nisland, very much like Sicily for its form and situation.  It was called\nthe Island of Alliances.\n\nThe people there are much like your carrot-pated Poitevins, save only that\nall of them, men, women, and children, have their noses shaped like an ace\nof clubs.  For that reason the ancient name of the country was Ennasin.\nThey were all akin, as the mayor of the place told us; at least they\nboasted so.\n\nYou people of the other world esteem it a wonderful thing that, out of the\nfamily of the Fabii at Rome, on a certain day, which was the 13th of\nFebruary, at a certain gate, which was the Porta Carmentalis, since named\nScelerata, formerly situated at the foot of the Capitol, between the\nTarpeian rock and the Tiber, marched out against the Veientes of Etruria\nthree hundred and six men bearing arms, all related to each other, with\nfive thousand other soldiers, every one of them their vassals, who were all\nslain near the river Cremera, that comes out of the lake of Beccano.  Now\nfrom this same country of Ennasin, in case of need, above three hundred\nthousand, all relations and of one family, might march out.  Their degrees\nof consanguinity and alliance are very strange; for being thus akin and\nallied to one another, we found that none was either father or mother,\nbrother or sister, uncle or aunt, nephew or niece, son-in-law or\ndaughter-in-law, godfather or godmother, to the other; unless, truly, a tall\nflat-nosed old fellow, who, as I perceived, called a little shitten-arsed\ngirl of three or four years old, father, and the child called him daughter.\n\nTheir distinction of degrees of kindred was thus:  a man used to call a\nwoman, my lean bit; the woman called him, my porpoise.  Those, said Friar\nJohn, must needs stink damnably of fish when they have rubbed their bacon\none with the other.  One, smiling on a young buxom baggage, said, Good\nmorrow, dear currycomb.  She, to return him his civility, said, The like to\nyou, my steed.  Ha! ha! ha! said Panurge, that is pretty well, in faith;\nfor indeed it stands her in good stead to currycomb this steed.  Another\ngreeted his buttock with a Farewell, my case.  She replied, Adieu, trial.\nBy St. Winifred's placket, cried Gymnast, this case has been often tried.\nAnother asked a she-friend of his, How is it, hatchet?  She answered him,\nAt your service, dear helve.  Odds belly, saith Carpalin, this helve and\nthis hatchet are well matched.  As we went on, I saw one who, calling his\nshe-relation, styled her my crumb, and she called him, my crust.\n\nQuoth one to a brisk, plump, juicy female, I am glad to see you, dear tap.\nSo am I to find you so merry, sweet spiggot, replied she.  One called a\nwench, his shovel; she called him, her peal:  one named his, my slipper;\nand she, my foot:  another, my boot; she, my shasoon.\n\nIn the same degree of kindred, one called his, my butter; she called him,\nmy eggs; and they were akin just like a dish of buttered eggs.  I heard one\ncall his, my tripe, and she him, my faggot.  Now I could not, for the\nheart's blood of me, pick out or discover what parentage, alliance,\naffinity, or consanguinity was between them, with reference to our custom;\nonly they told us that she was faggot's tripe.  (Tripe de fagot means the\nsmallest sticks in a faggot.)  Another, complimenting his convenient, said,\nYours, my shell; she replied, I was yours before, sweet oyster.  I reckon,\nsaid Carpalin, she hath gutted his oyster.  Another long-shanked ugly\nrogue, mounted on a pair of high-heeled wooden slippers, meeting a\nstrapping, fusty, squabbed dowdy, says he to her, How is't my top?  She was\nshort upon him, and arrogantly replied, Never the better for you, my whip.\nBy St. Antony's hog, said Xenomanes, I believe so; for how can this whip be\nsufficient to lash this top?\n\nA college professor, well provided with cod, and powdered and prinked up,\nhaving a while discoursed with a great lady, taking his leave with these\nwords, Thank you, sweetmeat; she cried, There needs no thanks, sour-sauce.\nSaith Pantagruel, This is not altogether incongruous, for sweet meat must\nhave sour sauce.  A wooden loggerhead said to a young wench, It is long\nsince I saw you, bag; All the better, cried she, pipe.  Set them together,\nsaid Panurge, then blow in their arses, it will be a bagpipe.  We saw,\nafter that, a diminutive humpbacked gallant, pretty near us, taking leave\nof a she-relation of his, thus:  Fare thee well, friend hole; she\nreparteed, Save thee, friend peg.  Quoth Friar John, What could they say\nmore, were he all peg and she all hole?  But now would I give something to\nknow if every cranny of the hole can be stopped up with that same peg.\n\nA bawdy bachelor, talking with an old trout, was saying, Remember, rusty\ngun.  I will not fail, said she, scourer.  Do you reckon these two to be\nakin? said Pantagruel to the mayor.  I rather take them to be foes.  In our\ncountry a woman would take this as a mortal affront.  Good people of\nt'other world, replied the mayor, you have few such and so near relations\nas this gun and scourer are to one another; for they both come out of one\nshop.  What, was the shop their mother? quoth Panurge.  What mother, said\nthe mayor, does the man mean?  That must be some of your world's affinity;\nwe have here neither father nor mother.  Your little paltry fellows that\nlive on t'other side the water, poor rogues, booted with wisps of hay, may\nindeed have such; but we scorn it.  The good Pantagruel stood gazing and\nlistening; but at those words he had like to have lost all patience. (Here\nMotteux adds an aside--'os kai nun o Ermeneutes.  P.M.').\n\nHaving very exactly viewed the situation of the island and the way of\nliving of the Enassed nation, we went to take a cup of the creature at a\ntavern, where there happened to be a wedding after the manner of the\ncountry.  Bating that shocking custom, there was special good cheer.\n\nWhile we were there, a pleasant match was struck up betwixt a female called\nPear (a tight thing, as we thought, but by some, who knew better things,\nsaid to be quaggy and flabby), and a young soft male, called Cheese,\nsomewhat sandy.  (Many such matches have been, and they were formerly much\ncommended.)  In our country we say, Il ne fut onques tel mariage, qu'est de\nla poire et du fromage; there is no match like that made between the pear\nand the cheese; and in many other places good store of such bargains have\nbeen driven.  Besides, when the women are at their last prayers, it is to\nthis day a noted saying, that after cheese comes nothing.\n\nIn another room I saw them marrying an old greasy boot to a young pliable\nbuskin.  Pantagruel was told that young buskin took old boot to have and to\nhold because she was of special leather, in good case, and waxed, seared,\nliquored, and greased to the purpose, even though it had been for the\nfisherman that went to bed with his boots on.  In another room below, I saw\na young brogue taking a young slipper for better for worse; which, they\ntold us, was neither for the sake of her piety, parts, or person, but for\nthe fourth comprehensive p, portion; the spankers, spur-royals,\nrose-nobles, and other coriander seed with which she was quilted all over.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went ashore at the island of Chely, where he saw King St.\nPanigon.\n\nWe sailed right before the wind, which we had at west, leaving those odd\nalliancers with their ace-of-clubs snouts, and having taken height by the\nsun, stood in for Chely, a large, fruitful, wealthy, and well-peopled\nisland.  King St. Panigon, first of the name, reigned there, and, attended\nby the princes his sons and the nobles of his court, came as far as the\nport to receive Pantagruel, and conducted him to his palace; near the gate\nof which the queen, attended by the princesses her daughters and the court\nladies, received us.  Panigon directed her and all her retinue to salute\nPantagruel and his men with a kiss; for such was the civil custom of the\ncountry; and they were all fairly bussed accordingly, except Friar John,\nwho stepped aside and sneaked off among the king's officers.  Panigon used\nall the entreaties imaginable to persuade Pantagruel to tarry there that\nday and the next; but he would needs be gone, and excused himself upon the\nopportunity of wind and weather, which, being oftener desired than enjoyed,\nought not to be neglected when it comes.  Panigon, having heard these\nreasons, let us go, but first made us take off some five-and-twenty or\nthirty bumpers each.\n\nPantagruel, returning to the port, missed Friar John, and asked why he was\nnot with the rest of the company.  Panurge could not tell how to excuse\nhim, and would have gone back to the palace to call him, when Friar John\novertook them, and merrily cried, Long live the noble Panigon!  As I love\nmy belly, he minds good eating, and keeps a noble house and a dainty\nkitchen.  I have been there, boys.  Everything goes about by dozens.  I was\nin good hopes to have stuffed my puddings there like a monk.  What! always\nin a kitchen, friend? said Pantagruel.  By the belly of St. Cramcapon,\nquoth the friar, I understand the customs and ceremonies which are used\nthere much better than all the formal stuff, antique postures, and\nnonsensical fiddle-faddle that must be used with those women, magni magna,\nshittencumshita, cringes, grimaces, scrapes, bows, and congees; double\nhonours this way, triple salutes that way, the embrace, the grasp, the\nsqueeze, the hug, the leer, the smack, baso las manos de vostra merce, de\nvostra maesta.  You are most tarabin, tarabas, Stront; that's downright\nDutch.  Why all this ado?  I don't say but a man might be for a bit by the\nbye and away, to be doing as well as his neighbours; but this little nasty\ncringing and courtesying made me as mad as any March devil.  You talk of\nkissing ladies; by the worthy and sacred frock I wear, I seldom venture\nupon it, lest I be served as was the Lord of Guyercharois.  What was it?\nsaid Pantagruel; I know him.  He is one of the best friends I have.\n\nHe was invited to a sumptuous feast, said Friar John, by a relation and\nneighbour of his, together with all the gentlemen and ladies in the\nneighbourhood.  Now some of the latter expecting his coming, dressed the\npages in women's clothes, and finified them like any babies; then ordered\nthem to meet my lord at his coming near the drawbridge.  So the\ncomplimenting monsieur came, and there kissed the petticoated lads with\ngreat formality.  At last the ladies, who minded passages in the gallery,\nburst out with laughing, and made signs to the pages to take off their\ndress; which the good lord having observed, the devil a bit he durst make\nup to the true ladies to kiss them, but said, that since they had disguised\nthe pages, by his great grandfather's helmet, these were certainly the very\nfootmen and grooms still more cunningly disguised.  Odds fish, da jurandi,\nwhy do not we rather remove our humanities into some good warm kitchen of\nGod, that noble laboratory, and there admire the turning of the spits, the\nharmonious rattling of the jacks and fenders, criticise on the position of\nthe lard, the temperature of the pottages, the preparation for the dessert,\nand the order of the wine service?  Beati immaculati in via.  Matter of\nbreviary, my masters.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhy monks love to be in kitchens.\n\nThis, said Epistemon, is spoke like a true monk; I mean like a right\nmonking monk, not a bemonked monastical monkling.  Truly you put me in mind\nof some passages that happened at Florence, some twenty years ago, in a\ncompany of studious travellers, fond of visiting the learned, and seeing\nthe antiquities of Italy, among whom I was.  As we viewed the situation and\nbeauty of Florence, the structure of the dome, the magnificence of the\nchurches and palaces, we strove to outdo one another in giving them their\ndue; when a certain monk of Amiens, Bernard Lardon by name, quite angry,\nscandalized, and out of all patience, told us, I don't know what the devil\nyou can find in this same town, that is so much cried up; for my part I\nhave looked and pored and stared as well as the best of you; I think my\neyesight is as clear as another body's, and what can one see after all?\nThere are fine houses, indeed and that's all.  But the cage does not feed\nthe birds.  God and Monsieur St. Bernard, our good patron, be with us! in\nall this same town I have not seen one poor lane of roasting cooks; and yet\nI have not a little looked about and sought for so necessary a part of a\ncommonwealth:  ay, and I dare assure you that I have pried up and down with\nthe exactness of an informer; as ready to number, both to the right and\nleft, how many, and on what side, we might find most roasting cooks, as a\nspy would be to reckon the bastions of a town.  Now at Amiens, in four,\nnay, five times less ground than we have trod in our contemplations, I\ncould have shown you above fourteen streets of roasting cooks, most\nancient, savoury, and aromatic.  I cannot imagine what kind of pleasure you\ncan have taken in gazing on the lions and Africans (so methinks you call\ntheir tigers) near the belfry, or in ogling the porcupines and estridges in\nthe Lord Philip Strozzi's palace.  Faith and truth I had rather see a good\nfat goose at the spit.  This porphyry, those marbles are fine; I say\nnothing to the contrary; but our cheesecakes at Amiens are far better in my\nmind.  These ancient statues are well made; I am willing to believe it;\nbut, by St. Ferreol of Abbeville, we have young wenches in our country\nwhich please me better a thousand times.\n\nWhat is the reason, asked Friar John, that monks are always to be found in\nkitchens, and kings, emperors, and popes are never there?  Is there not,\nsaid Rhizotome, some latent virtue and specific propriety hid in the\nkettles and pans, which, as the loadstone attracts iron, draws the monks\nthere, and cannot attract emperors, popes, or kings?  Or is it a natural\ninduction and inclination, fixed in the frocks and cowls, which of itself\nleads and forceth those good religious men into kitchens, whether they will\nor no?  He would speak of forms following matter, as Averroes calls them,\nanswered Epistemon.  Right, said Friar John.\n\nI will not offer to solve this problem, said Pantagruel; for it is somewhat\nticklish, and you can hardly handle it without coming off scurvily; but I\nwill tell you what I have heard.\n\nAntigonus, King of Macedon, one day coming into one of the tents, where his\ncooks used to dress his meat, and finding there poet Antagoras frying a\nconger, and holding the pan himself, merrily asked him, Pray, Mr. Poet, was\nHomer frying congers when he wrote the deeds of Agamemnon?  Antagoras\nreadily answered:  But do you think, sir, that when Agamemnon did them he\nmade it his business to know if any in his camp were frying congers?  The\nking thought it an indecency that a poet should be thus a-frying in a\nkitchen; and the poet let the king know that it was a more indecent thing\nfor a king to be found in such a place.  I'll clap another story upon the\nneck of this, quoth Panurge, and will tell you what Breton Villandry\nanswered one day to the Duke of Guise.\n\nThey were saying that at a certain battle of King Francis against Charles\nthe Fifth, Breton, armed cap-a-pie to the teeth, and mounted like St.\nGeorge, yet sneaked off, and played least in sight during the engagement.\nBlood and oons, answered Breton, I was there, and can prove it easily; nay,\neven where you, my lord, dared not have been.  The duke began to resent\nthis as too rash and saucy; but Breton easily appeased him, and set them\nall a-laughing.  Egad, my lord, quoth he, I kept out of harm's way; I was\nall the while with your page Jack, skulking in a certain place where you\nhad not dared hide your head as I did.  Thus discoursing, they got to their\nships, and left the island of Chely.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel passed by the land of Pettifogging, and of the strange way\nof living among the Catchpoles.\n\nSteering our course forwards the next day, we passed through Pettifogging,\na country all blurred and blotted, so that I could hardly tell what to make\non't.  There we saw some pettifoggers and catchpoles, rogues that will hang\ntheir father for a groat.  They neither invited us to eat or drink; but,\nwith a multiplied train of scrapes and cringes, said they were all at our\nservice for the Legem pone.\n\nOne of our droggermen related to Pantagruel their strange way of living,\ndiametrically opposed to that of our modern Romans; for at Rome a world of\nfolks get an honest livelihood by poisoning, drubbing, lambasting,\nstabbing, and murthering; but the catchpoles earn theirs by being thrashed;\nso that if they were long without a tight lambasting, the poor dogs with\ntheir wives and children would be starved.  This is just, quoth Panurge,\nlike those who, as Galen tells us, cannot erect the cavernous nerve towards\nthe equinoctial circle unless they are soundly flogged.  By St. Patrick's\nslipper, whoever should jerk me so, would soon, instead of setting me\nright, throw me off the saddle, in the devil's name.\n\nThe way is this, said the interpreter.  When a monk, levite, close-fisted\nusurer, or lawyer owes a grudge to some neighbouring gentleman, he sends to\nhim one of those catchpoles or apparitors, who nabs, or at least cites him,\nserves a writ or warrant upon him, thumps, abuses, and affronts him\nimpudently by natural instinct, and according to his pious instructions;\ninsomuch, that if the gentleman hath but any guts in his brains, and is not\nmore stupid than a gyrin frog, he will find himself obliged either to apply\na faggot-stick or his sword to the rascal's jobbernowl, give him the gentle\nlash, or make him cut a caper out at the window, by way of correction.\nThis done, Catchpole is rich for four months at least, as if bastinadoes\nwere his real harvest; for the monk, levite, usurer, or lawyer will reward\nhim roundly; and my gentleman must pay him such swingeing damages that his\nacres must bleed for it, and he be in danger of miserably rotting within a\nstone doublet, as if he had struck the king.\n\nQuoth Panurge, I know an excellent remedy against this used by the Lord of\nBasche.  What is it? said Pantagruel.  The Lord of Basche, said Panurge,\nwas a brave, honest, noble-spirited gentleman, who, at his return from the\nlong war in which the Duke of Ferrara, with the help of the French, bravely\ndefended himself against the fury of Pope Julius the Second, was every day\ncited, warned, and prosecuted at the suit and for the sport and fancy of\nthe fat prior of St. Louant.\n\nOne morning, as he was at breakfast with some of his domestics (for he\nloved to be sometimes among them) he sent for one Loire, his baker, and his\nspouse, and for one Oudart, the vicar of his parish, who was also his\nbutler, as the custom was then in France; then said to them before his\ngentlemen and other servants:  You all see how I am daily plagued with\nthese rascally catchpoles.  Truly, if you do not lend me your helping hand,\nI am finally resolved to leave the country, and go fight for the sultan, or\nthe devil, rather than be thus eternally teased.  Therefore, to be rid of\ntheir damned visits, hereafter, when any of them come here, be ready, you\nbaker and your wife, to make your personal appearance in my great hall, in\nyour wedding clothes, as if you were going to be affianced.  Here, take\nthese ducats, which I give you to keep you in a fitting garb.  As for you,\nSir Oudart, be sure you make your personal appearance there in your fine\nsurplice and stole, not forgetting your holy water, as if you were to wed\nthem.  Be you there also, Trudon, said he to his drummer, with your pipe\nand tabor.  The form of matrimony must be read, and the bride kissed; then\nall of you, as the witnesses used to do in this country, shall give one\nanother the remembrance of the wedding, which you know is to be a blow with\nyour fist, bidding the party struck remember the nuptials by that token.\nThis will but make you have the better stomach to your supper; but when you\ncome to the catchpole's turn, thrash him thrice and threefold, as you would\na sheaf of green corn; do not spare him; maul him, drub him, lambast him,\nswinge him off, I pray you.  Here, take these steel gauntlets, covered with\nkid.  Head, back, belly, and sides, give him blows innumerable; he that\ngives him most shall be my best friend.  Fear not to be called to an\naccount about it; I will stand by you; for the blows must seem to be given\nin jest, as it is customary among us at all weddings.\n\nAy, but how shall we know the catchpole? said the man of God.  All sorts of\npeople daily resort to this castle.  I have taken care of that, replied the\nlord.  When some fellow, either on foot, or on a scurvy jade, with a large\nbroad silver ring on his thumb, comes to the door, he is certainly a\ncatchpole; the porter having civilly let him in, shall ring the bell; then\nbe all ready, and come into the hall, to act the tragi-comedy whose plot I\nhave now laid for you.\n\nThat numerical day, as chance would have it, came an old fat ruddy\ncatchpole.  Having knocked at the gate, and then pissed, as most men will\ndo, the porter soon found him out, by his large greasy spatterdashes, his\njaded hollow-flanked mare, his bagful of writs and informations dangling at\nhis girdle, but, above all, by the large silver hoop on his left thumb.\n\nThe porter was civil to him, admitted him in kindly, and rung the bell\nbriskly. As soon as the baker and his wife heard it, they clapped on their\nbest clothes, and made their personal appearance in the hall, keeping their\ngravities like a new-made judge.  The dominie put on his surplice and\nstole, and as he came out of his office, met the catchpole, had him in\nthere, and made him suck his face a good while, while the gauntlets were\ndrawing on all hands; and then told him, You are come just in pudding-time;\nmy lord is in his right cue.  We shall feast like kings anon; here is to be\nswingeing doings; we have a wedding in the house; here, drink and cheer up;\npull away.\n\nWhile these two were at it hand-to-fist, Basche, seeing all his people in\nthe hall in their proper equipage, sends for the vicar.  Oudart comes with\nthe holy-water pot, followed by the catchpole, who, as he came into the\nhall, did not forget to make good store of awkward cringes, and then served\nBasche with a writ.  Basche gave him grimace for grimace, slipped an angel\ninto his mutton-fist, and prayed him to assist at the contract and\nceremony; which he did.  When it was ended, thumps and fisticuffs began to\nfly about among the assistants; but when it came to the catchpole's turn,\nthey all laid on him so unmercifully with their gauntlets that they at last\nsettled him, all stunned and battered, bruised and mortified, with one of\nhis eyes black and blue, eight ribs bruised, his brisket sunk in, his\nomoplates in four quarters, his under jawbone in three pieces; and all this\nin jest, and no harm done.  God wot how the levite belaboured him, hiding\nwithin the long sleeve of his canonical shirt his huge steel gauntlet lined\nwith ermine; for he was a strong-built ball, and an old dog at fisticuffs.\nThe catchpole, all of a bloody tiger-like stripe, with much ado crawled\nhome to L'Isle Bouchart, well pleased and edified, however, with Basche's\nkind reception; and, with the help of the good surgeons of the place, lived\nas long as you would have him.  From that time to this, not a word of the\nbusiness; the memory of it was lost with the sound of the bells that rung\nwith joy at his funeral.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow, like Master Francis Villon, the Lord of Basche commended his servants.\n\nThe catchpole being packed off on blind Sorrel--so he called his one-eyed\nmare--Basche sent for his lady, her women, and all his servants, into the\narbour of his garden; had wine brought, attended with good store of\npasties, hams, fruit, and other table-ammunition, for a nunchion; drank\nwith them joyfully, and then told them this story:\n\nMaster Francis Villon in his old age retired to St. Maxent in Poitou, under\nthe patronage of a good honest abbot of the place.  There to make sport for\nthe mob, he undertook to get the Passion acted, after the way, and in the\ndialect of the country.  The parts being distributed, the play having been\nrehearsed, and the stage prepared, he told the mayor and aldermen that the\nmystery might be ready after Niort fair, and that there only wanted\nproperties and necessaries, but chiefly clothes fit for the parts; so the\nmayor and his brethren took care to get them.\n\nVillon, to dress an old clownish father greybeard, who was to represent God\nthe father, begged of Friar Stephen Tickletoby, sacristan to the Franciscan\nfriars of the place, to lend him a cope and a stole.  Tickletoby refused\nhim, alleging that by their provincial statutes it was rigorously forbidden\nto give or lend anything to players.  Villon replied that the statute\nreached no farther than farces, drolls, antics, loose and dissolute games,\nand that he asked no more than what he had seen allowed at Brussels and\nother places.  Tickletoby notwithstanding peremptorily bid him provide\nhimself elsewhere if he would, and not to hope for anything out of his\nmonastical wardrobe.  Villon gave an account of this to the players, as of\na most abominable action; adding, that God would shortly revenge himself,\nand make an example of Tickletoby.\n\nThe Saturday following he had notice given him that Tickletoby, upon the\nfilly of the convent--so they call a young mare that was never leaped yet\n--was gone a-mumping to St. Ligarius, and would be back about two in the\nafternoon.  Knowing this, he made a cavalcade of his devils of the Passion\nthrough the town.  They were all rigged with wolves', calves', and rams'\nskins, laced and trimmed with sheep's heads, bull's feathers, and large\nkitchen tenterhooks, girt with broad leathern girdles, whereat hanged\ndangling huge cow-bells and horse-bells, which made a horrid din.  Some\nheld in their claws black sticks full of squibs and crackers; others had\nlong lighted pieces of wood, upon which, at the corner of every street,\nthey flung whole handfuls of rosin-dust, that made a terrible fire and\nsmoke.  Having thus led them about, to the great diversion of the mob and\nthe dreadful fear of little children, he finally carried them to an\nentertainment at a summer-house without the gate that leads to St.\nLigarius.\n\nAs they came near to the place, he espied Tickletoby afar off, coming home\nfrom mumping, and told them in macaronic verse:\n\n  Hic est de patria, natus, de gente belistra,\n  Qui solet antiqua bribas portare bisacco. (Motteux reads:\n\n  'Hic est mumpator natus de gente Cucowli,\n  Qui solet antiquo Scrappas portare bisacco.')\n\nA plague on his friarship, said the devils then; the lousy beggar would not\nlend a poor cope to the fatherly father; let us fright him.  Well said,\ncried Villon; but let us hide ourselves till he comes by, and then charge\nhim home briskly with your squibs and burning sticks.  Tickletoby being\ncome to the place, they all rushed on a sudden into the road to meet him,\nand in a frightful manner threw fire from all sides upon him and his filly\nfoal, ringing and tingling their bells, and howling like so many real\ndevils, Hho, hho, hho, hho, brrou, rrou, rrourrs, rrrourrs, hoo, hou, hou\nhho, hho, hhoi.  Friar Stephen, don't we play the devils rarely?  The filly\nwas soon scared out of her seven senses, and began to start, to funk it, to\nsquirt it, to trot it, to fart it, to bound it, to gallop it, to kick it,\nto spurn it, to calcitrate it, to wince it, to frisk it, to leap it, to\ncurvet it, with double jerks, and bum-motions; insomuch that she threw down\nTickletoby, though he held fast by the tree of the pack-saddle with might\nand main.  Now his straps and stirrups were of cord; and on the right side\nhis sandals were so entangled and twisted that he could not for the heart's\nblood of him get out his foot.  Thus he was dragged about by the filly\nthrough the road, scratching his bare breech all the way; she still\nmultiplying her kicks against him, and straying for fear over hedge and\nditch, insomuch that she trepanned his thick skull so that his cockle\nbrains were dashed out near the Osanna or high-cross.  Then his arms fell\nto pieces, one this way and the other that way; and even so were his legs\nserved at the same time.  Then she made a bloody havoc with his puddings;\nand being got to the convent, brought back only his right foot and twisted\nsandal, leaving them to guess what was become of the rest.\n\nVillon, seeing that things had succeeded as he intended, said to his\ndevils, You will act rarely, gentlemen devils, you will act rarely; I dare\nengage you'll top your parts.  I defy the devils of Saumur, Douay,\nMontmorillon, Langez, St. Espain, Angers; nay, by gad, even those of\nPoictiers, for all their bragging and vapouring, to match you.\n\nThus, friends, said Basche, I foresee that hereafter you will act rarely\nthis tragical farce, since the very first time you have so skilfully\nhampered, bethwacked, belammed, and bebumped the catchpole.  From this day\nI double your wages.  As for you, my dear, said he to his lady, make your\ngratifications as you please; you are my treasurer, you know.  For my part,\nfirst and foremost, I drink to you all.  Come on, box it about; it is good\nand cool.  In the second place, you, Mr. Steward, take this silver basin; I\ngive it you freely.  Then you, my gentlemen of the horse, take these two\nsilver-gilt cups, and let not the pages be horsewhipped these three months.\nMy dear, let them have my best white plumes of feathers, with the gold\nbuckles to them.  Sir Oudart, this silver flagon falls to your share; this\nother I give to the cooks.  To the valets de chambre I give this silver\nbasket; to the grooms, this silver-gilt boat; to the porter, these two\nplates; to the hostlers, these ten porringers.  Trudon, take you these\nsilver spoons and this sugar-box.  You, footman, take this large salt.\nServe me well, and I will remember you.  For, on the word of a gentleman, I\nhad rather bear in war one hundred blows on my helmet in the service of my\ncountry than be once cited by these knavish catchpoles merely to humour\nthis same gorbellied prior.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA further account of catchpoles who were drubbed at Basche's house.\n\nFour days after another young, long-shanked, raw-boned catchpole coming to\nserve Basche with a writ at the fat prior's request, was no sooner at the\ngate but the porter smelt him out and rung the bell; at whose second pull\nall the family understood the mystery.  Loire was kneading his dough; his\nwife was sifting meal; Oudart was toping in his office; the gentlemen were\nplaying at tennis; the Lord Basche at in-and-out with my lady; the\nwaiting-men and gentle-women at push-pin; the officers at lanterloo, and the\npages at hot-cockles, giving one another smart bangs.  They were all\nimmediately informed that a catchpole was housed.\n\nUpon this Oudart put on his sacerdotal, and Loire and his wife their\nnuptial badges; Trudon piped it, and then tabored it like mad; all made\nhaste to get ready, not forgetting the gauntlets.  Basche went into the\noutward yard; there the catchpole meeting him fell on his marrow-bones,\nbegged of him not to take it ill if he served him with a writ at the suit\nof the fat prior; and in a pathetic speech let him know that he was a\npublic person, a servant to the monking tribe, apparitor to the abbatial\nmitre, ready to do as much for him, nay, for the least of his servants,\nwhensoever he would employ and use him.\n\nNay, truly, said the lord, you shall not serve your writ till you have\ntasted some of my good Quinquenays wine, and been a witness to a wedding\nwhich we are to have this very minute.  Let him drink and refresh himself,\nadded he, turning towards the levitical butler, and then bring him into the\nhall.  After which, Catchpole, well stuffed and moistened, came with Oudart\nto the place where all the actors in the farce stood ready to begin.  The\nsight of their game set them a-laughing, and the messenger of mischief\ngrinned also for company's sake.  Then the mysterious words were muttered\nto and by the couple, their hands joined, the bride bussed, and all\nbesprinkled with holy water.  While they were bringing wine and kickshaws,\nthumps began to trot about by dozens.  The catchpole gave the levite\nseveral blows.  Oudart, who had his gauntlet hid under his canonical shirt,\ndraws it on like a mitten, and then, with his clenched fist, souse he fell\non the catchpole and mauled him like a devil; the junior gauntlets dropped\non him likewise like so many battering rams.  Remember the wedding by this,\nby that, by these blows, said they.  In short, they stroked him so to the\npurpose that he pissed blood out at mouth, nose, ears, and eyes, and was\nbruised, thwacked, battered, bebumped, and crippled at the back, neck,\nbreast, arms, and so forth.  Never did the bachelors at Avignon in carnival\ntime play more melodiously at raphe than was then played on the catchpole's\nmicrocosm.  At last down he fell.\n\nThey threw a great deal of wine on his snout, tied round the sleeve of his\ndoublet a fine yellow and green favour, and got him upon his snotty beast,\nand God knows how he got to L'Isle Bouchart; where I cannot truly tell you\nwhether he was dressed and looked after or no, both by his spouse and the\nable doctors of the country; for the thing never came to my ears.\n\nThe next day they had a third part to the same tune, because it did not\nappear by the lean catchpole's bag that he had served his writ.  So the fat\nprior sent a new catchpole, at the head of a brace of bums for his garde du\ncorps, to summon my lord.  The porter ringing the bell, the whole family\nwas overjoyed, knowing that it was another rogue.  Basche was at dinner\nwith his lady and the gentlemen; so he sent for the catchpole, made him sit\nby him, and the bums by the women, and made them eat till their bellies\ncracked with their breeches unbuttoned.  The fruit being served, the\ncatchpole arose from table, and before the bums cited Basche.  Basche\nkindly asked him for a copy of the warrant, which the other had got ready;\nhe then takes witness and a copy of the summons.  To the catchpole and his\nbums he ordered four ducats for civility money.  In the meantime all were\nwithdrawn for the farce.  So Trudon gave the alarm with his tabor.  Basche\ndesired the catchpole to stay and see one of his servants married, and\nwitness the contract of marriage, paying him his fee.  The catchpole\nslapdash was ready, took out his inkhorn, got paper immediately, and his\nbums by him.\n\nThen Loire came into the hall at one door, and his wife with the\ngentlewomen at another, in nuptial accoutrements.  Oudart, in\npontificalibus, takes them both by their hands, asketh them their will,\ngiveth them the matrimonial blessing, and was very liberal of holy water.\nThe contract written, signed, and registered, on one side was brought wine\nand comfits; on the other, white and orange-tawny-coloured favours were\ndistributed; on another, gauntlets privately handed about.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the ancient custom at nuptials is renewed by the catchpole.\n\nThe catchpole, having made shift to get down a swingeing sneaker of Breton\nwine, said to Basche, Pray, sir, what do you mean?  You do not give one\nanother the memento of the wedding.  By St. Joseph's wooden shoe, all good\ncustoms are forgot.  We find the form, but the hare is scampered; and the\nnest, but the birds are flown.  There are no true friends nowadays.  You\nsee how, in several churches, the ancient laudable custom of tippling on\naccount of the blessed saints O O, at Christmas, is come to nothing.  The\nworld is in its dotage, and doomsday is certainly coming all so fast.  Now\ncome on; the wedding, the wedding, the wedding; remember it by this.  This\nhe said, striking Basche and his lady; then her women and the levite.  Then\nthe tabor beat a point of war, and the gauntlets began to do their duty;\ninsomuch that the catchpole had his crown cracked in no less than nine\nplaces.  One of the bums had his right arm put out of joint, and the other\nhis upper jaw-bone or mandibule dislocated so that it hid half his chin,\nwith a denudation of the uvula, and sad loss of the molar, masticatory, and\ncanine teeth.  Then the tabor beat a retreat; the gauntlets were carefully\nhid in a trice, and sweetmeats afresh distributed to renew the mirth of the\ncompany.  So they all drank to one another, and especially to the catchpole\nand his bums.  But Oudart cursed and damned the wedding to the pit of hell,\ncomplaining that one of the bums had utterly disincornifistibulated his\nnether shoulder-blade.  Nevertheless, he scorned to be thought a flincher,\nand made shift to tope to him on the square.\n\nThe jawless bum shrugged up his shoulders, joined his hands, and by signs\nbegged his pardon; for speak he could not.  The sham bridegroom made his\nmoan, that the crippled bum had struck him such a horrid thump with his\nshoulder-of-mutton fist on the nether elbow that he was grown quite\nesperruquanchuzelubelouzerireliced down to his very heel, to the no small\nloss of mistress bride.\n\nBut what harm had poor I done? cried Trudon, hiding his left eye with his\nkerchief, and showing his tabor cracked on one side; they were not\nsatisfied with thus poaching, black and bluing, and\nmorrambouzevezengouzequoquemorgasacbaquevezinemaffreliding my poor eyes,\nbut they have also broke my harmless drum.  Drums indeed are commonly\nbeaten at weddings, and it is fit they should; but drummers are well\nentertained and never beaten.  Now let Beelzebub e'en take the drum, to\nmake his devilship a nightcap.  Brother, said the lame catchpole, never\nfret thyself; I will make thee a present of a fine, large, old patent,\nwhich I have here in my bag, to patch up thy drum, and for Madame St.\nAnn's sake I pray thee forgive us.  By Our Lady of Riviere, the blessed\ndame, I meant no more harm than the child unborn.  One of the equerries,\nwho, hopping and halting like a mumping cripple, mimicked the good limping\nLord de la Roche Posay, directed his discourse to the bum with the pouting\njaw, and told him:  What, Mr. Manhound, was it not enough thus to have\nmorcrocastebezasteverestegrigeligoscopapopondrillated us all in our upper\nmembers with your botched mittens, but you must also apply such\nmorderegripippiatabirofreluchamburelurecaquelurintimpaniments on our\nshinbones with the hard tops and extremities of your cobbled shoes.  Do\nyou call this children's play?  By the mass, 'tis no jest.  The bum,\nwringing his hands, seemed to beg his pardon, muttering with his tongue,\nMon, mon, mon, vrelon, von, von, like a dumb man.  The bride crying\nlaughed, and laughing cried, because the catchpole was not satisfied with\ndrubbing her without choice or distinction of members, but had also rudely\nroused and toused her, pulled off her topping, and not having the fear of\nher husband before his eyes, treacherously\ntrepignemanpenillorifrizonoufresterfumbled tumbled and squeezed her lower\nparts.  The devil go with it, said Basche; there was much need indeed that\nthis same Master King (this was the catchpole's name) should thus break my\nwife's back; however, I forgive him now; these are little nuptial\ncaresses. But this I plainly perceive, that he cited me like an angel, and\ndrubbed me like a devil.  He had something in him of Friar Thumpwell.\nCome, for all this, I must drink to him, and to you likewise, his trusty\nesquires.  But, said his lady, why hath he been so very liberal of his\nmanual kindness to me, without the least provocation?  I assure you, I by\nno means like it; but this I dare say for him, that he hath the hardest\nknuckles that ever I felt on my shoulders.  The steward held his left arm\nin a scarf, as if it had been rent and torn in twain.  I think it was the\ndevil, said he, that moved me to assist at these nuptials; shame on ill\nluck; I must needs be meddling with a pox, and now see what I have got by\nthe bargain, both my arms are wretchedly engoulevezinemassed and bruised.\nDo you call this a wedding?  By St. Bridget's tooth, I had rather be at\nthat of a Tom T--d-man.  This is, o' my word, even just such another feast\nas was that of the Lapithae, described by the philosopher of Samosata.\nOne of the bums had lost his tongue.  The other two, tho' they had more\nneed to complain, made their excuse as well as they could, protesting that\nthey had no ill design in this dumbfounding; begging that, for goodness\nsake, they would forgive them; and so, tho' they could hardly budge a\nfoot, or wag along, away they crawled.  About a mile from Basche's seat,\nthe catchpole found himself somewhat out of sorts.  The bums got to L'Isle\nBouchart, publicly saying that since they were born they had never seen an\nhonester gentleman than the Lord of Basche, or civiller people than his,\nand that they had never been at the like wedding (which I verily believe);\nbut that it was their own faults if they had been tickled off, and tossed\nabout from post to pillar, since themselves had began the beating.  So\nthey lived I cannot exactly tell you how many days after this.  But from\nthat time to this it was held for a certain truth that Basche's money was\nmore pestilential, mortal, and pernicious to the catchpoles and bums than\nwere formerly the aurum Tholosanum and the Sejan horse to those that\npossessed them.  Ever since this he lived quietly, and Basche's wedding\ngrew into a common proverb.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Friar John made trial of the nature of the catchpoles.\n\nThis story would seem pleasant enough, said Pantagruel, were we not to have\nalways the fear of God before our eyes.  It had been better, said\nEpistemon, if those gauntlets had fallen upon the fat prior.  Since he took\na pleasure in spending his money partly to vex Basche, partly to see those\ncatchpoles banged, good lusty thumps would have done well on his shaved\ncrown, considering the horrid concussions nowadays among those puny judges.\nWhat harm had done those poor devils the catchpoles?  This puts me in mind,\nsaid Pantagruel, of an ancient Roman named L. Neratius.  He was of noble\nblood, and for some time was rich; but had this tyrannical inclination,\nthat whenever he went out of doors he caused his servants to fill their\npockets with gold and silver, and meeting in the street your spruce\ngallants and better sort of beaux, without the least provocation, for his\nfancy, he used to strike them hard on the face with his fist; and\nimmediately after that, to appease them and hinder them from complaining to\nthe magistrates, he would give them as much money as satisfied them\naccording to the law of the twelve tables.  Thus he used to spend his\nrevenue, beating people for the price of his money.  By St. Bennet's sacred\nboot, quoth Friar John, I will know the truth of it presently.\n\nThis said, he went on shore, put his hand in his fob, and took out twenty\nducats; then said with a loud voice, in the hearing of a shoal of the\nnation of catchpoles, Who will earn twenty ducats for being beaten like the\ndevil?  Io, Io, Io, said they all; you will cripple us for ever, sir, that\nis most certain; but the money is tempting.  With this they were all\nthronging who should be first to be thus preciously beaten.  Friar John\nsingled him out of the whole knot of these rogues in grain, a red-snouted\ncatchpole, who upon his right thumb wore a thick broad silver hoop, wherein\nwas set a good large toadstone.  He had no sooner picked him out from the\nrest, but I perceived that they all muttered and grumbled; and I heard a\nyoung thin-jawed catchpole, a notable scholar, a pretty fellow at his pen,\nand, according to public report, much cried up for his honesty at Doctors'\nCommons, making his complaint and muttering because this same crimson phiz\ncarried away all the practice, and that if there were but a score and a\nhalf of bastinadoes to be got, he would certainly run away with eight and\ntwenty of them.  But all this was looked upon to be nothing but mere envy.\n\nFriar John so unmercifully thrashed, thumped, and belaboured Red-snout,\nback and belly, sides, legs, and arms, head, feet, and so forth, with the\nhome and frequently repeated application of one of the best members of a\nfaggot, that I took him to be a dead man; then he gave him the twenty\nducats, which made the dog get on his legs, pleased like a little king or\ntwo.  The rest were saying to Friar John, Sir, sir, brother devil, if it\nplease you to do us the favour to beat some of us for less money, we are\nall at your devilship's command, bags, papers, pens, and all.  Red-snout\ncried out against them, saying, with a loud voice, Body of me, you little\nprigs, will you offer to take the bread out of my mouth? will you take my\nbargain over my head? would you draw and inveigle from me my clients and\ncustomers?  Take notice, I summon you before the official this day\nsevennight; I will law and claw you like any old devil of Vauverd, that I\nwill--Then turning himself towards Friar John, with a smiling and joyful\nlook, he said to him, Reverend father in the devil, if you have found me a\ngood hide, and have a mind to divert yourself once more by beating your\nhumble servant, I will bate you half in half this time rather than lose\nyour custom; do not spare me, I beseech you; I am all, and more than all,\nyours, good Mr. Devil; head, lungs, tripes, guts, and garbage; and that at\na pennyworth, I'll assure you.  Friar John never heeded his proffers, but\neven left them.  The other catchpoles were making addresses to Panurge,\nEpistemon, Gymnast, and others, entreating them charitably to bestow upon\ntheir carcasses a small beating, for otherwise they were in danger of\nkeeping a long fast; but none of them had a stomach to it.  Some time\nafter, seeking fresh water for the ship's company, we met a couple of old\nfemale catchpoles of the place, miserably howling and weeping in concert.\nPantagruel had kept on board, and already had caused a retreat to be\nsounded.  Thinking that they might be related to the catchpole that was\nbastinadoed, we asked them the occasion of their grief.  They replied that\nthey had too much cause to weep; for that very hour, from an exalted triple\ntree, two of the honestest gentlemen in Catchpole-land had been made to cut\na caper on nothing.  Cut a caper on nothing, said Gymnast; my pages use to\ncut capers on the ground; to cut a caper on nothing should be hanging and\nchoking, or I am out.  Ay, ay, said Friar John; you speak of it like St.\nJohn de la Palisse.\n\nWe asked them why they treated these worthy persons with such a choking\nhempen salad.  They told us they had only borrowed, alias stolen, the tools\nof the mass and hid them under the handle of the parish.  This is a very\nallegorical way of speaking, said Epistemon.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel came to the islands of Tohu and Bohu; and of the strange\ndeath of Wide-nostrils, the swallower of windmills.\n\nThat day Pantagruel came to the two islands of Tohu and Bohu, where the\ndevil a bit we could find anything to fry with.  For one Wide-nostrils,\na huge giant, had swallowed every individual pan, skillet, kettle,\nfrying-pan, dripping-pan, and brass and iron pot in the land, for want of\nwindmills, which were his daily food.  Whence it happened that somewhat\nbefore day, about the hour of his digestion, the greedy churl was taken\nvery ill with a kind of a surfeit, or crudity of stomach, occasioned, as\nthe physicians said, by the weakness of the concocting faculty of his\nstomach, naturally disposed to digest whole windmills at a gust, yet unable\nto consume perfectly the pans and skillets; though it had indeed pretty\nwell digested the kettles and pots, as they said they knew by the\nhypostases and eneoremes of four tubs of second-hand drink which he had\nevacuated at two different times that morning.  They made use of divers\nremedies, according to art, to give him ease; but all would not do; the\ndistemper prevailed over the remedies; insomuch that the famous\nWide-nostrils died that morning of so strange a death that I think you ought\nno longer to wonder at that of the poet Aeschylus.  It had been foretold him\nby the soothsayers that he would die on a certain day by the ruin of\nsomething that should fall on him.  The fatal day being come in its turn, he\nremoved himself out of town, far from all houses, trees, (rocks,) or any\nother things that can fall and endanger by their ruin; and strayed in a\nlarge field, trusting himself to the open sky; there very secure, as he\nthought, unless indeed the sky should happen to fall, which he held to be\nimpossible.  Yet they say that the larks are much afraid of it; for if it\nshould fall, they must all be taken.\n\nThe Celts that once lived near the Rhine--they are our noble valiant\nFrench--in ancient times were also afraid of the sky's falling; for being\nasked by Alexander the Great what they feared most in this world, hoping\nwell they would say that they feared none but him, considering his great\nachievements, they made answer that they feared nothing but the sky's\nfalling; however, not refusing to enter into a confederacy with so brave a\nking, if you believe Strabo, lib. 7, and Arrian, lib. I.\n\nPlutarch also, in his book of the face that appears on the body of the\nmoon, speaks of one Phenaces, who very much feared the moon should fall on\nthe earth, and pitied those that live under that planet, as the Aethiopians\nand Taprobanians, if so heavy a mass ever happened to fall on them, and\nwould have feared the like of heaven and earth had they not been duly\npropped up and borne by the Atlantic pillars, as the ancients believed,\naccording to Aristotle's testimony, lib. 5, Metaphys.  Notwithstanding all\nthis, poor Aeschylus was killed by the fall of the shell of a tortoise,\nwhich falling from betwixt the claws of an eagle high in the air, just on\nhis head, dashed out his brains.\n\nNeither ought you to wonder at the death of another poet, I mean old jolly\nAnacreon, who was choked with a grape-stone.  Nor at that of Fabius the\nRoman praetor, who was choked with a single goat's hair as he was supping\nup a porringer of milk.  Nor at the death of that bashful fool, who by\nholding in his wind, and for want of letting out a bum-gunshot, died\nsuddenly in the presence of the Emperor Claudius.  Nor at that of the\nItalian buried on the Via Flaminia at Rome, who in his epitaph complains\nthat the bite of a she-puss on his little finger was the cause of his\ndeath.  Nor of that of Q. Lecanius Bassus, who died suddenly of so small a\nprick with a needle on his left thumb that it could hardly be discerned.\nNor of Quenelault, a Norman physician, who died suddenly at Montpellier,\nmerely for having sideways took a worm out of his hand with a penknife.\nNor of Philomenes, whose servant having got him some new figs for the first\ncourse of his dinner, whilst he went to fetch wine, a straggling well-hung\nass got into the house, and seeing the figs on the table, without further\ninvitation soberly fell to.  Philomenes coming into the room and nicely\nobserving with what gravity the ass ate its dinner, said to the man, who\nwas come back, Since thou hast set figs here for this reverend guest of\nours to eat, methinks it is but reason thou also give him some of this wine\nto drink.  He had no sooner said this, but he was so excessively pleased,\nand fell into so exorbitant a fit of laughter, that the use of his spleen\ntook that of his breath utterly away, and he immediately died.  Nor of\nSpurius Saufeius, who died supping up a soft-boiled egg as he came out of a\nbath.  Nor of him who, as Boccaccio tells us, died suddenly by picking his\ngrinders with a sage-stalk.  Nor of Phillipot Placut, who being brisk and\nhale, fell dead as he was paying an old debt; which causes, perhaps, many\nnot to pay theirs, for fear of the like accident.  Nor of the painter\nZeuxis, who killed himself with laughing at the sight of the antique\njobbernowl of an old hag drawn by him.  Nor, in short, of a thousand more\nof which authors write, as Varrius, Pliny, Valerius, J. Baptista Fulgosus,\nand Bacabery the elder.  In short, Gaffer Wide-nostrils choked himself with\neating a huge lump of fresh butter at the mouth of a hot oven by the advice\nof physicians.\n\nThey likewise told us there that the King of Cullan in Bohu had routed the\ngrandees of King Mecloth, and made sad work with the fortresses of Belima.\n\nAfter this, we sailed by the islands of Nargues and Zargues; also by the\nislands of Teleniabin and Geleniabin, very fine and fruitful in ingredients\nfor clysters; and then by the islands of Enig and Evig, on whose account\nformerly the Landgrave of Hesse was swinged off with a vengeance.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel met with a great storm at sea.\n\nThe next day we espied nine sail that came spooning before the wind; they\nwere full of Dominicans, Jesuits, Capuchins, Hermits, Austins, Bernardins,\nEgnatins, Celestins, Theatins, Amadeans, Cordeliers, Carmelites, Minims,\nand the devil and all of other holy monks and friars, who were going to the\nCouncil of Chesil, to sift and garble some new articles of faith against\nthe new heretics.  Panurge was overjoyed to see them, being most certain of\ngood luck for that day and a long train of others.  So having courteously\nsaluted the blessed fathers, and recommended the salvation of his precious\nsoul to their devout prayers and private ejaculations, he caused\nseventy-eight dozen of Westphalia hams, units of pots of caviare, tens of\nBolonia sausages, hundreds of botargoes, and thousands of fine angels, for\nthe souls of the dead, to be thrown on board their ships.  Pantagruel seemed\nmetagrabolized, dozing, out of sorts, and as melancholic as a cat.  Friar\nJohn, who soon perceived it, was inquiring of him whence should come this\nunusual sadness; when the master, whose watch it was, observing the\nfluttering of the ancient above the poop, and seeing that it began to\novercast, judged that we should have wind; therefore he bid the boatswain\ncall all hands upon deck, officers, sailors, foremast-men, swabbers, and\ncabin-boys, and even the passengers; made them first settle their topsails,\ntake in their spritsail; then he cried, In with your topsails, lower the\nforesail, tallow under parrels, braid up close all them sails, strike your\ntopmasts to the cap, make all sure with your sheeps-feet, lash your guns\nfast.  All this was nimbly done.  Immediately it blowed a storm; the sea\nbegan to roar and swell mountain-high; the rut of the sea was great, the\nwaves breaking upon our ship's quarter; the north-west wind blustered and\noverblowed; boisterous gusts, dreadful clashing, and deadly scuds of wind\nwhistled through our yards and made our shrouds rattle again.  The thunder\ngrumbled so horridly that you would have thought heaven had been tumbling\nabout our ears; at the same time it lightened, rained, hailed; the sky lost\nits transparent hue, grew dusky, thick, and gloomy, so that we had no other\nlight than that of the flashes of lightning and rending of the clouds.  The\nhurricanes, flaws, and sudden whirlwinds began to make a flame about us by\nthe lightnings, fiery vapours, and other aerial ejaculations.  Oh, how our\nlooks were full of amazement and trouble, while the saucy winds did rudely\nlift up above us the mountainous waves of the main!  Believe me, it seemed\nto us a lively image of the chaos, where fire, air, sea, land, and all the\nelements were in a refractory confusion.  Poor Panurge having with the full\ncontents of the inside of his doublet plentifully fed the fish, greedy\nenough of such odious fare, sat on the deck all in a heap, with his nose and\narse together, most sadly cast down, moping and half dead; invoked and\ncalled to his assistance all the blessed he- and she-saints he could muster\nup; swore and vowed to confess in time and place convenient, and then bawled\nout frightfully, Steward, maitre d'hotel, see ho! my friend, my father, my\nuncle, prithee let us have a piece of powdered beef or pork; we shall drink\nbut too much anon, for aught I see.  Eat little and drink the more will\nhereafter be my motto, I fear.  Would to our dear Lord, and to our blessed,\nworthy, and sacred Lady, I were now, I say, this very minute of an hour,\nwell on shore, on terra firma, hale and easy.  O twice and thrice happy\nthose that plant cabbages!  O destinies, why did you not spin me for a\ncabbage-planter?  O how few are there to whom Jupiter hath been so\nfavourable as to predestinate them to plant cabbages!  They have always one\nfoot on the ground, and the other not far from it.  Dispute who will of\nfelicity and summum bonum, for my part whosoever plants cabbages is now, by\nmy decree, proclaimed most happy; for as good a reason as the philosopher\nPyrrho, being in the same danger, and seeing a hog near the shore eating\nsome scattered oats, declared it happy in two respects; first, because it\nhad plenty of oats, and besides that, was on shore.  Ha, for a divine and\nprincely habitation, commend me to the cows' floor.\n\nMurder!  This wave will sweep us away, blessed Saviour!  O my friends! a\nlittle vinegar.  I sweat again with mere agony.  Alas! the mizen-sail's\nsplit, the gallery's washed away, the masts are sprung, the\nmaintop-masthead dives into the sea; the keel is up to the sun; our shrouds\nare almost all broke, and blown away.  Alas! alas! where is our main course?\nAl is verlooren, by Godt! our topmast is run adrift.  Alas! who shall have\nthis wreck?  Friend, lend me here behind you one of these whales.  Your\nlantern is fallen, my lads.  Alas! do not let go the main-tack nor the\nbowline.  I hear the block crack; is it broke?  For the Lord's sake, let us\nhave the hull, and let all the rigging be damned.  Be, be, be, bous, bous,\nbous.  Look to the needle of your compass, I beseech you, good Sir\nAstrophil, and tell us, if you can, whence comes this storm.  My heart's\nsunk down below my midriff.  By my troth, I am in a sad fright, bou, bou,\nbou, bous, bous, I am lost for ever.  I conskite myself for mere madness and\nfear.  Bou, bou, bou, bou, Otto to to to to ti.  Bou, bou, bou, ou, ou, ou,\nbou, bou, bous.  I sink, I'm drowned, I'm gone, good people, I'm drowned.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhat countenances Panurge and Friar John kept during the storm.\n\nPantagruel, having first implored the help of the great and Almighty\nDeliverer, and prayed publicly with fervent devotion, by the pilot's advice\nheld tightly the mast of the ship.  Friar John had stripped himself to his\nwaistcoat, to help the seamen.  Epistemon, Ponocrates, and the rest did as\nmuch.  Panurge alone sat on his breech upon deck, weeping and howling.\nFriar John espied him going on the quarter-deck, and said to him, Odzoons!\nPanurge the calf, Panurge the whiner, Panurge the brayer, would it not\nbecome thee much better to lend us here a helping hand than to lie lowing\nlike a cow, as thou dost, sitting on thy stones like a bald-breeched\nbaboon?  Be, be, be, bous, bous, bous, returned Panurge; Friar John, my\nfriend, my good father, I am drowning, my dear friend!  I drown!  I am a\ndead man, my dear father in God; I am a dead man, my friend; your cutting\nhanger cannot save me from this; alas! alas! we are above ela.  Above the\npitch, out of tune, and off the hinges.  Be, be, be, bou, bous.  Alas! we\nare now above g sol re ut.  I sink, I sink, ha, my father, my uncle, my\nall.  The water is got into my shoes by the collar; bous, bous, bous,\npaish, hu, hu, hu, he, he, he, ha, ha, I drown.  Alas! alas!  Hu, hu, hu,\nhu, hu, hu, hu, be, be, bous, bous, bobous, bobous, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,\nalas! alas!  Now I am like your tumblers, my feet stand higher than my\nhead.  Would to heaven I were now with those good holy fathers bound for\nthe council whom we met this morning, so godly, so fat, so merry, so plump\nand comely.  Holos, bolos, holas, holas, alas!  This devilish wave (mea\nculpa Deus), I mean this wave of God, will sink our vessel.  Alas!  Friar\nJohn, my father, my friend, confession.  Here I am down on my knees;\nconfiteor; your holy blessing.  Come hither and be damned, thou pitiful\ndevil, and help us, said Friar John (who fell a-swearing and cursing like a\ntinker), in the name of thirty legions of black devils, come; will you\ncome?  Do not let us swear at this time, said Panurge; holy father, my\nfriend, do not swear, I beseech you; to-morrow as much as you please.\nHolos, holos, alas! our ship leaks.  I drown, alas, alas!  I will give\neighteen hundred thousand crowns to anyone that will set me on shore, all\nberayed and bedaubed as I am now.  If ever there was a man in my country in\nthe like pickle.  Confiteor, alas! a word or two of testament or codicil at\nleast.  A thousand devils seize the cuckoldy cow-hearted mongrel, cried\nFriar John.  Ods-belly, art thou talking here of making thy will now we are\nin danger, and it behoveth us to bestir our stumps lustily, or never?  Wilt\nthou come, ho devil?  Midshipman, my friend; O the rare lieutenant; here\nGymnast, here on the poop.  We are, by the mass, all beshit now; our light\nis out.  This is hastening to the devil as fast as it can.  Alas, bou, bou,\nbou, bou, bou, alas, alas, alas, alas! said Panurge; was it here we were\nborn to perish?  Oh! ho! good people, I drown, I die.  Consummatum est.  I\nam sped--Magna, gna, gna, said Friar John.  Fie upon him, how ugly the\nshitten howler looks.  Boy, younker, see hoyh.  Mind the pumps or the devil\nchoke thee.  Hast thou hurt thyself?  Zoons, here fasten it to one of these\nblocks.  On this side, in the devil's name, hay--so, my boy.  Ah, Friar\nJohn, said Panurge, good ghostly father, dear friend, don't let us swear,\nyou sin.  Oh, ho, oh, ho, be be be bous, bous, bhous, I sink, I die, my\nfriends.  I die in charity with all the world.  Farewell, in manus.  Bohus\nbohous, bhousowauswaus.  St. Michael of Aure!  St. Nicholas! now, now or\nnever, I here make you a solemn vow, and to our Saviour, that if you stand\nby me this time, I mean if you set me ashore out of this danger, I will\nbuild you a fine large little chapel or two, between Quande and Montsoreau,\nwhere neither cow nor calf shall feed.  Oh ho, oh ho.  Above eighteen\npailfuls or two of it are got down my gullet; bous, bhous, bhous, bhous,\nhow damned bitter and salt it is!  By the virtue, said Friar John, of the\nblood, the flesh, the belly, the head, if I hear thee again howling, thou\ncuckoldy cur, I'll maul thee worse than any sea-wolf.  Ods-fish, why don't\nwe take him up by the lugs and throw him overboard to the bottom of the\nsea?  Hear, sailor; ho, honest fellow.  Thus, thus, my friend, hold fast\nabove.  In truth, here is a sad lightning and thundering; I think that all\nthe devils are got loose; it is holiday with them; or else Madame\nProserpine is in child's labour:  all the devils dance a morrice.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the pilots were forsaking their ships in the greatest stress of\nweather.\n\n\nOh, said Panurge, you sin, Friar John, my former crony! former, I say, for\nat this time I am no more, you are no more.  It goes against my heart to\ntell it you; for I believe this swearing doth your spleen a great deal of\ngood; as it is a great ease to a wood-cleaver to cry hem at every blow, and\nas one who plays at ninepins is wonderfully helped if, when he hath not\nthrown his bowl right, and is like to make a bad cast, some ingenious\nstander-by leans and screws his body halfway about on that side which the\nbowl should have took to hit the pins.  Nevertheless, you offend, my sweet\nfriend.  But what do you think of eating some kind of cabirotadoes?\nWouldn't this secure us from this storm?  I have read that the ministers of\nthe gods Cabiri, so much celebrated by Orpheus, Apollonius, Pherecydes,\nStrabo, Pausanias, and Herodotus were always secure in time of storm.  He\ndotes, he raves, the poor devil!  A thousand, a million, nay, a hundred\nmillion of devils seize the hornified doddipole.  Lend's a hand here, hoh,\ntiger, wouldst thou?  Here, on the starboard side.  Ods-me, thou buffalo's\nhead stuffed with relics, what ape's paternoster art thou muttering and\nchattering here between thy teeth?  That devil of a sea-calf is the cause\nof all this storm, and is the only man who doth not lend a helping hand.\nBy G--, if I come near thee, I'll fetch thee out by the head and ears with\na vengeance, and chastise thee like any tempestative devil.  Here, mate, my\nlad, hold fast, till I have made a double knot.  O brave boy!  Would to\nheaven thou wert abbot of Talemouze, and that he that is were guardian of\nCroullay.  Hold, brother Ponocrates, you will hurt yourself, man.\nEpistemon, prithee stand off out of the hatchway.  Methinks I saw the\nthunder fall there but just now.  Con the ship, so ho--Mind your steerage.\nWell said, thus, thus, steady, keep her thus, get the longboat clear\n--steady.  Ods-fish, the beak-head is staved to pieces.  Grumble, devils,\nfart, belch, shite, a t--d o' the wave.  If this be weather, the devil's a\nram.  Nay, by G--, a little more would have washed me clear away into the\ncurrent.  I think all the legions of devils hold here their provincial\nchapter, or are polling, canvassing, and wrangling for the election of a\nnew rector.  Starboard; well said.  Take heed; have a care of your noddle,\nlad, in the devil's name.  So ho, starboard, starboard.  Be, be, be, bous,\nbous, bous, cried Panurge; bous, bous, be, be, be, bous, bous, I am lost.\nI see neither heaven nor earth; of the four elements we have here only fire\nand water left.  Bou, bou, bou, bous, bous, bous.  Would it were the\npleasure of the worthy divine bounty that I were at this present hour in\nthe close at Seuille, or at Innocent's the pastry-cook over against the\npainted wine-vault at Chinon, though I were to strip to my doublet, and\nbake the petti-pasties myself.\n\nHonest man, could not you throw me ashore? you can do a world of good\nthings, they say.  I give you all Salmigondinois, and my large shore full\nof whelks, cockles, and periwinkles, if, by your industry, I ever set foot\non firm ground.  Alas, alas!  I drown.  Harkee, my friends, since we cannot\nget safe into port, let us come to an anchor in some road, no matter\nwhither.  Drop all your anchors; let us be out of danger, I beseech you.\nHere, honest tar, get you into the chains, and heave the lead, an't please\nyou.  Let us know how many fathom water we are in.  Sound, friend, in the\nLord Harry's name.  Let us know whether a man might here drink easily\nwithout stooping.  I am apt to believe one might.  Helm a-lee, hoh, cried\nthe pilot.  Helm a-lee; a hand or two at the helm; about ships with her;\nhelm a-lee, helm a-lee.  Stand off from the leech of the sail.  Hoh! belay,\nhere make fast below; hoh, helm a-lee, lash sure the helm a-lee, and let\nher drive.  Is it come to that? said Pantagruel; our good Saviour then help\nus.  Let her lie under the sea, cried James Brahier, our chief mate; let\nher drive.  To prayers, to prayers; let all think on their souls, and fall\nto prayers; nor hope to escape but by a miracle.  Let us, said Panurge,\nmake some good pious kind of vow; alas, alas, alas! bou, bou, be, be, be,\nbous, bous, bous, oho, oho, oho, oho, let us make a pilgrim; come, come,\nlet every man club his penny towards it, come on.  Here, here, on this\nside, said Friar John, in the devil's name.  Let her drive, for the Lord's\nsake unhang the rudder; hoh, let her drive, let her drive, and let us\ndrink, I say, of the best and most cheering; d'ye hear, steward? produce,\nexhibit; for, d'ye see this, and all the rest will as well go to the devil\nout of hand.  A pox on that wind-broker Aeolus, with his fluster-blusters.\nSirrah, page, bring me here my drawer (for so he called his breviary); stay\na little here; haul, friend, thus.  Odzoons, here is a deal of hail and\nthunder to no purpose.  Hold fast above, I pray you.  When have we\nAll-saints day?  I believe it is the unholy holiday of all the devil's crew.\nAlas! said Panurge, Friar John damns himself here as black as buttermilk\nfor the nonce.  Oh, what a good friend I lose in him.  Alas, alas! this is\nanother gats-bout than last year's.  We are falling out of Scylla into\nCharybdis.  Oho! I drown.  Confiteor; one poor word or two by way of\ntestament, Friar John, my ghostly father; good Mr. Abstractor, my crony,\nmy Achates, Xenomanes, my all.  Alas! I drown; two words of testament here\nupon this ladder.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA continuation of the storm, with a short discourse on the subject of\nmaking testaments at sea.\n\nTo make one's last will, said Epistemon, at this time that we ought to\nbestir ourselves and help our seamen, on the penalty of being drowned,\nseems to me as idle and ridiculous a maggot as that of some of Caesar's\nmen, who, at their coming into the Gauls, were mightily busied in making\nwills and codicils; bemoaned their fortune and the absence of their spouses\nand friends at Rome, when it was absolutely necessary for them to run to\ntheir arms and use their utmost strength against Ariovistus their enemy.\n\nThis also is to be as silly as that jolt-headed loblolly of a carter, who,\nhaving laid his waggon fast in a slough, down on his marrow-bones was\ncalling on the strong-backed deity, Hercules, might and main, to help him\nat a dead lift, but all the while forgot to goad on his oxen and lay his\nshoulder to the wheels, as it behoved him; as if a Lord have mercy upon us\nalone would have got his cart out of the mire.\n\nWhat will it signify to make your will now? for either we shall come off or\ndrown for it.  If we 'scape, it will not signify a straw to us; for\ntestaments are of no value or authority but by the death of the testators.\nIf we are drowned, will it not be drowned too?  Prithee, who will transmit\nit to the executors?  Some kind wave will throw it ashore, like Ulysses,\nreplied Panurge; and some king's daughter, going to fetch a walk in the\nfresco, on the evening will find it, and take care to have it proved and\nfulfilled; nay, and have some stately cenotaph erected to my memory, as\nDido had to that of her goodman Sichaeus; Aeneas to Deiphobus, upon the\nTrojan shore, near Rhoete; Andromache to Hector, in the city of Buthrot;\nAristotle to Hermias and Eubulus; the Athenians to the poet Euripides; the\nRomans to Drusus in Germany, and to Alexander Severus, their emperor, in\nthe Gauls; Argentier to Callaischre; Xenocrates to Lysidices; Timares to\nhis son Teleutagoras; Eupolis and Aristodice to their son Theotimus;\nOnestus to Timocles; Callimachus to Sopolis, the son of Dioclides; Catullus\nto his brother; Statius to his father; Germain of Brie to Herve, the Breton\ntarpaulin.  Art thou mad, said Friar John, to run on at this rate?  Help,\nhere, in the name of five hundred thousand millions of cartloads of devils,\nhelp! may a shanker gnaw thy moustachios, and the three rows of pock-royals\nand cauliflowers cover thy bum and turd-barrel instead of breeches and\ncodpiece.  Codsooks, our ship is almost overset.  Ods-death, how shall we\nclear her? it is well if she do not founder.  What a devilish sea there\nruns!  She'll neither try nor hull; the sea will overtake her, so we shall\nnever 'scape; the devil 'scape me.  Then Pantagruel was heard to make a sad\nexclamation, saying, with a loud voice, Lord save us, we perish; yet not as\nwe would have it, but thy holy will be done.  The Lord and the blessed\nVirgin be with us, said Panurge.  Holos, alas, I drown; be be be bous, be\nbous, bous; in manus.  Good heavens, send me some dolphin to carry me safe\non shore, like a pretty little Arion.  I shall make shift to sound the\nharp, if it be not unstrung.  Let nineteen legions of black devils seize\nme, said Friar John.  (The Lord be with us! whispered Panurge, between his\nchattering teeth.)  If I come down to thee, I'll show thee to some purpose\nthat the badge of thy humanity dangles at a calf's breech, thou ragged,\nhorned, cuckoldy booby--mgna, mgnan, mgnan--come hither and help us, thou\ngreat weeping calf, or may thirty millions of devils leap on thee.  Wilt\nthou come, sea-calf?  Fie; how ugly the howling whelp looks.  What, always\nthe same ditty?  Come on now, my bonny drawer.  This he said, opening his\nbreviary.  Come forward, thou and I must be somewhat serious for a while;\nlet me peruse thee stiffly.  Beatus vir qui non abiit.  Pshaw, I know all\nthis by heart; let us see the legend of Mons. St. Nicholas.\n\n  Horrida tempestas montem turbavit acutum.\n\nTempest was a mighty flogger of lads at Mountagu College.  If pedants be\ndamned for whipping poor little innocent wretches their scholars, he is,\nupon my honour, by this time fixed within Ixion's wheel, lashing the\ncrop-eared, bobtailed cur that gives it motion.  If they are saved for\nhaving whipped innocent lads, he ought to be above the--\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAn end of the storm.\n\nShore, shore! cried Pantagruel.  Land to, my friends, I see land!  Pluck up\na good spirit, boys, 'tis within a kenning.  So! we are not far from a\nport.--I see the sky clearing up to the northwards.--Look to the\nsouth-east!  Courage, my hearts, said the pilot; now she'll bear the hullock\nof a sail; the sea is much smoother; some hands aloft to the maintop.  Put\nthe helm a-weather.  Steady! steady!  Haul your after-mizen bowlines.  Haul,\nhaul, haul!  Thus, thus, and no near.  Mind your steerage; bring your\nmain-tack aboard.  Clear your sheets; clear your bowlines; port, port.  Helm\na-lee.  Now to the sheet on the starboard side, thou son of a whore.  Thou\nart mightily pleased, honest fellow, quoth Friar John, with hearing make\nmention of thy mother.  Luff, luff, cried the quartermaster that conned the\nship, keep her full, luff the helm.  Luff.  It is, answered the steersman.\nKeep her thus.  Get the bonnets fixed.  Steady, steady.\n\nThat is well said, said Friar John now, this is something like a tansy.\nCome, come, come, children, be nimble.  Good.  Luff, luff, thus.  Helm\na-weather.  That's well said and thought on.  Methinks the storm is almost\nover.  It was high time, faith; however, the Lord be thanked.  Our devils\nbegin to scamper.  Out with all your sails.  Hoist your sails.  Hoist.\nThat is spoke like a man, hoist, hoist.  Here, a God's name, honest\nPonocrates; thou art a lusty fornicator; the whoreson will get none but\nboys.  Eusthenes, thou art a notable fellow.  Run up to the fore-topsail.\nThus, thus.  Well said, i' faith; thus, thus.  I dare not fear anything all\nthis while, for it is holiday.  Vea, vea, vea! huzza!  This shout of the\nseaman is not amiss, and pleases me, for it is holiday.  Keep her full\nthus.  Good.  Cheer up, my merry mates all, cried out Epistemon; I see\nalready Castor on the right.  Be, be, bous, bous, bous, said Panurge; I am\nmuch afraid it is the bitch Helen.  It is truly Mixarchagenas, returned\nEpistemon, if thou likest better that denomination, which the Argives give\nhim.  Ho, ho! I see land too; let her bear in with the harbour; I see a\ngood many people on the beach; I see a light on an obeliscolychny.  Shorten\nyour sails, said the pilot; fetch the sounding line; we must double that\npoint of land, and mind the sands.  We are clear of them, said the sailors.\nSoon after, Away she goes, quoth the pilot, and so doth the rest of our\nfleet; help came in good season.\n\nBy St. John, said Panurge, this is spoke somewhat like.  O the sweet word!\nthere is the soul of music in it.  Mgna, mgna, mgna, said Friar John; if\never thou taste a drop of it, let the devil's dam taste me, thou ballocky\ndevil.  Here, honest soul, here's a full sneaker of the very best.  Bring\nthe flagons; dost hear, Gymnast: and that same large pasty jambic,\ngammonic, as you will have it.  Take heed you pilot her in right.\n\nCheer up, cried out Pantagruel; cheer up, my boys; let us be ourselves\nagain.  Do you see yonder, close by our ship, two barks, three sloops, five\nships, eight pinks, four yawls, and six frigates making towards us, sent by\nthe good people of the neighbouring island to our relief?  But who is this\nUcalegon below, that cries and makes such a sad moan?  Were it not that I\nhold the mast firmly with both my hands, and keep it straighter than two\nhundred tacklings--I would--It is, said Friar John, that poor devil\nPanurge, who is troubled with a calf's ague; he quakes for fear when his\nbelly's full.  If, said Pantagruel, he hath been afraid during this\ndreadful hurricane and dangerous storm, provided (waiving that) he hath\ndone his part like a man, I do not value him a jot the less for it.  For as\nto fear in all encounters is the mark of a heavy and cowardly heart, as\nAgamemnon did, who for that reason is ignominiously taxed by Achilles with\nhaving dog's eyes and a stag's heart; so, not to fear when the case is\nevidently dreadful is a sign of want or smallness of judgment.  Now, if\nanything ought to be feared in this life, next to offending God, I will not\nsay it is death.  I will not meddle with the disputes of Socrates and the\nacademics, that death of itself is neither bad nor to be feared, but I will\naffirm that this kind of shipwreck is to be feared, or nothing is.  For, as\nHomer saith, it is a grievous, dreadful, and unnatural thing to perish at\nsea.  And indeed Aeneas, in the storm that took his fleet near Sicily, was\ngrieved that he had not died by the hand of the brave Diomedes, and said\nthat those were three, nay four times happy, who perished in the\nconflagration at Troy.  No man here hath lost his life, the Lord our\nSaviour be eternally praised for it! but in truth here is a ship sadly out\nof order.  Well, we must take care to have the damage repaired.  Take heed\nwe do not run aground and bulge her.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge played the good fellow when the storm was over.\n\nWhat cheer, ho, fore and aft? quoth Panurge.  Oh ho! all is well, the storm\nis over.  I beseech ye, be so kind as to let me be the first that is sent\non shore; for I would by all means a little untruss a point.  Shall I help\nyou still?  Here, let me see, I will coil this rope; I have plenty of\ncourage, and of fear as little as may be.  Give it me yonder, honest tar.\nNo, no, I have not a bit of fear.  Indeed, that same decumane wave that\ntook us fore and aft somewhat altered my pulse.  Down with your sails; well\nsaid.  How now, Friar John? you do nothing.  Is it time for us to drink\nnow?  Who can tell but St. Martin's running footman Belzebuth may still be\nhatching us some further mischief?  Shall I come and help you again?  Pork\nand peas choke me, if I do heartily repent, though too late, not having\nfollowed the doctrine of the good philosopher who tells us that to walk by\nthe sea and to navigate by the shore are very safe and pleasant things;\njust as 'tis to go on foot when we hold our horse by the bridle.  Ha! ha!\nha! by G--, all goes well.  Shall I help you here too?  Let me see, I will\ndo this as it should be, or the devil's in't.\n\nEpistemon, who had the inside of one of his hands all flayed and bloody,\nhaving held a tackling with might and main, hearing what Pantagruel had\nsaid, told him:  You may believe, my lord, I had my share of fear as well\nas Panurge; yet I spared no pains in lending my helping hand.  I considered\nthat, since by fatal and unavoidable necessity we must all die, it is the\nblessed will of God that we die this or that hour, and this or that kind of\ndeath.  Nevertheless, we ought to implore, invoke, pray, beseech, and\nsupplicate him; but we must not stop there; it behoveth us also to use our\nendeavours on our side, and, as the holy writ saith, to co-operate with\nhim.\n\nYou know what C. Flaminius, the consul, said when by Hannibal's policy he\nwas penned up near the lake of Peruse, alias Thrasymene.  Friends, said he\nto his soldiers, you must not hope to get out of this place barely by vows\nor prayers to the gods; no, 'tis by fortitude and strength we must escape\nand cut ourselves a way with the edge of our swords through the midst of\nour enemies.\n\nSallust likewise makes M. Portius Cato say this:  The help of the gods is\nnot obtained by idle vows and womanish complaints; 'tis by vigilance,\nlabour, and repeated endeavours that all things succeed according to our\nwishes and designs.  If a man in time of need and danger is negligent,\nheartless, and lazy, in vain he implores the gods; they are then justly\nangry and incensed against him.  The devil take me, said Friar John,--I'll\ngo his halves, quoth Panurge,--if the close of Seville had not been all\ngathered, vintaged, gleaned, and destroyed, if I had only sung contra\nhostium insidias (matter of breviary) like all the rest of the monking\ndevils, and had not bestirred myself to save the vineyard as I did,\ndespatching the truant picaroons of Lerne with the staff of the cross.\n\nLet her sink or swim a God's name, said Panurge, all's one to Friar John;\nhe doth nothing; his name is Friar John Do-little; for all he sees me here\na-sweating and puffing to help with all my might this honest tar, first of\nthe name.--Hark you me, dear soul, a word with you; but pray be not angry.\nHow thick do you judge the planks of our ship to be?  Some two good inches\nand upwards, returned the pilot; don't fear.  Ods-kilderkins, said Panurge,\nit seems then we are within two fingers' breadth of damnation.\n\nIs this one of the nine comforts of matrimony?  Ah, dear soul, you do well\nto measure the danger by the yard of fear.  For my part, I have none on't;\nmy name is William Dreadnought.  As for heart, I have more than enough\non't.  I mean none of your sheep's heart; but of wolf's heart--the courage\nof a bravo.  By the pavilion of Mars, I fear nothing but danger.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge was said to have been afraid without reason during the storm.\n\nGood morrow, gentlemen, said Panurge; good morrow to you all; you are in\nvery good health, thanks to heaven and yourselves; you are all heartily\nwelcome, and in good time.  Let us go on shore.--Here, coxswain, get the\nladder over the gunnel; man the sides; man the pinnace, and get her by the\nship's side.  Shall I lend you a hand here?  I am stark mad for want of\nbusiness, and would work like any two yokes of oxen.  Truly this is a fine\nplace, and these look like a very good people.  Children, do you want me\nstill in anything? do not spare the sweat of my body, for God's sake.\nAdam--that is, man--was made to labour and work, as the birds were made to\nfly.  Our Lord's will is that we get our bread with the sweat of our brows,\nnot idling and doing nothing, like this tatterdemalion of a monk here, this\nFriar Jack, who is fain to drink to hearten himself up, and dies for fear.\n--Rare weather.--I now find the answer of Anacharsis, the noble philosopher,\nvery proper.  Being asked what ship he reckoned the safest, he replied:\nThat which is in the harbour.  He made a yet better repartee, said\nPantagruel, when somebody inquiring which is greater, the number of the\nliving or that of the dead, he asked them amongst which of the two they\nreckoned those that are at sea, ingeniously implying that they are\ncontinually in danger of death, dying alive, and living die.  Portius Cato\nalso said that there were but three things of which he would repent:  if\never he had trusted his wife with his secret, if he had idled away a day,\nand if he had ever gone by sea to a place which he could visit by land.  By\nthis dignified frock of mine, said Friar John to Panurge, friend, thou hast\nbeen afraid during the storm without cause or reason; for thou wert not\nborn to be drowned, but rather to be hanged and exalted in the air, or to\nbe roasted in the midst of a jolly bonfire.  My lord, would you have a good\ncloak for the rain; leave me off your wolf and badger-skin mantle; let\nPanurge but be flayed, and cover yourself with his hide.  But do not come\nnear the fire, nor near your blacksmith's forges, a God's name; for in a\nmoment you will see it in ashes.  Yet be as long as you please in the rain,\nsnow, hail, nay, by the devil's maker, throw yourself or dive down to the\nvery bottom of the water, I'll engage you'll not be wet at all.  Have some\nwinter boots made of it, they'll never take in a drop of water; make\nbladders of it to lay under boys to teach them to swim, instead of corks,\nand they will learn without the least danger.  His skin, then, said\nPantagruel, should be like the herb called true maiden's hair, which never\ntakes wet nor moistness, but still keeps dry, though you lay it at the\nbottom of the water as long as you please; and for that reason is called\nAdiantos.\n\nFriend Panurge, said Friar John, I pray thee never be afraid of water; thy\nlife for mine thou art threatened with a contrary element.  Ay, ay, replied\nPanurge, but the devil's cooks dote sometimes, and are apt to make horrid\nblunders as well as others; often putting to boil in water what was\ndesigned to be roasted on the fire; like the head-cooks of our kitchen, who\noften lard partridges, queests, and stock-doves with intent to roast them,\none would think; but it happens sometimes that they e'en turn the\npartridges into the pot to be boiled with cabbages, the queests with leek\npottage, and the stock-doves with turnips.  But hark you me, good friends,\nI protest before this noble company, that as for the chapel which I vowed\nto Mons. St. Nicholas between Quande and Montsoreau, I honestly mean that\nit shall be a chapel of rose-water, which shall be where neither cow nor\ncalf shall be fed; for between you and I, I intend to throw it to the\nbottom of the water.  Here is a rare rogue for you, said Eusthenes; here is\na pure rogue, a rogue in grain, a rogue enough, a rogue and a half.  He is\nresolved to make good the Lombardic proverb, Passato el pericolo, gabbato\nel santo.\n\n  The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be;\n  The devil was well, the devil a monk was he.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow, after the storm, Pantagruel went on shore in the islands of the\nMacreons.\n\nImmediately after we went ashore at the port of an island which they called\nthe island of the Macreons.  The good people of the place received us very\nhonourably.  An old Macrobius (so they called their eldest elderman)\ndesired Pantagruel to come to the town-house to refresh himself and eat\nsomething, but he would not budge a foot from the mole till all his men\nwere landed.  After he had seen them, he gave order that they should all\nchange clothes, and that some of all the stores in the fleet should be\nbrought on shore, that every ship's crew might live well; which was\naccordingly done, and God wot how well they all toped and caroused.  The\npeople of the place brought them provisions in abundance.  The\nPantagruelists returned them more; as the truth is, theirs were somewhat\ndamaged by the late storm.  When they had well stuffed the insides of their\ndoublets, Pantagruel desired everyone to lend their help to repair the\ndamage; which they readily did.  It was easy enough to refit there; for all\nthe inhabitants of the island were carpenters and all such handicrafts as\nare seen in the arsenal at Venice.  None but the largest island was\ninhabited, having three ports and ten parishes; the rest being overrun with\nwood and desert, much like the forest of Arden.  We entreated the old\nMacrobius to show us what was worth seeing in the island; which he did; and\nin the desert and dark forest we discovered several old ruined temples,\nobelisks, pyramids, monuments, and ancient tombs, with divers inscriptions\nand epitaphs; some of them in hieroglyphic characters; others in the Ionic\ndialect; some in the Arabic, Agarenian, Slavonian, and other tongues; of\nwhich Epistemon took an exact account.  In the interim, Panurge said to\nFriar John, Is this the island of the Macreons?  Macreon signifies in Greek\nan old man, or one much stricken in years.  What is that to me? said Friar\nJohn; how can I help it?  I was not in the country when they christened it.\nNow I think on't, quoth Panurge, I believe the name of mackerel (Motteux\nadds, between brackets,--'that's a Bawd in French.') was derived from it;\nfor procuring is the province of the old, as buttock-riggling is that of\nthe young.  Therefore I do not know but this may be the bawdy or Mackerel\nIsland, the original and prototype of the island of that name at Paris.\nLet's go and dredge for cock-oysters.  Old Macrobius asked, in the Ionic\ntongue, How, and by what industry and labour, Pantagruel got to their port\nthat day, there having been such blustering weather and such a dreadful\nstorm at sea.  Pantagruel told him that the Almighty Preserver of mankind\nhad regarded the simplicity and sincere affection of his servants, who did\nnot travel for gain or sordid profit, the sole design of their voyage being\na studious desire to know, see, and visit the Oracle of Bacbuc, and take\nthe word of the Bottle upon some difficulties offered by one of the\ncompany; nevertheless this had not been without great affliction and\nevident danger of shipwreck.  After that, he asked him what he judged to be\nthe cause of that terrible tempest, and if the adjacent seas were thus\nfrequently subject to storms; as in the ocean are the Ratz of Sammaieu,\nMaumusson, and in the Mediterranean sea the Gulf of Sataly, Montargentan,\nPiombino, Capo Melio in Laconia, the Straits of Gibraltar, Faro di Messina,\nand others.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the good Macrobius gave us an account of the mansion and decease of the\nheroes.\n\nThe good Macrobius then answered, Friendly strangers, this island is one of\nthe Sporades; not of your Sporades that lie in the Carpathian sea, but one\nof the Sporades of the ocean; in former times rich, frequented, wealthy,\npopulous, full of traffic, and in the dominions of the rulers of Britain,\nbut now, by course of time, and in these latter ages of the world, poor and\ndesolate, as you see.  In this dark forest, above seventy-eight thousand\nPersian leagues in compass, is the dwelling-place of the demons and heroes\nthat are grown old, and we believe that some one of them died yesterday;\nsince the comet which we saw for three days before together, shines no\nmore; and now it is likely that at his death there arose this horrible\nstorm; for while they are alive all happiness attends both this and the\nadjacent islands, and a settled calm and serenity.  At the death of every\none of them, we commonly hear in the forest loud and mournful groans, and\nthe whole land is infested with pestilence, earthquakes, inundations, and\nother calamities; the air with fogs and obscurity, and the sea with storms\nand hurricanes.  What you tell us seems to me likely enough, said\nPantagruel.  For as a torch or candle, as long as it hath life enough and\nis lighted, shines round about, disperses its light, delights those that\nare near it, yields them its service and clearness, and never causes any\npain or displeasure; but as soon as 'tis extinguished, its smoke and\nevaporation infects the air, offends the bystanders, and is noisome to all;\nso, as long as those noble and renowned souls inhabit their bodies, peace,\nprofit, pleasure, and honour never leave the places where they abide; but\nas soon as they leave them, both the continent and adjacent islands are\nannoyed with great commotions; in the air fogs, darkness, thunder, hail;\ntremblings, pulsations, agitations of the earth; storms and hurricanes at\nsea; together with sad complaints amongst the people, broaching of\nreligions, changes in governments, and ruins of commonwealths.\n\nWe had a sad instance of this lately, said Epistemon, at the death of that\nvaliant and learned knight, William du Bellay; during whose life France\nenjoyed so much happiness, that all the rest of the world looked upon it\nwith envy, sought friendship with it, and stood in awe of its power; but\nsoon after his decease it hath for a considerable time been the scorn of\nthe rest of the world.\n\nThus, said Pantagruel, Anchises being dead at Drepani in Sicily, Aeneas was\ndreadfully tossed and endangered by a storm; and perhaps for the same\nreason Herod, that tyrant and cruel King of Judaea, finding himself near\nthe pangs of a horrid kind of death--for he died of a phthiriasis, devoured\nby vermin and lice; as before him died L. Sylla, Pherecydes the Syrian, the\npreceptor of Pythagoras, the Greek poet Alcmaeon, and others--and\nforeseeing that the Jews would make bonfires at his death, caused all the\nnobles and magistrates to be summoned to his seraglio out of all the\ncities, towns, and castles of Judaea, fraudulently pretending that he had\nsome things of moment to impart to them.  They made their personal\nappearance; whereupon he caused them all to be shut up in the hippodrome of\nthe seraglio; then said to his sister Salome and Alexander her husband:  I\nam certain that the Jews will rejoice at my death; but if you will observe\nand perform what I tell you, my funeral shall be honourable, and there will\nbe a general mourning.  As soon as you see me dead, let my guards, to whom\nI have already given strict commission to that purpose, kill all the\nnoblemen and magistrates that are secured in the hippodrome.  By these\nmeans all Jewry shall, in spite of themselves, be obliged to mourn and\nlament, and foreigners will imagine it to be for my death, as if some\nheroic soul had left her body.  A desperate tyrant wished as much when he\nsaid, When I die, let earth and fire be mixed together; which was as good\nas to say, let the whole world perish.  Which saying the tyrant Nero\naltered, saying, While I live, as Suetonius affirms it.  This detestable\nsaying, of which Cicero, lib. De Finib., and Seneca, lib. 2, De Clementia,\nmake mention, is ascribed to the Emperor Tiberius by Dion Nicaeus and\nSuidas.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPantagruel's discourse of the decease of heroic souls; and of the dreadful\nprodigies that happened before the death of the late Lord de Langey.\n\nI would not, continued Pantagruel, have missed the storm that hath thus\ndisordered us, were I also to have missed the relation of these things told\nus by this good Macrobius.  Neither am I unwilling to believe what he said\nof a comet that appears in the sky some days before such a decease.  For\nsome of those souls are so noble, so precious, and so heroic that heaven\ngives us notice of their departing some days before it happens.  And as a\nprudent physician, seeing by some symptoms that his patient draws towards\nhis end, some days before gives notice of it to his wife, children,\nkindred, and friends, that, in that little time he hath yet to live, they\nmay admonish him to settle all things in his family, to tutor and instruct\nhis children as much as he can, recommend his relict to his friends in her\nwidowhood, and declare what he knows to be necessary about a provision for\nthe orphans; that he may not be surprised by death without making his will,\nand may take care of his soul and family; in the same manner the heavens,\nas it were joyful for the approaching reception of those blessed souls,\nseem to make bonfires by those comets and blazing meteors, which they at\nthe same time kindly design should prognosticate to us here that in a few\ndays one of those venerable souls is to leave her body and this terrestrial\nglobe.  Not altogether unlike this was what was formerly done at Athens by\nthe judges of the Areopagus.  For when they gave their verdict to cast or\nclear the culprits that were tried before them, they used certain notes\naccording to the substance of the sentences; by Theta signifying\ncondemnation to death; by T, absolution; by A, ampliation or a demur, when\nthe case was not sufficiently examined.  Thus having publicly set up those\nletters, they eased the relations and friends of the prisoners, and such\nothers as desired to know their doom, of their doubts.  Likewise by these\ncomets, as in ethereal characters, the heavens silently say to us, Make\nhaste, mortals, if you would know or learn of the blessed souls anything\nconcerning the public good or your private interest; for their catastrophe\nis near, which being past, you will vainly wish for them afterwards.\n\nThe good-natured heavens still do more; and that mankind may be declared\nunworthy of the enjoyment of those renowned souls, they fright and astonish\nus with prodigies, monsters, and other foreboding signs that thwart the\norder of nature.\n\nOf this we had an instance several days before the decease of the heroic\nsoul of the learned and valiant Chevalier de Langey, of whom you have\nalready spoken.  I remember it, said Epistemon; and my heart still trembles\nwithin me when I think on the many dreadful prodigies that we saw five or\nsix days before he died.  For the Lords D'Assier, Chemant, one-eyed Mailly,\nSt. Ayl, Villeneufue-la-Guyart, Master Gabriel, physician of Savillan,\nRabelais, Cohuau, Massuau, Majorici, Bullou, Cercu, alias Bourgmaistre,\nFrancis Proust, Ferron, Charles Girard, Francis Bourre, and many other\nfriends and servants to the deceased, all dismayed, gazed on each other\nwithout uttering one word; yet not without foreseeing that France would in\na short time be deprived of a knight so accomplished and necessary for its\nglory and protection, and that heaven claimed him again as its due.  By the\ntufted tip of my cowl, cried Friar John, I am e'en resolved to become a\nscholar before I die.  I have a pretty good headpiece of my own, you must\nown.  Now pray give me leave to ask you a civil question.  Can these same\nheroes or demigods you talk of die?  May I never be damned if I was not so\nmuch a lobcock as to believe they had been immortal, like so many fine\nangels.  Heaven forgive me! but this most reverend father, Macroby, tells\nus they die at last.  Not all, returned Pantagruel.\n\nThe Stoics held them all to be mortal, except one, who alone is immortal,\nimpassible, invisible.  Pindar plainly saith that there is no more thread,\nthat is to say, no more life, spun from the distaff and flax of the\nhard-hearted Fates for the goddesses Hamadryades than there is for those\ntrees that are preserved by them, which are good, sturdy, downright oaks;\nwhence they derived their original, according to the opinion of Callimachus\nand Pausanias in Phoci.  With whom concurs Martianus Capella.  As for the\ndemigods, fauns, satyrs, sylvans, hobgoblins, aegipanes, nymphs, heroes, and\ndemons, several men have, from the total sum, which is the result of the\ndivers ages calculated by Hesiod, reckoned their life to be 9720 years; that\nsum consisting of four special numbers orderly arising from one, the same\nadded together and multiplied by four every way amounts to forty; these\nforties, being reduced into triangles by five times, make up the total of\nthe aforesaid number.  See Plutarch, in his book about the Cessation of\nOracles.\n\nThis, said Friar John, is not matter of breviary; I may believe as little\nor as much of it as you and I please.  I believe, said Pantagruel, that all\nintellectual souls are exempted from Atropos's scissors.  They are all\nimmortal, whether they be of angels, or demons, or human; yet I will tell\nyou a story concerning this that is very strange, but is written and\naffirmed by several learned historians.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel related a very sad story of the death of the heroes.\n\nEpitherses, the father of Aemilian the rhetorician, sailing from Greece to\nItaly in a ship freighted with divers goods and passengers, at night the\nwind failed 'em near the Echinades, some islands that lie between the Morea\nand Tunis, and the vessel was driven near Paxos.  When they were got\nthither, some of the passengers being asleep, others awake, the rest eating\nand drinking, a voice was heard that called aloud, Thamous! which cry\nsurprised them all.  This same Thamous was their pilot, an Egyptian by\nbirth, but known by name only to some few travellers.  The voice was heard\na second time calling Thamous, in a frightful tone; and none making answer,\nbut trembling and remaining silent, the voice was heard a third time, more\ndreadful than before.\n\nThis caused Thamous to answer:  Here am I; what dost thou call me for?\nWhat wilt thou have me do?  Then the voice, louder than before, bid him\npublish when he should come to Palodes, that the great god Pan was dead.\n\nEpitherses related that all the mariners and passengers, having heard this,\nwere extremely amazed and frighted; and that, consulting among themselves\nwhether they had best conceal or divulge what the voice had enjoined,\nThamous said his advice was that if they happened to have a fair wind they\nshould proceed without mentioning a word on't, but if they chanced to be\nbecalmed he would publish what he had heard.  Now when they were near\nPalodes they had no wind, neither were they in any current.  Thamous then\ngetting up on the top of the ship's forecastle, and casting his eyes on the\nshore, said that he had been commanded to proclaim that the great god Pan\nwas dead.  The words were hardly out of his mouth, when deep groans, great\nlamentations, and doleful shrieks, not of one person, but of many together,\nwere heard from the land.\n\nThe news of this--many being present then--was soon spread at Rome;\ninsomuch that Tiberius, who was then emperor, sent for this Thamous, and\nhaving heard him gave credit to his words.  And inquiring of the learned in\nhis court and at Rome who was that Pan, he found by their relation that he\nwas the son of Mercury and Penelope, as Herodotus and Cicero in his third\nbook of the Nature of the Gods had written before.\n\nFor my part, I understand it of that great Saviour of the faithful who was\nshamefully put to death at Jerusalem by the envy and wickedness of the\ndoctors, priests, and monks of the Mosaic law.  And methinks my\ninterpretation is not improper; for he may lawfully be said in the Greek\ntongue to be Pan, since he is our all.  For all that we are, all that we\nlive, all that we have, all that we hope, is him, by him, from him, and in\nhim.  He is the good Pan, the great shepherd, who, as the loving shepherd\nCorydon affirms, hath not only a tender love and affection for his sheep,\nbut also for their shepherds.  At his death, complaints, sighs, fears, and\nlamentations were spread through the whole fabric of the universe, whether\nheavens, land, sea, or hell.\n\nThe time also concurs with this interpretation of mine; for this most good,\nmost mighty Pan, our only Saviour, died near Jerusalem during the reign of\nTiberius Caesar.\n\nPantagruel, having ended this discourse, remained silent and full of\ncontemplation.  A little while after we saw the tears flow out of his eyes\nas big as ostrich's eggs.  God take me presently if I tell you one single\nsyllable of a lie in the matter.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel sailed by the Sneaking Island, where Shrovetide reigned.\n\nThe jovial fleet being refitted and repaired, new stores taken in, the\nMacreons over and above satisfied and pleased with the money spent there by\nPantagruel, our men in better humour than they used to be, if possible, we\nmerrily put to sea the next day, near sunset, with a delicious fresh gale.\n\nXenomanes showed us afar off the Sneaking Island, where reigned Shrovetide,\nof whom Pantagruel had heard much talk formerly; for that reason he would\ngladly have seen him in person, had not Xenomanes advised him to the\ncontrary; first, because this would have been much out of our way, and then\nfor the lean cheer which he told us was to be found at that prince's court,\nand indeed all over the island.\n\nYou can see nothing there for your money, said he, but a huge greedy-guts,\na tall woundy swallower of hot wardens and mussels; a long-shanked\nmole-catcher; an overgrown bottler of hay; a mossy-chinned demi-giant, with\na double shaven crown, of lantern breed; a very great loitering noddy-peaked\nyoungster, banner-bearer to the fish-eating tribe, dictator of mustard-land,\nflogger of little children, calciner of ashes, father and foster-father to\nphysicians, swarming with pardons, indulgences, and stations; a very honest\nman; a good catholic, and as brimful of devotion as ever he can hold.\n\nHe weeps the three-fourth parts of the day, and never assists at any\nweddings; but, give the devil his due, he is the most industrious\nlarding-stick and skewer-maker in forty kingdoms.\n\nAbout six years ago, as I passed by Sneaking-land, I brought home a large\nskewer from thence, and made a present of it to the butchers of Quande, who\nset a great value upon them, and that for a cause.  Some time or other, if\never we live to come back to our own country, I will show you two of them\nfastened on the great church porch.  His usual food is pickled coats of\nmail, salt helmets and head-pieces, and salt sallets; which sometimes makes\nhim piss pins and needles.  As for his clothing, 'tis comical enough o'\nconscience, both for make and colour; for he wears grey and cold, nothing\nbefore, and nought behind, with the sleeves of the same.\n\nYou will do me a kindness, said Pantagruel, if, as you have described his\nclothes, food, actions, and pastimes, you will also give me an account of\nhis shape and disposition in all his parts.  Prithee do, dear cod, said\nFriar John, for I have found him in my breviary, and then follow the\nmovable holy days.  With all my heart, answered Xenomanes; we may chance to\nhear more of him as we touch at the Wild Island, the dominions of the squab\nChitterlings, his enemies, against whom he is eternally at odds; and were\nit not for the help of the noble Carnival, their protector and good\nneighbour, this meagre-looked lozelly Shrovetide would long before this\nhave made sad work among them, and rooted them out of their habitation.\nAre these same Chitterlings, said Friar John, male or female, angels or\nmortals, women or maids?  They are, replied Xenomanes, females in sex,\nmortal in kind, some of them maids, others not.  The devil have me, said\nFriar John, if I ben't for them.  What a shameful disorder in nature, is it\nnot, to make war against women?  Let's go back and hack the villain to\npieces.  What! meddle with Shrovetide? cried Panurge, in the name of\nBeelzebub, I am not yet so weary of my life.  No, I'm not yet so mad as\nthat comes to.  Quid juris?  Suppose we should find ourselves pent up\nbetween the Chitterlings and Shrovetide? between the anvil and the hammers?\nShankers and buboes! stand off! godzooks, let us make the best of our way.\nI bid you good night, sweet Mr. Shrovetide; I recommend to you the\nChitterlings, and pray don't forget the puddings.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Shrovetide is anatomized and described by Xenomanes.\n\nAs for the inward parts of Shrovetide, said Xenomanes; his brain is (at\nleast, it was in my time) in bigness, colours, substance, and strength,\nmuch like the left cod of a he hand-worm.\n\nThe ventricles of his said brain,     The stomach, like a belt.\n  like an auger.                      The pylorus, like a pitchfork.\nThe worm-like excrescence, like       The windpipe, like an oyster-\n  a Christmas-box.                      knife.\nThe membranes, like a monk's          The throat, like a pincushion\n  cowl.                                 stuffed with oakum.\nThe funnel, like a mason's chisel.    The lungs, like a prebend's\nThe fornix, like a casket.              fur-gown.\nThe glandula pinealis, like a bag-    The heart, like a cope.\n  pipe.                               The mediastine, like an earthen\nThe rete mirabile, like a gutter.       cup.\nThe dug-like processus, like a        The pleura, like a crow's bill.\n  patch.                              The arteries, like a watch-coat.\nThe tympanums, like a whirli-         The midriff, like a montero-cap.\n  gig.                                The liver, like a double-tongued\nThe rocky bones, like a goose-          mattock.\n  wing.                               The veins, like a sash-window.\nThe nape of the neck, like a paper    The spleen, like a catcall.\n  lantern.                            The guts, like a trammel.\nThe nerves, like a pipkin.            The gall, like a cooper's adze.\nThe uvula, like a sackbut.            The entrails, like a gauntlet.\nThe palate, like a mitten.            The mesentery, like an abbot's\nThe spittle, like a shuttle.            mitre.\nThe almonds, like a telescope.        The hungry gut, like a button.\nThe bridge of his nose, like a        The blind gut, like a breastplate.\n  wheelbarrow.                        The colon, like a bridle.\nThe head of the larynx, like a        The arse-gut, like a monk's\n  vintage-basket.                       leathern bottle.\nThe kidneys, like a trowel.           The ligaments, like a tinker's\nThe loins, like a padlock.              budget.\nThe ureters, like a pothook.          The bones, like three-cornered\nThe emulgent veins, like two            cheesecakes.\n  gilliflowers.                       The marrow, like a wallet.\nThe spermatic vessels, like a         The cartilages, like a field-\n  cully-mully-puff.                           tortoise, alias a mole.\nThe parastata, like an inkpot.        The glandules in the mouth, like\nThe bladder, like a stone-bow.          a pruning-knife.\nThe neck, like a mill-clapper.        The animal spirits, like swingeing\nThe mirach, or lower parts of the       fisticuffs.\n  belly, like a high-crowned hat.     The blood-fermenting, like a\nThe siphach, or its inner rind,         multiplication of flirts on the\n  like a wooden cuff.                   nose.\nThe muscles, like a pair of bellows.  The urine, like a figpecker.\nThe tendons, like a hawking-          The sperm, like a hundred\n  glove.                                ten-penny nails.\n\nAnd his nurse told me, that being married to Mid-lent, he only begot a good\nnumber of local adverbs and certain double fasts.\n\nHis memory he had like a scarf.       His undertakings, like the ballast\nHis common sense, like a buzzing        of a galleon.\n  of bees.                            His understanding, like a torn\nHis imagination, like the chime         breviary.\n  of a set of bells.                  His notions, like snails crawling\nHis thoughts, like a flight of star-    out of strawberries.\n  lings.                              His will, like three filberts in a\nHis conscience, like the unnest-        porringer.\n  ling of a parcel of young           His desire, like six trusses of hay.\n  herons.                             His judgment, like a shoeing-\nHis deliberations, like a set of        horn.\n  organs.                             His discretion, like the truckle of\nHis repentance, like the carriage       a pulley.\n  of a double cannon.                 His reason, like a cricket.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nShrovetide's outward parts anatomized.\n\nShrovetide, continued Xenomanes, is somewhat better proportioned in his\noutward parts, excepting the seven ribs which he had over and above the\ncommon shape of men.\n\nHis toes were like a virginal on     The peritoneum, or caul wherein\n  an organ.                            his bowels were wrapped, like\nHis nails, like a gimlet.              a billiard-table.\nHis feet, like a guitar.             His back, like an overgrown rack-\nHis heels, like a club.                bent crossbow.\nThe soles of his feet, like a cru-   The vertebrae, or joints of his\n  cible.                               backbone, like a bagpipe.\nHis legs, like a hawk's lure.        His ribs, like a spinning-wheel.\nHis knees, like a joint-stool.       His brisket, like a canopy.\nHis thighs, like a steel cap.        His shoulder-blades, like a mortar.\nHis hips, like a wimble.             His breast, like a game at nine-\nHis belly as big as a tun, buttoned    pins.\n  after the old fashion, with a      His paps, like a hornpipe.\n  girdle riding over the middle      His armpits, like a chequer.\n  of his bosom.                      His shoulders, like a hand-barrow.\nHis navel, like a cymbal.            His arms, like a riding-hood.\nHis groin, like a minced pie.        His fingers, like a brotherhood's\nHis member, like a slipper.            andirons.\nHis purse, like an oil cruet.        The fibulae, or lesser bones of his\nHis genitals, like a joiner's planer.  legs, like a pair of stilts.\nTheir erecting muscles, like a       His shin-bones, like sickles.\n  racket.                            His elbows, like a mouse-trap.\nThe perineum, like a flageolet.      His hands, like a curry-comb.\nHis arse-hole, like a crystal look-  His neck, like a talboy.\n  ing-glass.                         His throat, like a felt to distil hip-\nHis bum, like a harrow.                pocras.\nThe knob in his throat, like a       His loins, like a butter-pot.\n  barrel, where hanged two           His jaws, like a caudle cup.\n  brazen wens, very fine and         His teeth, like a hunter's staff.\n  harmonious, in the shape of an       Of such colt's teeth as his,\n  hourglass.                           you will find one at Colonges\nHis beard, like a lantern.             les Royaux in Poitou, and\nHis chin, like a mushroom.             two at La Brosse in Xaintonge,\nHis ears, like a pair of gloves.       on the cellar door.\nHis nose, like a buskin.             His tongue, like a jew's-harp.\nHis nostrils, like a forehead cloth. His mouth, like a horse-cloth.\nHis eyebrows, like a dripping-pan.   His face embroidered like a mule's\nOn his left brow was a mark of         pack-saddle.\n  the shape and bigness of an        His head contrived like a still.\n  urinal.                            His skull, like a pouch.\nHis eyelids, like a fiddle.          The suturae, or seams of his skull,\nHis eyes, like a comb-box.             like the annulus piscatoris, or\nHis optic nerves, like a tinder-       the fisher's signet.\n  box.                               His skin, like a gabardine.\nHis forehead, like a false cup.      His epidermis, or outward skin,\nHis temples, like the cock of a        like a bolting-cloth.\n  cistern.                           His hair, like a scrubbing-brush.\nHis cheeks, like a pair of wooden    His fur, such as above said.\n  shoes.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA continuation of Shrovetide's countenance.\n\n'Tis a wonderful thing, continued Xenomanes, to hear and see the state of\nShrovetide.\n\nIf he chanced to spit, it was whole  When he trembled, it was large\n  basketsful of goldfinches.           venison pasties.\nIf he blowed his nose, it was        When he did sweat, it was old\n  pickled grigs.                       ling with butter sauce.\nWhen he wept, it was ducks with      When he belched, it was bushels\n  onion sauce.                         of oysters.\nWhen he sneezed, it was whole        When he muttered, it was lawyers'\n  tubfuls of mustard.                  revels.\nWhen he coughed, it was boxes        When he hopped about, it was\n  of marmalade.                        letters of licence and protec-\nWhen he sobbed, it was water-          tions.\n  cresses.                           When he stepped back, it was\nWhen he yawned, it was potfuls         sea cockle-shells.\n  of pickled peas.                   When he slabbered, it was com-\nWhen he sighed, it was dried           mon ovens.\n  neats' tongues.                    When he was hoarse, it was an\nWhen he whistled, it was a whole       entry of morrice-dancers.\n  scuttleful of green apes.          When he broke wind, it was dun\nWhen he snored, it was a whole         cows' leather spatterdashes.\n  panful of fried beans.             When he funked, it was washed-\nWhen he frowned, it was soused         leather boots.\n  hogs' feet.                        When he scratched himself, it\nWhen he spoke, it was coarse           was new proclamations.\n  brown russet cloth; so little      When he sung, it was peas in\n  it was like crimson silk, with       cods.\n  which Parisatis desired that       When he evacuated, it was mush-\n  the words of such as spoke to        rooms and morilles.\n  her son Cyrus, King of Persia,     When he puffed, it was cabbages\n  should be interwoven.                with oil, alias caules amb'olif.\nWhen he blowed, it was indulg-       When he talked, it was the last\n  ence money-boxes.                    year's snow.\nWhen he winked, it was buttered      When he dreamt, it was of a\n  buns.                                cock and a bull.\nWhen he grumbled, it was March       When he gave nothing, so much\n  cats.                                for the bearer.\nWhen he nodded, it was iron-         If he thought to himself, it was\n  bound waggons.                       whimsies and maggots.\nWhen he made mouths, it was          If he dozed, it was leases of lands.\n  broken staves.\n\nWhat is yet more strange, he used to work doing nothing, and did nothing\nthough he worked; caroused sleeping, and slept carousing, with his eyes\nopen, like the hares in our country, for fear of being taken napping by the\nChitterlings, his inveterate enemies; biting he laughed, and laughing bit;\neat nothing fasting, and fasted eating nothing; mumbled upon suspicion,\ndrank by imagination, swam on the tops of high steeples, dried his clothes\nin ponds and rivers, fished in the air, and there used to catch decumane\nlobsters; hunted at the bottom of the herring-pond, and caught there\nibexes, stamboucs, chamois, and other wild goats; used to put out the eyes\nof all the crows which he took sneakingly; feared nothing but his own\nshadow and the cries of fat kids; used to gad abroad some days, like a\ntruant schoolboy; played with the ropes of bells on festival days of\nsaints; made a mallet of his fist, and writ on hairy parchment\nprognostications and almanacks with his huge pin-case.\n\nIs that the gentleman? said Friar John.  He is my man; this is the very\nfellow I looked for.  I will send him a challenge immediately.  This is,\nsaid Pantagruel, a strange and monstrous sort of man, if I may call him a\nman.  You put me in mind of the form and looks of Amodunt and Dissonance.\nHow were they made? said Friar John.  May I be peeled like a raw onion if\never I heard a word of them.  I'll tell you what I read of them in some\nancient apologues, replied Pantagruel.\n\nPhysis--that is to say, Nature--at her first burthen begat Beauty and\nHarmony without carnal copulation, being of herself very fruitful and\nprolific.  Antiphysis, who ever was the counter part of Nature,\nimmediately, out of a malicious spite against her for her beautiful and\nhonourable productions, in opposition begot Amodunt and Dissonance by\ncopulation with Tellumon.  Their heads were round like a football, and not\ngently flatted on both sides, like the common shape of men.  Their ears\nstood pricked up like those of asses; their eyes, as hard as those of\ncrabs, and without brows, stared out of their heads, fixed on bones like\nthose of our heels; their feet were round like tennis-balls; their arms and\nhands turned backwards towards their shoulders; and they walked on their\nheads, continually turning round like a ball, topsy-turvy, heels over head.\n\nYet--as you know that apes esteem their young the handsomest in the world\n--Antiphysis extolled her offspring, and strove to prove that their shape\nwas handsomer and neater than that of the children of Physis, saying that\nthus to have spherical heads and feet, and walk in a circular manner,\nwheeling round, had something in it of the perfection of the divine power,\nwhich makes all beings eternally turn in that fashion; and that to have our\nfeet uppermost, and the head below them, was to imitate the Creator of the\nuniverse; the hair being like the roots, and the legs like the branches of\nman; for trees are better planted by their roots than they could be by their\nbranches.  By this demonstration she implied that her children were much\nmore to be praised for being like a standing tree, than those of Physis,\nthat made a figure of a tree upside down.  As for the arms and hands, she\npretended to prove that they were more justly turned towards the shoulders,\nbecause that part of the body ought not to be without defence, while the\nforepart is duly fenced with teeth, which a man cannot only use to chew, but\nalso to defend himself against those things that offend him. Thus, by the\ntestimony and astipulation of the brute beasts, she drew all the witless\nherd and mob of fools into her opinion, and was admired by all brainless and\nnonsensical people.\n\nSince that, she begot the hypocritical tribes of eavesdropping dissemblers,\nsuperstitious pope-mongers, and priest-ridden bigots, the frantic\nPistolets, (the demoniacal Calvins, impostors of Geneva,) the scrapers of\nbenefices, apparitors with the devil in them, and other grinders and\nsqueezers of livings, herb-stinking hermits, gulligutted dunces of the\ncowl, church vermin, false zealots, devourers of the substance of men, and\nmany more other deformed and ill-favoured monsters, made in spite of\nnature.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel discovered a monstrous physeter, or whirlpool, near the Wild\nIsland.\n\nAbout sunset, coming near the Wild Island, Pantagruel spied afar off a huge\nmonstrous physeter (a sort of whale, which some call a whirlpool), that\ncame right upon us, neighing, snorting, raised above the waves higher than\nour main-tops, and spouting water all the way into the air before itself,\nlike a large river falling from a mountain.  Pantagruel showed it to the\npilot and to Xenomanes.\n\nBy the pilot's advice the trumpets of the Thalamege were sounded to warn\nall the fleet to stand close and look to themselves.  This alarm being\ngiven, all the ships, galleons, frigates, brigantines, according to their\nnaval discipline, placed themselves in the order and figure of an Y\n(upsilon), the letter of Pythagoras, as cranes do in their flight, and like\nan acute angle, in whose cone and basis the Thalamege placed herself ready\nto fight smartly.  Friar John with the grenadiers got on the forecastle.\n\nPoor Panurge began to cry and howl worse than ever.  Babille-babou, said\nhe, shrugging up his shoulders, quivering all over with fear, there will be\nthe devil upon dun.  This is a worse business than that t'other day.  Let\nus fly, let us fly; old Nick take me if it is not Leviathan, described by\nthe noble prophet Moses in the life of patient Job.  It will swallow us\nall, ships and men, shag, rag, and bobtail, like a dose of pills.  Alas! it\nwill make no more of us, and we shall hold no more room in its hellish\njaws, than a sugarplum in an ass's throat.  Look, look, 'tis upon us; let\nus wheel off, whip it away, and get ashore.  I believe 'tis the very\nindividual sea-monster that was formerly designed to devour Andromeda; we\nare all undone.  Oh! for some valiant Perseus here now to kill the dog.\n\nI'll do its business presently, said Pantagruel; fear nothing.  Ods-belly,\nsaid Panurge, remove the cause of my fear then.  When the devil would you\nhave a man be afraid but when there is so much cause?  If your destiny be\nsuch as Friar John was saying a while ago, replied Pantagruel, you ought to\nbe afraid of Pyroeis, Eous, Aethon, and Phlegon, the sun's coach-horses,\nthat breathe fire at the nostrils; and not of physeters, that spout nothing\nbut water at the snout and mouth.  Their water will not endanger your life;\nand that element will rather save and preserve than hurt or endanger you.\n\nAy, ay, trust to that, and hang me, quoth Panurge; yours is a very pretty\nfancy.  Ods-fish! did I not give you a sufficient account of the elements'\ntransmutation, and the blunders that are made of roast for boiled, and\nboiled for roast?  Alas! here 'tis; I'll go hide myself below.  We are dead\nmen, every mother's son of us.  I see upon our main-top that merciless hag\nAtropos, with her scissors new ground, ready to cut our threads all at one\nsnip.  Oh! how dreadful and abominable thou art; thou hast drowned a good\nmany beside us, who never made their brags of it.  Did it but spout good,\nbrisk, dainty, delicious white wine, instead of this damned bitter salt\nwater, one might better bear with it, and there would be some cause to be\npatient; like that English lord, who being doomed to die, and had leave to\nchoose what kind of death he would, chose to be drowned in a butt of\nmalmsey.  Here it is.  Oh, oh! devil!  Sathanas!  Leviathan!  I cannot\nabide to look upon thee, thou art so abominably ugly.  Go to the bar, go\ntake the pettifoggers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the monstrous physeter was slain by Pantagruel.\n\nThe physeter, coming between the ships and the galleons, threw water by\nwhole tuns upon them, as if it had been the cataracts of the Nile in\nEthiopia.  On the other side, arrows, darts, gleaves, javelins, spears,\nharping-irons, and partizans, flew upon it like hail.  Friar John did not\nspare himself in it.  Panurge was half dead for fear.  The artillery roared\nand thundered like mad, and seemed to gall it in good earnest, but did but\nlittle good; for the great iron and brass cannon-shot entering its skin\nseemed to melt like tiles in the sun.\n\nPantagruel then, considering the weight and exigency of the matter,\nstretched out his arms and showed what he could do.  You tell us, and it is\nrecorded, that Commudus, the Roman emperor, could shoot with a bow so\ndexterously that at a good distance he would let fly an arrow through a\nchild's fingers and never touch them.  You also tell us of an Indian\narcher, who lived when Alexander the Great conquered India, and was so\nskilful in drawing the bow, that at a considerable distance he would shoot\nhis arrows through a ring, though they were three cubits long, and their\niron so large and weighty that with them he used to pierce steel cutlasses,\nthick shields, steel breastplates, and generally what he did hit, how firm,\nresisting, hard, and strong soever it were.  You also tell us wonders of\nthe industry of the ancient Franks, who were preferred to all others in\npoint of archery; and when they hunted either black or dun beasts, used to\nrub the head of their arrows with hellebore, because the flesh of the\nvenison struck with such an arrow was more tender, dainty, wholesome, and\ndelicious--paring off, nevertheless, the part that was touched round about.\nYou also talk of the Parthians, who used to shoot backwards more\ndexterously than other nations forwards; and also celebrate the skill of\nthe Scythians in that art, who sent once to Darius, King of Persia, an\nambassador that made him a present of a bird, a frog, a mouse, and five\narrows, without speaking one word; and being asked what those presents\nmeant, and if he had commission to say anything, answered that he had not;\nwhich puzzled and gravelled Darius very much, till Gobrias, one of the\nseven captains that had killed the magi, explained it, saying to Darius:\nBy these gifts and offerings the Scythians silently tell you that except\nthe Persians like birds fly up to heaven, or like mice hide themselves near\nthe centre of the earth, or like frogs dive to the very bottom of ponds and\nlakes, they shall be destroyed by the power and arrows of the Scythians.\n\nThe noble Pantagruel was, without comparison, more admirable yet in the art\nof shooting and darting; for with his dreadful piles and darts, nearly\nresembling the huge beams that support the bridges of Nantes, Saumur,\nBergerac, and at Paris the millers' and the changers' bridges, in length,\nsize, weight, and iron-work, he at a mile's distance would open an oyster\nand never touch the edges; he would snuff a candle without putting it out;\nwould shoot a magpie in the eye; take off a boot's under-sole, or a\nriding-hood's lining, without soiling them a bit; turn over every leaf\nof Friar John's breviary, one after another, and not tear one.\n\nWith such darts, of which there was good store in the ship, at the first\nblow he ran the physeter in at the forehead so furiously that he pierced\nboth its jaws and tongue; so that from that time to this it no more opened\nits guttural trapdoor, nor drew and spouted water.  At the second blow he\nput out its right eye, and at the third its left; and we had all the\npleasure to see the physeter bearing those three horns in its forehead,\nsomewhat leaning forwards in an equilateral triangle.\n\nMeanwhile it turned about to and fro, staggering and straying like one\nstunned, blinded, and taking his leave of the world.  Pantagruel, not\nsatisfied with this, let fly another dart, which took the monster under the\ntail likewise sloping; then with three other on the chine, in a\nperpendicular line, divided its flank from the tail to the snout at an\nequal distance.  Then he larded it with fifty on one side, and after that,\nto make even work, he darted as many on its other side; so that the body of\nthe physeter seemed like the hulk of a galleon with three masts, joined by\na competent dimension of its beams, as if they had been the ribs and\nchain-wales of the keel; which was a pleasant sight.  The physeter then\ngiving up the ghost, turned itself upon its back, as all dead fishes do; and\nbeing thus overturned, with the beams and darts upside down in the sea, it\nseemed a scolopendra or centipede, as that serpent is described by the\nancient sage Nicander.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went on shore in the Wild Island, the ancient abode of the\nChitterlings.\n\nThe boat's crew of the ship Lantern towed the physeter ashore on the\nneighbouring shore, which happened to be the Wild Island, to make an\nanatomical dissection of its body and save the fat of its kidneys, which,\nthey said, was very useful and necessary for the cure of a certain\ndistemper, which they called want of money.  As for Pantagruel, he took no\nmanner of notice of the monster; for he had seen many such, nay, bigger, in\nthe Gallic ocean.  Yet he condescended to land in the Wild Island, to dry\nand refresh some of his men (whom the physeter had wetted and bedaubed), at\na small desert seaport towards the south, seated near a fine pleasant\ngrove, out of which flowed a delicious brook of fresh, clear, and purling\nwater.  Here they pitched their tents and set up their kitchens; nor did\nthey spare fuel.\n\nEveryone having shifted as they thought fit, Friar John rang the bell, and\nthe cloth was immediately laid, and supper brought in.  Pantagruel eating\ncheerfully with his men, much about the second course perceived certain\nlittle sly Chitterlings clambering up a high tree near the pantry, as still\nas so many mice.  Which made him ask Xenomanes what kind of creatures these\nwere, taking them for squirrels, weasels, martins, or ermines.  They are\nChitterlings, replied Xenomanes.  This is the Wild Island of which I spoke\nto you this morning; there hath been an irreconcilable war this long time\nbetween them and Shrovetide, their malicious and ancient enemy.  I believe\nthat the noise of the guns which we fired at the physeter hath alarmed\nthem, and made them fear their enemy was come with his forces to surprise\nthem, or lay the island waste, as he hath often attempted to do; though he\nstill came off but bluely, by reason of the care and vigilance of the\nChitterlings, who (as Dido said to Aeneas's companions that would have\nlanded at Carthage without her leave or knowledge) were forced to watch and\nstand upon their guard, considering the malice of their enemy and the\nneighbourhood of his territories.\n\nPray, dear friend, said Pantagruel, if you find that by some honest means\nwe may bring this war to an end, and reconcile them together, give me\nnotice of it; I will use my endeavours in it with all my heart, and spare\nnothing on my side to moderate and accommodate the points in dispute\nbetween both parties.\n\nThat's impossible at this time, answered Xenomanes.  About four years ago,\npassing incognito by this country, I endeavoured to make a peace, or at\nleast a long truce among them; and I had certainly brought them to be good\nfriends and neighbours if both one and the other parties would have yielded\nto one single article.  Shrovetide would not include in the treaty of peace\nthe wild puddings nor the highland sausages, their ancient gossips and\nconfederates.  The Chitterlings demanded that the fort of Cacques might be\nunder their government, as is the Castle of Sullouoir, and that a parcel of\nI don't know what stinking villains, murderers, robbers, that held it then,\nshould be expelled.  But they could not agree in this, and the terms that\nwere offered seemed too hard to either party.  So the treaty broke off, and\nnothing was done.  Nevertheless, they became less severe, and gentler\nenemies than they were before; but since the denunciation of the national\nCouncil of Chesil, whereby they were roughly handled, hampered, and cited;\nwhereby also Shrovetide was declared filthy, beshitten, and berayed, in\ncase he made any league or agreement with them; they are grown wonderfully\ninveterate, incensed, and obstinate against one another, and there is no\nway to remedy it.  You might sooner reconcile cats and rats, or hounds and\nhares together.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the wild Chitterlings laid an ambuscado for Pantagruel.\n\nWhile Xenomanes was saying this, Friar John spied twenty or thirty young\nslender-shaped Chitterlings posting as fast as they could towards their\ntown, citadel, castle, and fort of Chimney, and said to Pantagruel, I smell\na rat; there will be here the devil upon two sticks, or I am much out.\nThese worshipful Chitterlings may chance to mistake you for Shrovetide,\nthough you are not a bit like him.  Let us once in our lives leave our\njunketing for a while, and put ourselves in a posture to give 'em a\nbellyful of fighting, if they would be at that sport.  There can be no\nfalse Latin in this, said Xenomanes; Chitterlings are still Chitterlings,\nalways double-hearted and treacherous.\n\nPantagruel then arose from table to visit and scour the thicket, and\nreturned presently; having discovered, on the left, an ambuscade of squab\nChitterlings; and on the right, about half a league from thence, a large\nbody of huge giant-like armed Chitterlings ranged in battalia along a\nlittle hill, and marching furiously towards us at the sound of bagpipes,\nsheep's paunches, and bladders, the merry fifes and drums, trumpets, and\nclarions, hoping to catch us as Moss caught his mare.  By the conjecture of\nseventy-eight standards which we told, we guessed their number to be two\nand forty thousand, at a modest computation.\n\nTheir order, proud gait, and resolute looks made us judge that they were\nnone of your raw, paltry links, but old warlike Chitterlings and Sausages.\nFrom the foremost ranks to the colours they were all armed cap-a-pie with\nsmall arms, as we reckoned them at a distance, yet very sharp and\ncase-hardened.  Their right and left wings were lined with a great number of\nforest puddings, heavy pattipans, and horse sausages, all of them tall and\nproper islanders, banditti, and wild.\n\nPantagruel was very much daunted, and not without cause; though Epistemon\ntold him that it might be the use and custom of the Chitterlingonians to\nwelcome and receive thus in arms their foreign friends, as the noble kings\nof France are received and saluted at their first coming into the chief\ncities of the kingdom after their advancement to the crown.  Perhaps, said\nhe, it may be the usual guard of the queen of the place, who, having notice\ngiven her by the junior Chitterlings of the forlorn hope whom you saw on\nthe tree, of the arrival of your fine and pompous fleet, hath judged that\nit was without doubt some rich and potent prince, and is come to visit you\nin person.\n\nPantagruel, little trusting to this, called a council, to have their advice\nat large in this doubtful case.  He briefly showed them how this way of\nreception with arms had often, under colour of compliment and friendship,\nbeen fatal.  Thus, said he, the Emperor Antonius Caracalla at one time\ndestroyed the citizens of Alexandria, and at another time cut off the\nattendants of Artabanus, King of Persia, under colour of marrying his\ndaughter, which, by the way, did not pass unpunished, for a while after\nthis cost him his life.\n\nThus Jacob's children destroyed the Sichemites, to revenge the rape of\ntheir sister Dinah.  By such another hypocritical trick Gallienus, the\nRoman emperor, put to death the military men in Constantinople.  Thus,\nunder colour of friendship, Antonius enticed Artavasdes, King of Armenia;\nthen, having caused him to be bound in heavy chains and shackled, at last\nput him to death.\n\nWe find a thousand such instances in history; and King Charles VI. is\njustly commended for his prudence to this day, in that, coming back\nvictorious over the Ghenters and other Flemings to his good city of Paris,\nand when he came to Bourget, a league from thence, hearing that the\ncitizens with their mallets--whence they got the name of Maillotins--were\nmarched out of town in battalia, twenty thousand strong, he would not go\ninto the town till they had laid down their arms and retired to their\nrespective homes; though they protested to him that they had taken arms\nwith no other design than to receive him with the greater demonstration of\nhonour and respect.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel sent for Colonel Maul-chitterling and Colonel Cut-pudding;\nwith a discourse well worth your hearing about the names of places and\npersons.\n\nThe resolution of the council was that, let things be how they would, it\nbehoved the Pantagruelists to stand upon their guard.  Therefore Carpalin\nand Gymnast were ordered by Pantagruel to go for the soldiers that were on\nboard the Cup galley, under the command of Colonel Maul-chitterling, and\nthose on board the Vine-tub frigate, under the command of Colonel\nCut-pudding the younger.  I will ease Gymnast of that trouble, said Panurge,\nwho wanted to be upon the run; you may have occasion for him here.  By\nthis worthy frock of mine, quoth Friar John, thou hast a mind to slip thy\nneck out of the collar and absent thyself from the fight, thou\nwhite-livered son of a dunghill!  Upon my virginity thou wilt never come\nback. Well, there can be no great loss in thee; for thou wouldst do nothing\nhere but howl, bray, weep, and dishearten the good soldiers.  I will\ncertainly come back, said Panurge, Friar John, my ghostly father, and\nspeedily too; do but take care that these plaguy Chitterlings do not board\nour ships. All the while you will be a-fighting I will pray heartily for\nyour victory, after the example of the valiant captain and guide of the\npeople of Israel, Moses. Having said this, he wheeled off.\n\nThen said Epistemon to Pantagruel:  The denomination of these two colonels\nof yours, Maul-chitterling and Cut-pudding, promiseth us assurance,\nsuccess, and victory, if those Chitterlings should chance to set upon us.\nYou take it rightly, said Pantagruel, and it pleaseth me to see you foresee\nand prognosticate our victory by the names of our colonels.\n\nThis way of foretelling by names is not new; it was in old times celebrated\nand religiously observed by the Pythagoreans.  Several great princes and\nemperors have formerly made good use of it.  Octavianus Augustus, second\nemperor of the Romans, meeting on a day a country fellow named Eutychus\n--that is, fortunate--driving an ass named Nicon--that is, in Greek,\nVictorian--moved by the signification of the ass's and ass-driver's names,\nremained assured of all prosperity and victory.\n\nThe Emperor Vespasian being once all alone at prayers in the temple of\nSerapis, at the sight and unexpected coming of a certain servant of his\nnamed Basilides--that is, royal--whom he had left sick a great way behind,\ntook hopes and assurance of obtaining the empire of the Romans.  Regilian\nwas chosen emperor by the soldiers for no other reason but the\nsignification of his name.  See the Cratylus of the divine Plato.  (By my\nthirst, I will read it, said Rhizotome; I hear you so often quote it.)  See\nhow the Pythagoreans, by reason of the names and numbers, conclude that\nPatroclus was to fall by the hand of Hector; Hector by Achilles; Achilles\nby Paris; Paris by Philoctetes.  I am quite lost in my understanding when I\nreflect upon the admirable invention of Pythagoras, who by the number,\neither even or odd, of the syllables of every name, would tell you of what\nside a man was lame, hulch-backed, blind, gouty, troubled with the palsy,\npleurisy, or any other distemper incident to humankind; allotting even\nnumbers to the left (Motteux reads--'even numbers to the Right, and odd\nones to the Left.'), and odd ones to the right side of the body.\n\nIndeed, said Epistemon, I saw this way of syllabizing tried at Xaintes at a\ngeneral procession, in the presence of that good, virtuous, learned and\njust president, Brian Vallee, Lord of Douhait.  When there went by a man or\nwoman that was either lame, blind of one eye, or humpbacked, he had an\naccount brought him of his or her name; and if the syllables of the name\nwere of an odd number, immediately, without seeing the persons, he declared\nthem to be deformed, blind, lame, or crooked of the right side; and of the\nleft, if they were even in number; and such indeed we ever found them.\n\nBy this syllabical invention, said Pantagruel, the learned have affirmed\nthat Achilles kneeling was wounded by the arrow of Paris in the right heel,\nfor his name is of odd syllables (here we ought to observe that the\nancients used to kneel the right foot); and that Venus was also wounded\nbefore Troy in the left hand, for her name in Greek is Aphrodite, of four\nsyllables; Vulcan lamed of his left foot for the same reason; Philip, King\nof Macedon, and Hannibal, blind of the right eye; not to speak of\nsciaticas, broken bellies, and hemicranias, which may be distinguished by\nthis Pythagorean reason.\n\nBut returning to names:  do but consider how Alexander the Great, son of\nKing Philip, of whom we spoke just now, compassed his undertaking merely by\nthe interpretation of a name.  He had besieged the strong city of Tyre, and\nfor several weeks battered it with all his power; but all in vain.  His\nengines and attempts were still baffled by the Tyrians, which made him\nfinally resolve to raise the siege, to his great grief; foreseeing the\ngreat stain which such a shameful retreat would be to his reputation.  In\nthis anxiety and agitation of mind he fell asleep and dreamed that a satyr\nwas come into his tent, capering, skipping, and tripping it up and down,\nwith his goatish hoofs, and that he strove to lay hold on him.  But the\nsatyr still slipped from him, till at last, having penned him up into a\ncorner, he took him.  With this he awoke, and telling his dream to the\nphilosophers and sages of his court, they let him know that it was a\npromise of victory from the gods, and that he should soon be master of\nTyre; the word satyros divided in two being sa Tyros, and signifying Tyre\nis thine; and in truth, at the next onset, he took the town by storm, and\nby a complete victory reduced that stubborn people to subjection.\n\nOn the other hand, see how, by the signification of one word, Pompey fell\ninto despair.  Being overcome by Caesar at the battle of Pharsalia, he had\nno other way left to escape but by flight; which attempting by sea, he\narrived near the island of Cyprus, and perceived on the shore near the city\nof Paphos a beautiful and stately palace; now asking the pilot what was the\nname of it, he told him that it was called kakobasilea, that is, evil king;\nwhich struck such a dread and terror in him that he fell into despair, as\nbeing assured of losing shortly his life; insomuch that his complaints,\nsighs, and groans were heard by the mariners and other passengers.  And\nindeed, a while after, a certain strange peasant, called Achillas, cut off\nhis head.\n\nTo all these examples might be added what happened to L. Paulus Emilius\nwhen the senate elected him imperator, that is, chief of the army which\nthey sent against Perses, King of Macedon.  That evening returning home to\nprepare for his expedition, and kissing a little daughter of his called\nTrasia, she seemed somewhat sad to him.  What is the matter, said he, my\nchicken?  Why is my Trasia thus sad and melancholy?  Daddy, replied the\nchild, Persa is dead.  This was the name of a little bitch which she loved\nmightily.  Hearing this, Paulus took assurance of a victory over Perses.\n\nIf time would permit us to discourse of the sacred Hebrew writ, we might\nfind a hundred noted passages evidently showing how religiously they\nobserved proper names and their significations.\n\nHe had hardly ended this discourse, when the two colonels arrived with\ntheir soldiers, all well armed and resolute.  Pantagruel made them a short\nspeech, entreating them to behave themselves bravely in case they were\nattacked; for he could not yet believe that the Chitterlings were so\ntreacherous; but he bade them by no means to give the first offence, giving\nthem Carnival for the watchword.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Chitterlings are not to be slighted by men.\n\nYou shake your empty noddles now, jolly topers, and do not believe what I\ntell you here, any more than if it were some tale of a tub.  Well, well, I\ncannot help it.  Believe it if you will; if you won't, let it alone.  For\nmy part, I very well know what I say.  It was in the Wild Island, in our\nvoyage to the Holy Bottle.  I tell you the time and place; what would you\nhave more?  I would have you call to mind the strength of the ancient\ngiants that undertook to lay the high mountain Pelion on the top of Ossa,\nand set among those the shady Olympus, to dash out the gods' brains,\nunnestle them, and scour their heavenly lodgings.  Theirs was no small\nstrength, you may well think, and yet they were nothing but Chitterlings\nfrom the waist downwards, or at least serpents, not to tell a lie for the\nmatter.\n\nThe serpent that tempted Eve, too, was of the Chitterling kind, and yet it\nis recorded of him that he was more subtle than any beast of the field.\nEven so are Chitterlings.  Nay, to this very hour they hold in some\nuniversities that this same tempter was the Chitterling called Ithyphallus,\ninto which was transformed bawdy Priapus, arch-seducer of females in\nparadise, that is, a garden, in Greek.\n\nPray now tell me who can tell but that the Swiss, now so bold and warlike,\nwere formerly Chitterlings?  For my part, I would not take my oath to the\ncontrary.  The Himantopodes, a nation very famous in Ethiopia, according to\nPliny's description, are Chitterlings, and nothing else.  If all this will\nnot satisfy your worships, or remove your incredulity, I would have you\nforthwith (I mean drinking first, that nothing be done rashly) visit\nLusignan, Parthenay, Vouant, Mervant, and Ponzauges in Poitou.  There you\nwill find a cloud of witnesses, not of your affidavit-men of the right\nstamp, but credible time out of mind, that will take their corporal oath,\non Rigome's knuckle-bone, that Melusina their founder or foundress, which\nyou please, was woman from the head to the prick-purse, and thence\ndownwards was a serpentine Chitterling, or if you'll have it otherwise, a\nChitterlingdized serpent.  She nevertheless had a genteel and noble gait,\nimitated to this very day by your hop-merchants of Brittany, in their\npaspie and country dances.\n\nWhat do you think was the cause of Erichthonius's being the first inventor\nof coaches, litters, and chariots?  Nothing but because Vulcan had begot\nhim with Chitterlingdized legs, which to hide he chose to ride in a litter,\nrather than on horseback; for Chitterlings were not yet in esteem at that\ntime.\n\nThe Scythian nymph, Ora, was likewise half woman and half Chitterling, and\nyet seemed so beautiful to Jupiter that nothing could serve him but he must\ngive her a touch of his godship's kindness; and accordingly he had a brave\nboy by her, called Colaxes; and therefore I would have you leave off\nshaking your empty noddles at this, as if it were a story, and firmly\nbelieve that nothing is truer than the gospel.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Friar John joined with the cooks to fight the Chitterlings.\n\nFriar John seeing these furious Chitterlings thus boldly march up, said to\nPantagruel, Here will be a rare battle of hobby-horses, a pretty kind of\npuppet-show fight, for aught I see.  Oh! what mighty honour and wonderful\nglory will attend our victory!  I would have you only be a bare spectator\nof this fight, and for anything else leave me and my men to deal with them.\nWhat men? said Pantagruel.  Matter of breviary, replied Friar John.  How\ncame Potiphar, who was head-cook of Pharaoh's kitchens, he that bought\nJoseph, and whom the said Joseph might have made a cuckold if he had not\nbeen a Joseph; how came he, I say, to be made general of all the horse in\nthe kingdom of Egypt?  Why was Nabuzardan, King Nebuchadnezzar's head-cook,\nchosen to the exclusion of all other captains to besiege and destroy\nJerusalem?  I hear you, replied Pantagruel.  By St. Christopher's whiskers,\nsaid Friar John, I dare lay a wager that it was because they had formerly\nengaged Chitterlings, or men as little valued; whom to rout, conquer, and\ndestroy, cooks are without comparison more fit than cuirassiers and\ngendarmes armed at all points, or all the horse and foot in the world.\n\nYou put me in mind, said Pantagruel, of what is written amongst the\nfacetious and merry sayings of Cicero.  During the more than civil wars\nbetween Caesar and Pompey, though he was much courted by the first, he\nnaturally leaned more to the side of the latter.  Now one day hearing that\nthe Pompeians in a certain rencontre had lost a great many men, he took a\nfancy to visit their camp.  There he perceived little strength, less\ncourage, but much disorder.  From that time, foreseeing that things would\ngo ill with them, as it since happened, he began to banter now one and then\nanother, and be very free of his cutting jests; so some of Pompey's\ncaptains, playing the good fellows to show their assurance, told him, Do\nyou see how many eagles we have yet?  (They were then the device of the\nRomans in war.)  They might be of use to you, replied Cicero, if you had to\ndo with magpies.\n\nThus, seeing we are to fight Chitterlings, pursued Pantagruel, you infer\nthence that it is a culinary war, and have a mind to join with the cooks.\nWell, do as you please, I'll stay here in the meantime, and wait for the\nevent of the rumpus.\n\nFriar John went that very moment among the sutlers, into the cooks' tents,\nand told them in a pleasing manner:  I must see you crowned with honour and\ntriumph this day, my lads; to your arms are reserved such achievements as\nnever yet were performed within the memory of man.  Ods-belly, do they make\nnothing of the valiant cooks?  Let us go fight yonder fornicating\nChitterlings!  I'll be your captain.  But first let's drink, boys.  Come\non! let us be of good cheer.  Noble captain, returned the kitchen tribe,\nthis was spoken like yourself; bravely offered.  Huzza! we are all at your\nexcellency's command, and we live and die by you.  Live, live, said Friar\nJohn, a God's name; but die by no means.  That is the Chitterlings' lot;\nthey shall have their bellyful of it.  Come on then, let us put ourselves\nin order; Nabuzardan's the word.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Friar John fitted up the sow; and of the valiant cooks that went into\nit.\n\nThen, by Friar John's order, the engineers and their workmen fitted up the\ngreat sow that was in the ship Leathern Bottle.  It was a wonderful\nmachine, so contrived that, by means of large engines that were round about\nit in rows, it throw'd forked iron bars and four-squared steel bolts; and\nin its hold two hundred men at least could easily fight, and be sheltered.\nIt was made after the model of the sow of Riole, by the means of which\nBergerac was retaken from the English in the reign of Charles the Sixth.\n\nHere are the names of the noble and valiant cooks who went into the sow, as\nthe Greeks did into the Trojan horse:\n\nSour-sauce.        Crisp-pig.         Carbonado.\nSweet-meat.        Greasy-slouch.     Sop-in-pan.\nGreedy-gut.        Fat-gut.           Pick-fowl.\nLiquorice-chops.   Bray-mortar.       Mustard-pot.\nSoused-pork.       Lick-sauce.        Hog's-haslet.\nSlap-sauce.        Hog's-foot.        Chopped-phiz.\nCock-broth.        Hodge-podge.       Gallimaufry.\nSlipslop.\n\nAll these noble cooks in their coat-of-arms did bear, in a field gules, a\nlarding-pin vert, charged with a chevron argent.\n\nLard, hog's-lard.  Pinch-lard.        Snatch-lard.\nNibble-lard.       Top-lard.          Gnaw-lard.\nFilch-lard.        Pick-lard.         Scrape-lard.\nFat-lard.          Save-lard.         Chew-lard.\n\nGaillard (by syncope) born near Rambouillet.  The said culinary doctor's\nname was Gaillardlard, in the same manner as you use to say idolatrous for\nidololatrous.\n\nStiff-lard.        Cut-lard.          Waste-lard.\nWatch-lard.        Mince-lard.        Ogle-lard.\nSweet-lard.        Dainty-lard.       Weigh-lard.\nEat-lard.          Fresh-lard.        Gulch-lard.\nSnap-lard.         Rusty-lard.        Eye-lard.\nCatch-lard.\n\nNames unknown among the Marranes and Jews.\n\nBallocky.          Thirsty.           Porridge-pot.\nPick-sallat.       Kitchen-stuff.     Lick-dish.\nBroil-rasher.      Verjuice.          Salt-gullet.\nConey-skin.        Save-dripping.     Snail-dresser.\nDainty-chops.      Watercress.        Soup-monger.\nPie-wright.        Scrape-turnip.     Brewis-belly.\nPudding-pan.       Trivet.            Chine-picker.\nToss-pot.          Monsieur Ragout.   Suck-gravy.\nMustard-sauce.     Crack-pipkin.      Macaroon.\nClaret-sauce.      Scrape-pot.        Skewer-maker.\nSwill-broth.\n\nSmell-smock.  He was afterwards taken from the kitchen and removed to\nchamber-practice, for the service of the noble Cardinal Hunt-venison.\n\nRot-roast.         Hog's gullet.      Fox-tail.\nDish-clout.        Sirloin.           Fly-flap.\nSave-suet.         Spit-mutton.       Old Grizzle.\nFire-fumbler.      Fritter-frier.     Ruff-belly.\nPillicock.         Flesh-smith.       Saffron-sauce.\nLong-tool.         Cram-gut.          Strutting-tom.\nPrick-pride.       Tuzzy-mussy.       Slashed-snout.\nPrick-madam.       Jacket-liner.      Smutty-face.\nPricket.           Guzzle-drink.\n\nMondam, that first invented madam's sauce, and for that discovery was thus\ncalled in the Scotch-French dialect.\n\nLoblolly.          Sloven.            Trencher-man.\nSlabber-chops.     Swallow-pitcher.   Goodman Goosecap.\nScum-pot.          Wafer-monger.      Munch-turnip.\nGully-guts.        Snap-gobbet.       Pudding-bag.\nRinse-pot.         Scurvy-phiz.       Pig-sticker.\nDrink-spiller.\n\nRobert.  He invented Robert's sauce, so good and necessary for roasted\nconeys, ducks, fresh pork, poached eggs, salt fish, and a thousand other\nsuch dishes.\n\nCold-eel.          Frying-pan.        Big-snout.\nThornback.         Man of dough.      Lick-finger.\nGurnard.           Sauce-doctor.      Tit-bit.\nGrumbling-gut.     Waste-butter.      Sauce-box.\nAlms-scrip.        Shitbreech.        All-fours.\nTaste-all.         Thick-brawn.       Whimwham.\nScrap-merchant.    Tom T--d.          Baste-roast.\nBelly-timberman.   Mouldy-crust.      Gaping-hoyden.\nHashee.            Hasty.             Calf's-pluck.\nFrig-palate.       Red-herring.       Leather-breeches.\nPowdering-tub.     Cheesecake.\n\nAll these noble cooks went into the sow, merry, cheery, hale, brisk, old\ndogs at mischief, and ready to fight stoutly.  Friar John ever and anon\nwaving his huge scimitar, brought up the rear, and double-locked the doors\non the inside.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel broke the Chitterlings at the knees.\n\nThe Chitterlings advanced so near that Pantagruel perceived that they\nstretched their arms and already began to charge their lances, which caused\nhim to send Gymnast to know what they meant, and why they thus, without the\nleast provocation, came to fall upon their old trusty friends, who had\nneither said nor done the least ill thing to them.  Gymnast being advanced\nnear their front, bowed very low, and said to them as loud as ever he\ncould:  We are friends, we are friends; all, all of us your friends, yours,\nand at your command; we are for Carnival, your old confederate.  Some have\nsince told me that he mistook, and said cavernal instead of carnival.\n\nWhatever it was, the word was no sooner out of his mouth but a huge little\nsquab Sausage, starting out of the front of their main body, would have\ngriped him by the collar.  By the helmet of Mars, said Gymnast, I will\nswallow thee; but thou shalt only come in in chips and slices; for, big as\nthou art, thou couldst never come in whole.  This spoke, he lugs out his\ntrusty sword, Kiss-mine-arse (so he called it) with both his fists, and cut\nthe Sausage in twain.  Bless me, how fat the foul thief was! it puts me in\nmind of the huge bull of Berne, that was slain at Marignan when the drunken\nSwiss were so mauled there.  Believe me, it had little less than four\ninches' lard on its paunch.\n\nThe Sausage's job being done, a crowd of others flew upon Gymnast, and had\nmost scurvily dragged him down when Pantagruel with his men came up to his\nrelief.  Then began the martial fray, higgledy-piggledy.  Maul-chitterling\ndid maul chitterlings; Cut-pudding did cut puddings; Pantagruel did break\nthe Chitterlings at the knees; Friar John played at least in sight within\nhis sow, viewing and observing all things; when the Pattipans that lay in\nambuscade most furiously sallied out upon Pantagruel.\n\nFriar John, who lay snug all this while, by that time perceiving the rout\nand hurlyburly, set open the doors of his sow and sallied out with his\nmerry Greeks, some of them armed with iron spits, others with andirons,\nracks, fire-shovels, frying-pans, kettles, grid-irons, oven forks, tongs,\ndripping pans, brooms, iron pots, mortars, pestles, all in battle array,\nlike so many housebreakers, hallooing and roaring out all together most\nfrightfully, Nabuzardan, Nabuzardan, Nabuzardan.  Thus shouting and hooting\nthey fought like dragons, and charged through the Pattipans and Sausages.\nThe Chitterlings perceiving this fresh reinforcement, and that the others\nwould be too hard for 'em, betook themselves to their heels, scampering off\nwith full speed, as if the devil had come for them.  Friar John, with an\niron crow, knocked them down as fast as hops; his men, too, were not\nsparing on their side.  Oh, what a woeful sight it was! the field was all\nover strewed with heaps of dead or wounded Chitterlings; and history\nrelates that had not heaven had a hand in it, the Chitterling tribe had\nbeen totally routed out of the world by the culinary champions.  But there\nhappened a wonderful thing, you may believe as little or as much of it as\nyou please.\n\nFrom the north flew towards us a huge, fat, thick, grizzly swine, with long\nand large wings, like those of a windmill; its plumes red crimson, like\nthose of a phenicoptere (which in Languedoc they call flaman); its eyes\nwere red, and flaming like a carbuncle; its ears green, like a Prasin\nemerald; its teeth like a topaz; its tail long and black, like jet; its\nfeet white, diaphanous and transparent like a diamond, somewhat broad, and\nof the splay kind, like those of geese, and as Queen Dick's used to be at\nToulouse in the days of yore.  About its neck it wore a gold collar, round\nwhich were some Ionian characters, whereof I could pick out but two words,\nUS ATHENAN, hog-teaching Minerva.\n\nThe sky was clear before; but at that monster's appearance it changed so\nmightily for the worse that we were all amazed at it.  As soon as the\nChitterlings perceived the flying hog, down they all threw their weapons\nand fell on their knees, lifting up their hands joined together, without\nspeaking one word, in a posture of adoration.  Friar John and his party\nkept on mincing, felling, braining, mangling, and spitting the Chitterlings\nlike mad; but Pantagruel sounded a retreat, and all hostility ceased.\n\nThe monster having several times hovered backwards and forwards between the\ntwo armies, with a tail-shot voided above twenty-seven butts of mustard on\nthe ground; then flew away through the air, crying all the while, Carnival,\nCarnival, Carnival.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel held a treaty with Niphleseth, Queen of the Chitterlings.\n\nThe monster being out of sight, and the two armies remaining silent,\nPantagruel demanded a parley with the lady Niphleseth, Queen of the\nChitterlings, who was in her chariot by the standards; and it was easily\ngranted.  The queen alighted, courteously received Pantagruel, and was glad\nto see him.  Pantagruel complained to her of this breach of peace; but she\ncivilly made her excuse, telling him that a false information had caused\nall this mischief; her spies having brought her word that Shrovetide, their\nmortal foe, was landed, and spent his time in examining the urine of\nphyseters.\n\nShe therefore entreated him to pardon them their offence, telling him that\nsir-reverence was sooner found in Chitterlings than gall; and offering, for\nherself and all her successors, to hold of him and his the whole island and\ncountry; to obey him in all his commands, be friends to his friends, and\nfoes to his foes; and also to send every year, as an acknowledgment of\ntheir homage, a tribute of seventy-eight thousand royal Chitterlings, to\nserve him at his first course at table six months in the year; which was\npunctually performed.  For the next day she sent the aforesaid quantity of\nroyal Chitterlings to the good Gargantua, under the conduct of young\nNiphleseth, infanta of the island.\n\nThe good Gargantua made a present of them to the great King of Paris.  But\nby change of air, and for want of mustard (the natural balsam and restorer\nof Chitterlings), most of them died.  By the great king's particular grant\nthey were buried in heaps in a part of Paris to this day called La Rue\npavee d'Andouilles, the street paved with Chitterlings.  At the request of\nthe ladies at his court young Niphleseth was preserved, honourably used,\nand since that married to heart's content; and was the mother of many\nchildren, for which heaven be praised.\n\nPantagruel civilly thanked the queen, forgave all offences, refused the\noffer she had made of her country, and gave her a pretty little knife.\nAfter that he asked several nice questions concerning the apparition of\nthat flying hog.  She answered that it was the idea of Carnival, their\ntutelary god in time of war, first founder and original of all the\nChitterling race; for which reason he resembled a hog, for Chitterlings\ndrew their extraction from hogs.\n\nPantagruel asking to what purpose and curative indication he had voided so\nmuch mustard on the earth, the queen replied that mustard was their\nsanc-greal and celestial balsam, of which, laying but a little in the wounds\nof the fallen Chitterlings, in a very short time the wounded were healed and\nthe dead restored to life.  Pantagruel held no further discourse with the\nqueen, but retired a-shipboard.  The like did all the boon companions, with\ntheir implements of destruction and their huge sow.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went into the island of Ruach.\n\nTwo days after we arrived at the island of Ruach; and I swear to you, by\nthe celestial hen and chickens, that I found the way of living of the\npeople so strange and wonderful that I can't, for the heart's blood of me,\nhalf tell it you.  They live on nothing but wind, eat nothing but wind, and\ndrink nothing but wind.  They have no other houses but weathercocks.  They\nsow no other seeds but the three sorts of windflowers, rue, and herbs that\nmay make one break wind to the purpose; these scour them off carefully.\nThe common sort of people to feed themselves make use of feather, paper, or\nlinen fans, according to their abilities.  As for the rich, they live by\nthe means of windmills.\n\nWhen they would have some noble treat, the tables are spread under one or\ntwo windmills.  There they feast as merry as beggars, and during the meal\ntheir whole talk is commonly of the goodness, excellency, salubrity, and\nrarity of winds; as you, jolly topers, in your cups philosophize and argue\nupon wines.  The one praises the south-east, the other the south-west; this\nthe west and by south, and this the east and by north; another the west,\nand another the east; and so of the rest.  As for lovers and amorous\nsparks, no gale for them like a smock-gale.  For the sick they use bellows\nas we use clysters among us.\n\nOh! said to me a little diminutive swollen bubble, that I had now but a\nbladderful of that same Languedoc wind which they call Cierce.  The famous\nphysician, Scurron, passing one day by this country, was telling us that it\nis so strong that it will make nothing of overturning a loaded waggon.  Oh!\nwhat good would it not do my Oedipodic leg.  The biggest are not the best;\nbut, said Panurge, rather would I had here a large butt of that same good\nLanguedoc wine that grows at Mirevaux, Canteperdrix, and Frontignan.\n\nI saw a good likely sort of a man there, much resembling Ventrose, tearing\nand fuming in a grievous fret with a tall burly groom and a pimping little\npage of his, laying them on, like the devil, with a buskin.  Not knowing\nthe cause of his anger, at first I thought that all this was by the\ndoctor's advice, as being a thing very healthy to the master to be in a\npassion and to his man to be banged for it.  But at last I heard him taxing\nhis man with stealing from him, like a rogue as he was, the better half of\na large leathern bag of an excellent southerly wind, which he had carefully\nlaid up, like a hidden reserve, against the cold weather.\n\nThey neither exonerate, dung, piss, nor spit in that island; but, to make\namends, they belch, fizzle, funk, and give tail-shots in abundance.  They\nare troubled with all manner of distempers; and, indeed, all distempers are\nengendered and proceed from ventosities, as Hippocrates demonstrates, lib.\nDe Flatibus.  But the most epidemical among them is the wind-cholic.  The\nremedies which they use are large clysters, whereby they void store of\nwindiness.  They all die of dropsies and tympanies, the men farting and the\nwomen fizzling; so that their soul takes her leave at the back-door.\n\nSome time after, walking in the island, we met three hairbrained airy\nfellows, who seemed mightily puffed up, and went to take their pastime and\nview the plovers, who live on the same diet as themselves, and abound in\nthe island.  I observed that, as your true topers when they travel carry\nflasks, leathern bottles, and small runlets along with them, so each of\nthem had at his girdle a pretty little pair of bellows.  If they happened\nto want wind, by the help of those pretty bellows they immediately drew\nsome, fresh and cool, by attraction and reciprocal expulsion; for, as you\nwell know, wind essentially defined is nothing but fluctuating and agitated\nair.\n\nA while after, we were commanded, in the king's name, not to receive for\nthree hours any man or woman of the country on board our ships; some having\nstolen from him a rousing fart, of the very individual wind which old\ngoodman Aeolus the snorer gave Ulysses to conduct his ship whenever it\nshould happen to be becalmed.  Which fart the king kept religiously, like\nanother sanc-greal, and performed a world of wonderful cures with it in\nmany dangerous diseases, letting loose and distributing to the patient only\nas much of it as might frame a virginal fart; which is, if you must know,\nwhat our sanctimonials, alias nuns, in their dialect call ringing\nbackwards.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow small rain lays a high wind.\n\nPantagruel commended their government and way of living, and said to their\nhypenemian mayor:  If you approve Epicurus's opinion, placing the summum\nbonum in pleasure (I mean pleasure that's easy and free from toil), I\nesteem you happy; for your food being wind, costs you little or nothing,\nsince you need but blow.  True, sir, returned the mayor; but, alas! nothing\nis perfect here below; for too often when we are at table, feeding on some\ngood blessed wind of God as on celestial manna, merry as so many friars,\ndown drops on a sudden some small rain, which lays our wind, and so robs us\nof it.  Thus many a meal's lost for want of meat.\n\nJust so, quoth Panurge, Jenin Toss-pot of Quinquenais, evacuating some wine\nof his own burning on his wife's posteriors, laid the ill-fumed wind that\nblowed out of their centre as out of some magisterial Aeolipile.  Here is a\nkind of a whim on that subject which I made formerly:\n\n  One evening when Toss-pot had been at his butts,\n  And Joan his fat spouse crammed with turnips her guts,\n  Together they pigged, nor did drink so besot him\n  But he did what was done when his daddy begot him.\n  Now when to recruit he'd fain have been snoring,\n  Joan's back-door was filthily puffing and roaring;\n  So for spite he bepissed her, and quickly did find\n  That a very small rain lays a very high wind.\n\nWe are also plagued yearly with a very great calamity, cried the mayor; for\na giant called Wide-nostrils, who lives in the island of Tohu, comes hither\nevery spring to purge, by the advice of his physicians, and swallows us,\nlike so many pills, a great number of windmills, and of bellows also, at\nwhich his mouth waters exceedingly.\n\nNow this is a sad mortification to us here, who are fain to fast over three\nor four whole Lents every year for this, besides certain petty Lents, ember\nweeks, and other orison and starving tides.  And have you no remedy for\nthis? asked Pantagruel.  By the advice of our Mezarims, replied the mayor,\nabout the time that he uses to give us a visit, we garrison our windmills\nwith good store of cocks and hens.  The first time that the greedy thief\nswallowed them, they had like to have done his business at once; for they\ncrowed and cackled in his maw, and fluttered up and down athwart and along\nin his stomach, which threw the glutton into a lipothymy cardiac passion\nand dreadful and dangerous convulsions, as if some serpent, creeping in at\nhis mouth, had been frisking in his stomach.\n\nHere is a comparative as altogether incongruous and impertinent, cried\nFriar John, interrupting them; for I have formerly heard that if a serpent\nchance to get into a man's stomach it will not do him the least hurt, but\nwill immediately get out if you do but hang the patient by the heels and\nlay a panful of warm milk near his mouth.  You were told this, said\nPantagruel, and so were those who gave you this account; but none ever saw\nor read of such a cure.  On the contrary, Hippocrates, in his fifth book of\nEpidem, writes that such a case happening in his time the patient presently\ndied of a spasm and convulsion.\n\nBesides the cocks and hens, said the mayor, continuing his story, all the\nfoxes in the country whipped into Wide-nostril's mouth, posting after the\npoultry; which made such a stir with Reynard at their heels, that he\ngrievously fell into fits each minute of an hour.\n\nAt last, by the advice of a Baden enchanter, at the time of the paroxysm he\nused to flay a fox by way of antidote and counter-poison.  Since that he\ntook better advice, and eases himself with taking a clyster made with a\ndecoction of wheat and barley corns, and of livers of goslings; to the\nfirst of which the poultry run, and the foxes to the latter.  Besides, he\nswallows some of your badgers or fox-dogs by the way of pills and boluses.\nThis is our misfortune.\n\nCease to fear, good people, cried Pantagruel; this huge Wide-nostrils, this\nsame swallower of windmills, is no more, I will assure you; he died, being\nstifled and choked with a lump of fresh butter at the mouth of a hot oven,\nby the advice of his physicians.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went ashore in the island of Pope-Figland.\n\nThe next morning we arrived at the island of Pope-figs; formerly a rich and\nfree people, called the Gaillardets, but now, alas! miserably poor, and\nunder the yoke of the Papimen.  The occasion of it was this:\n\nOn a certain yearly high holiday, the burgomaster, syndics, and topping\nrabbies of the Gaillardets chanced to go into the neighbouring island\nPapimany to see the festival and pass away the time.  Now one of them\nhaving espied the pope's picture (with the sight of which, according to a\nlaudable custom, the people were blessed on high-offering holidays), made\nmouths at it, and cried, A fig for it! as a sign of manifest contempt and\nderision.  To be revenged of this affront, the Papimen, some days after,\nwithout giving the others the least warning, took arms, and surprised,\ndestroyed, and ruined the whole island of the Gaillardets; putting the men\nto the sword, and sparing none but the women and children, and those too\nonly on condition to do what the inhabitants of Milan were condemned to by\nthe Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.\n\nThese had rebelled against him in his absence, and ignominiously turned the\nempress out of the city, mounting her a-horseback on a mule called Thacor,\nwith her breech foremost towards the old jaded mule's head, and her face\nturned towards the crupper.  Now Frederick being returned, mastered them,\nand caused so careful a search to be made that he found out and got the\nfamous mule Thacor.  Then the hangman by his order clapped a fig into the\nmule's jimcrack, in the presence of the enslaved cits that were brought\ninto the middle of the great market-place, and proclaimed in the emperor's\nname, with trumpets, that whosoever of them would save his own life should\npublicly pull the fig out with his teeth, and after that put it in again in\nthe very individual cranny whence he had draw'd it without using his hands,\nand that whoever refused to do this should presently swing for it and die\nin his shoes.  Some sturdy fools, standing upon their punctilio, chose\nhonourably to be hanged rather than submit to so shameful and abominable a\ndisgrace; and others, less nice in point of ceremony, took heart of grace,\nand even resolved to have at the fig, and a fig for't, rather than make a\nworse figure with a hempen collar, and die in the air at so short warning.\nAccordingly, when they had neatly picked out the fig with their teeth from\nold Thacor's snatch-blatch, they plainly showed it the headsman, saying,\nEcco lo fico, Behold the fig!\n\nBy the same ignominy the rest of these poor distressed Gaillardets saved\ntheir bacon, becoming tributaries and slaves, and the name of Pope-figs was\ngiven them, because they said, A fig for the pope's image.  Since this, the\npoor wretches never prospered, but every year the devil was at their doors,\nand they were plagued with hail, storms, famine, and all manner of woes, as\nan everlasting punishment for the sin of their ancestors and relations.\nPerceiving the misery and calamity of that generation, we did not care to\ngo further up into the country, contenting ourselves with going into a\nlittle chapel near the haven to take some holy water.  It was dilapidated\nand ruined, wanting also a cover--like Saint Peter at Rome.  When we were\nin, as we dipped our fingers in the sanctified cistern, we spied in the\nmiddle of that holy pickle a fellow muffled up with stoles, all under\nwater, like a diving duck, except the tip of his snout to draw his breath.\nAbout him stood three priests, true shavelings, clean shorn and polled, who\nwere muttering strange words to the devils out of a conjuring book.\n\nPantagruel was not a little amazed at this, and inquiring what kind of\nsport these were at, was told that for three years last past the plague had\nso dreadfully raged in the island that the better half of it had been\nutterly depopulated, and the lands lay fallow and unoccupied.  Now, the\nmortality being over, this same fellow who had crept into the holy tub,\nhaving a large piece of ground, chanced to be sowing it with white winter\nwheat at the very minute of an hour that a kind of a silly sucking devil,\nwho could not yet write or read, or hail and thunder, unless it were on\nparsley or coleworts, and got leave of his master Lucifer to go into this\nisland of Pope-figs, where the devils were very familiar with the men and\nwomen, and often went to take their pastime.\n\nThis same devil being got thither, directed his discourse to the\nhusbandman, and asked him what he was doing.  The poor man told him that he\nwas sowing the ground with corn to help him to subsist the next year.  Ay,\nbut the ground is none of thine, Mr. Plough-jobber, cried the devil, but\nmine; for since the time that you mocked the pope all this land has been\nproscribed, adjudged, and abandoned to us.  However, to sow corn is not my\nprovince; therefore I will give thee leave to sow the field, that is to\nsay, provided we share the profit.  I will, replied the farmer.  I mean,\nsaid the devil, that of what the land shall bear, two lots shall be made,\none of what shall grow above ground, the other of what shall be covered\nwith earth.  The right of choosing belongs to me; for I am a devil of noble\nand ancient race; thou art a base clown.  I therefore choose what shall lie\nunder ground, take thou what shall be above.  When dost thou reckon to\nreap, hah?  About the middle of July, quoth the farmer.  Well, said the\ndevil, I'll not fail thee then; in the meantime, slave as thou oughtest.\nWork, clown, work.  I am going to tempt to the pleasing sin of whoring the\nnuns of Dryfart, the sham saints of the cowl, and the gluttonish crew.  I\nam more than sure of these.  They need but meet, and the job is done; true\nfire and tinder, touch and take; down falls nun, and up gets friar.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow a junior devil was fooled by a husbandman of Pope-Figland.\n\nIn the middle of July the devil came to the place aforesaid with all his\ncrew at his heels, a whole choir of the younger fry of hell; and having met\nthe farmer, said to him, Well, clodpate, how hast thou done since I went?\nThou and I must share the concern.  Ay, master devil, quoth the clown; it\nis but reason we should.  Then he and his men began to cut and reap the\ncorn; and, on the other side, the devil's imps fell to work, grubbing up\nand pulling out the stubble by the root.\n\nThe countryman had his corn thrashed, winnowed it, put in into sacks, and\nwent with it to market.  The same did the devil's servants, and sat them\ndown there by the man to sell their straw.  The countryman sold off his\ncorn at a good rate, and with the money filled an old kind of a demi-buskin\nwhich was fastened to his girdle.  But the devil a sou the devils took; far\nfrom taking handsel, they were flouted and jeered by the country louts.\n\nMarket being over, quoth the devil to the farmer, Well, clown, thou hast\nchoused me once, it is thy fault; chouse me twice, 'twill be mine.  Nay,\ngood sir devil, replied the farmer; how can I be said to have choused you,\nsince it was your worship that chose first?  The truth is, that by this\ntrick you thought to cheat me, hoping that nothing would spring out of the\nearth for my share, and that you should find whole underground the corn\nwhich I had sowed, and with it tempt the poor and needy, the close\nhypocrite, or the covetous griper; thus making them fall into your snares.\nBut troth, you must e'en go to school yet; you are no conjurer, for aught I\nsee; for the corn that was sow'd is dead and rotten, its corruption having\ncaused the generation of that which you saw me sell.  So you chose the\nworst, and therefore are cursed in the gospel.  Well, talk no more of it,\nquoth the devil; what canst thou sow our field with for next year?  If a\nman would make the best of it, answered the ploughman, 'twere fit he sow it\nwith radish.  Now, cried the devil, thou talkest like an honest fellow,\nbumpkin.  Well, sow me good store of radish, I'll see and keep them safe\nfrom storms, and will not hail a bit on them.  But hark ye me, this time I\nbespeak for my share what shall be above ground; what's under shall be\nthine.  Drudge on, looby, drudge on.  I am going to tempt heretics; their\nsouls are dainty victuals when broiled in rashers and well powdered.  My\nLord Lucifer has the griping in the guts; they'll make a dainty warm dish\nfor his honour's maw.\n\nWhen the season of radishes was come, our devil failed not to meet in the\nfield, with a train of rascally underlings, all waiting devils, and finding\nthere the farmer and his men, he began to cut and gather the leaves of the\nradishes.  After him the farmer with his spade dug up the radishes, and\nclapped them up into pouches.  This done, the devil, the farmer, and their\ngangs, hied them to market, and there the farmer presently made good money\nof his radishes; but the poor devil took nothing; nay, what was worse, he\nwas made a common laughing-stock by the gaping hoidens.  I see thou hast\nplayed me a scurvy trick, thou villainous fellow, cried the angry devil; at\nlast I am fully resolved even to make an end of the business betwixt thee\nand myself about the ground, and these shall be the terms:  we will\nclapperclaw each other, and whoever of us two shall first cry Hold, shall\nquit his share of the field, which shall wholly belong to the conqueror.  I\nfix the time for this trial of skill on this day seven-night; assure\nthyself that I'll claw thee off like a devil.  I was going to tempt your\nfornicators, bailiffs, perplexers of causes, scriveners, forgers of deeds,\ntwo-handed counsellors, prevaricating solicitors, and other such vermin;\nbut they were so civil as to send me word by an interpreter that they are\nall mine already.  Besides, our master Lucifer is so cloyed with their\nsouls that he often sends them back to the smutty scullions and slovenly\ndevils of his kitchen, and they scarce go down with them, unless now and\nthen, when they are high-seasoned.\n\nSome say there is no breakfast like a student's, no dinner like a lawyer's,\nno afternoon's nunchion like a vine-dresser's, no supper like a\ntradesman's, no second supper like a serving-wench's, and none of these\nmeals equal to a frockified hobgoblin's.  All this is true enough.\nAccordingly, at my Lord Lucifer's first course, hobgoblins, alias imps in\ncowls, are a standing dish.  He willingly used to breakfast on students;\nbut, alas!  I do not know by what ill luck they have of late years joined\nthe Holy Bible to their studies; so the devil a one we can get down among\nus; and I verily believe that unless the hypocrites of the tribe of Levi\nhelp us in it, taking from the enlightened book-mongers their St. Paul,\neither by threats, revilings, force, violence, fire, and faggot, we shall\nnot be able to hook in any more of them to nibble at below.  He dines\ncommonly on counsellors, mischief-mongers, multipliers of lawsuits, such as\nwrest and pervert right and law and grind and fleece the poor; he never\nfears to want any of these.  But who can endure to be wedded to a dish?\n\nHe said t'other day, at a full chapter, that he had a great mind to eat the\nsoul of one of the fraternity of the cowl that had forgot to speak for\nhimself in his sermon, and he promised double pay and a large pension to\nanyone that should bring him such a titbit piping hot.  We all went\na-hunting after such a rarity, but came home without the prey; for they all\nadmonish the good women to remember their convent.  As for afternoon\nnunchions, he has left them off since he was so woefully griped with the\ncolic; his fosterers, sutlers, charcoal-men, and boiling cooks having been\nsadly mauled and peppered off in the northern countries.\n\nHis high devilship sups very well on tradesmen, usurers, apothecaries,\ncheats, coiners, and adulterers of wares.  Now and then, when he is on the\nmerry pin, his second supper is of serving-wenches who, after they have by\nstealth soaked their faces with their master's good liquor, fill up the\nvessel with it at second hand, or with other stinking water.\n\nWell, drudge on, boor, drudge on; I am going to tempt the students of\nTrebisonde to leave father and mother, forego for ever the established and\ncommon rule of living, disclaim and free themselves from obeying their\nlawful sovereign's edicts, live in absolute liberty, proudly despise\neveryone, laugh at all mankind, and taking the fine jovial little cap of\npoetic licence, become so many pretty hobgoblins.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the devil was deceived by an old woman of Pope-Figland.\n\nThe country lob trudged home very much concerned and thoughtful, you may\nswear; insomuch that his good woman, seeing him thus look moping, weened\nthat something had been stolen from him at market; but when she had heard\nthe cause of his affliction and seen his budget well lined with coin, she\nbade him be of good cheer, assuring him that he would be never the worse\nfor the scratching bout in question; wishing him only to leave her to\nmanage that business, and not trouble his head about it; for she had\nalready contrived how to bring him off cleverly.  Let the worst come to the\nworst, said the husbandman, it will be but a scratch; for I'll yield at the\nfirst stroke, and quit the field.  Quit a fart, replied the wife; he shall\nhave none of the field.  Rely upon me, and be quiet; let me alone to deal\nwith him.  You say he is a pimping little devil, that is enough; I will\nsoon make him give up the field, I will warrant you.  Indeed, had he been a\ngreat devil, it had been somewhat.\n\nThe day that we landed in the island happened to be that which the devil\nhad fixed for the combat.  Now the countryman having, like a good Catholic,\nvery fairly confessed himself, and received betimes in the morning, by the\nadvice of the vicar had hid himself, all but the snout, in the holy-water\npot, in the posture in which we found him; and just as they were telling us\nthis story, news came that the old woman had fooled the devil and gained\nthe field.  You may not be sorry, perhaps, to hear how this happened.\n\nThe devil, you must know, came to the poor man's door, and rapping there,\ncried, So ho! ho, the house! ho, clodpate! where art thou?  Come out with a\nvengeance; come out with a wannion; come out and be damned; now for\nclawing.  Then briskly and resolutely entering the house, and not finding\nthe countryman there, he spied his wife lying on the ground, piteously\nweeping and howling.  What is the matter? asked the devil.  Where is he?\nwhat does he?  Oh! that I knew where he is, replied threescore and five;\nthe wicked rogue, the butcherly dog, the murderer!  He has spoiled me; I am\nundone; I die of what he has done me.  How, cried the devil, what is it?\nI'll tickle him off for you by-and-by.  Alas! cried the old dissembler, he\ntold me, the butcher, the tyrant, the tearer of devils told me that he had\nmade a match to scratch with you this day, and to try his claws he did but\njust touch me with his little finger here betwixt the legs, and has spoiled\nme for ever.  Oh! I am a dead woman; I shall never be myself again; do but\nsee!  Nay, and besides, he talked of going to the smith's to have his\npounces sharpened and pointed.  Alas! you are undone, Mr. Devil; good sir,\nscamper quickly, I am sure he won't stay; save yourself, I beseech you.\nWhile she said this she uncovered herself up to the chin, after the manner\nin which the Persian women met their children who fled from the fight, and\nplainly showed her what do ye call them.  The frightened devil, seeing the\nenormous solution of the continuity in all its dimensions, blessed himself,\nand cried out, Mahon, Demiourgon, Megaera, Alecto, Persephone! 'slife,\ncatch me here when he comes!  I am gone! 'sdeath, what a gash!  I resign\nhim the field.\n\nHaving heard the catastrophe of the story, we retired a-shipboard, not\nbeing willing to stay there any longer.  Pantagruel gave to the poor's box\nof the fabric of the church eighteen thousand good royals, in commiseration\nof the poverty of the people and the calamity of the place.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went ashore at the island of Papimany.\n\nHaving left the desolate island of the Pope-figs, we sailed for the space\nof a day very fairly and merrily, and made the blessed island of Papimany.\nAs soon as we had dropt anchor in the road, before we had well moored our\nship with ground-tackle, four persons in different garbs rowed towards us\nin a skiff.  One of them was dressed like a monk in his frock,\ndraggle-tailed, and booted; the other like a falconer, with a lure, and a\nlong-winged hawk on his fist; the third like a solicitor, with a large bag,\nfull of informations, subpoenas, breviates, bills, writs, cases, and other\nimplements of pettifogging; the fourth looked like one of your vine-barbers\nabout Ocleans, with a jaunty pair of canvas trousers, a dosser, and a\npruning knife at his girdle.\n\nAs soon as the boat had clapped them on board, they all with one voice\nasked, Have you seen him, good passengers, have you seen him?  Who? asked\nPantagruel.  You know who, answered they.  Who is it? asked Friar John.\n'Sblood and 'ounds, I'll thrash him thick and threefold.  This he said\nthinking that they inquired after some robber, murderer, or church-breaker.\nOh, wonderful! cried the four; do not you foreign people know the one?\nSirs, replied Epistemon, we do not understand those terms; but if you will\nbe pleased to let us know who you mean, we will tell you the truth of the\nmatter without any more ado.  We mean, said they, he that is.  Did you ever\nsee him?  He that is, returned Pantagruel, according to our theological\ndoctrine, is God, who said to Moses, I am that I am.  We never saw him, nor\ncan he be beheld by mortal eyes.  We mean nothing less than that supreme\nGod who rules in heaven, replied they; we mean the god on earth.  Did you\never see him?  Upon my honour, replied Carpalin, they mean the pope.  Ay,\nay, answered Panurge; yea, verily, gentlemen, I have seen three of them,\nwhose sight has not much bettered me.  How! cried they, our sacred\ndecretals inform us that there never is more than one living.  I mean\nsuccessively, one after the other, returned Panurge; otherwise I never saw\nmore than one at a time.\n\nO thrice and four times happy people! cried they; you are welcome, and more\nthan double welcome!  They then kneeled down before us and would have\nkissed our feet, but we would not suffer it, telling them that should the\npope come thither in his own person, 'tis all they could do to him.  No,\ncertainly, answered they, for we have already resolved upon the matter.  We\nwould kiss his bare arse without boggling at it, and eke his two pounders;\nfor he has a pair of them, the holy father, that he has; we find it so by\nour fine decretals, otherwise he could not be pope.  So that, according to\nour subtle decretaline philosophy, this is a necessary consequence:  he is\npope; therefore he has genitories, and should genitories no more be found\nin the world, the world could no more have a pope.\n\nWhile they were talking thus, Pantagruel inquired of one of the coxswain's\ncrew who those persons were.  He answered that they were the four estates\nof the island, and added that we should be made as welcome as princes,\nsince we had seen the pope.  Panurge having been acquainted with this by\nPantagruel, said to him in his ear, I swear and vow, sir, 'tis even so; he\nthat has patience may compass anything.  Seeing the pope had done us no\ngood; now, in the devil's name, 'twill do us a great deal.  We then went\nashore, and the whole country, men, women, and children, came to meet us as\nin a solemn procession.  Our four estates cried out to them with a loud\nvoice, They have seen him! they have seen him! they have seen him!  That\nproclamation being made, all the mob kneeled before us, lifting up their\nhands towards heaven, and crying, O happy men!  O most happy! and this\nacclamation lasted above a quarter of an hour.\n\nThen came the Busby (!) of the place, with all his pedagogues, ushers, and\nschoolboys, whom he magisterially flogged, as they used to whip children in\nour country formerly when some criminal was hanged, that they might\nremember it.  This displeased Pantagruel, who said to them, Gentlemen, if\nyou do not leave off whipping these poor children, I am gone.  The people\nwere amazed, hearing his stentorian voice; and I saw a little hump with\nlong fingers say to the hypodidascal, What, in the name of wonder! do all\nthose that see the pope grow as tall as yon huge fellow that threatens us?\nAh! how I shall think time long till I have seen him too, that I may grow\nand look as big.  In short, the acclamations were so great that Homenas (so\nthey called their bishop) hastened thither on an unbridled mule with green\ntrappings, attended by his apposts (as they said) and his supposts, or\nofficers bearing crosses, banners, standards, canopies, torches, holy-water\npots, &c.  He too wanted to kiss our feet (as the good Christian Valfinier\ndid to Pope Clement), saying that one of their hypothetes, that's one of\nthe scavengers, scourers, and commentators of their holy decretals, had\nwritten that, in the same manner as the Messiah, so long and so much\nexpected by the Jews, at last appeared among them; so, on some happy day of\nGod, the pope would come into that island; and that, while they waited for\nthat blessed time, if any who had seen him at Rome or elsewhere chanced to\ncome among them, they should be sure to make much of them, feast them\nplentifully, and treat them with a great deal of reverence.  However, we\ncivilly desired to be excused.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Homenas, Bishop of Papimany, showed us the Uranopet decretals.\n\nHomenas then said to us:  'Tis enjoined us by our holy decretals to visit\nchurches first and taverns after.  Therefore, not to decline that fine\ninstitution, let us go to church; we will afterwards go and feast\nourselves.  Man of God, quoth Friar John, do you go before, we'll follow\nyou.  You spoke in the matter properly, and like a good Christian; 'tis\nlong since we saw any such.  For my part, this rejoices my mind very much,\nand I verily believe that I shall have the better stomach after it.  Well,\n'tis a happy thing to meet with good men!  Being come near the gate of the\nchurch, we spied a huge thick book, gilt, and covered all over with\nprecious stones, as rubies, emeralds, (diamonds,) and pearls, more, or at\nleast as valuable as those which Augustus consecrated to Jupiter\nCapitolinus.  This book hanged in the air, being fastened with two thick\nchains of gold to the zoophore of the porch.  We looked on it and admired\nit.  As for Pantagruel, he handled it and dandled it and turned it as he\npleased, for he could reach it without straining; and he protested that\nwhenever he touched it, he was seized with a pleasant tickling at his\nfingers' end, new life and activity in his arms, and a violent temptation\nin his mind to beat one or two sergeants, or such officers, provided they\nwere not of the shaveling kind.  Homenas then said to us, The law was\nformerly given to the Jews by Moses, written by God himself.  At Delphos,\nbefore the portal of Apollo's temple, this sentence, GNOTHI SEAUTON, was\nfound written with a divine hand.  And some time after it, EI was also\nseen, and as divinely written and transmitted from heaven. Cybele's image\nwas brought out of heaven, into a field called Pessinunt, in Phrygia; so\nwas that of Diana to Tauris, if you will believe Euripides; the oriflamme,\nor holy standard, was transmitted out of heaven to the noble and most\nChristian kings of France, to fight against the unbelievers.  In the reign\nof Numa Pompilius, second King of the Romans, the famous copper buckler\ncalled Ancile was seen to descend from heaven.  At Acropolis, near Athens,\nMinerva's statue formerly fell from the empyreal heaven.  In like manner\nthe sacred decretals which you see were written with the hand of an angel\nof the cherubim kind.  You outlandish people will hardly believe this, I\nfear.  Little enough, of conscience, said Panurge.  And then, continued\nHomenas, they were miraculously transmitted to us here from the very heaven\nof heavens; in the same manner as the river Nile is called Diipetes by\nHomer, the father of all philosophy--the holy decretals always excepted.\nNow, because you have seen the pope, their evangelist and everlasting\nprotector, we will give you leave to see and kiss them on the inside, if\nyou think meet.  But then you must fast three days before, and canonically\nconfess; nicely and strictly mustering up and inventorizing your sins,\ngreat and small, so thick that one single circumstance of them may not\nescape you; as our holy decretals, which you see, direct.  This will take\nup some time.  Man of God, answered Panurge, we have seen and descried\ndecrees, and eke decretals enough o' conscience; some on paper, other on\nparchment, fine and gay like any painted paper lantern, some on vellum,\nsome in manuscript, and others in print; so you need not take half these\npains to show us these.  We'll take the goodwill for the deed, and thank\nyou as much as if we had.  Ay, marry, said Homenas, but you never saw these\nthat are angelically written.  Those in your country are only transcripts\nfrom ours; as we find it written by one of our old decretaline scholiasts.\nFor me, do not spare me; I do not value the labour, so I may serve you.  Do\nbut tell me whether you will be confessed and fast only three short little\ndays of God?  As for shriving, answered Panurge, there can be no great harm\nin't; but this same fasting, master of mine, will hardly down with us at\nthis time, for we have so very much overfasted ourselves at sea that the\nspiders have spun their cobwebs over our grinders.  Do but look on this\ngood Friar John des Entomeures (Homenas then courteously demi-clipped him\nabout the neck), some moss is growing in his throat for want of bestirring\nand exercising his chaps.  He speaks the truth, vouched Friar John; I have\nso much fasted that I'm almost grown hump-shouldered.  Come, then, let's go\ninto the church, said Homenas; and pray forgive us if for the present we do\nnot sing you a fine high mass.  The hour of midday is past, and after it\nour sacred decretals forbid us to sing mass, I mean your high and lawful\nmass.  But I'll say a low and dry one for you.  I had rather have one\nmoistened with some good Anjou wine, cried Panurge; fall to, fall to your\nlow mass, and despatch.  Ods-bodikins, quoth Friar John, it frets me to the\nguts that I must have an empty stomach at this time of day; for, had I\neaten a good breakfast and fed like a monk, if he should chance to sing us\nthe Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, I had then brought thither bread and\nwine for the traits passes (those that are gone before).  Well, patience;\npull away, and save tide; short and sweet, I pray you, and this for a\ncause.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Homenas showed us the archetype, or representation of a pope.\n\nMass being mumbled over, Homenas took a huge bundle of keys out of a trunk\nnear the head altar, and put thirty-two of them into so many keyholes; put\nback so many springs; then with fourteen more mastered so many padlocks,\nand at last opened an iron window strongly barred above the said altar.\nThis being done, in token of great mystery he covered himself with wet\nsackcloth, and drawing a curtain of crimson satin, showed us an image\ndaubed over, coarsely enough, to my thinking; then he touched it with a\npretty long stick, and made us all kiss the part of the stick that had\ntouched the image.  After this he said unto us, What think you of this\nimage?  It is the likeness of a pope, answered Pantagruel; I know it by the\ntriple crown, his furred amice, his rochet, and his slipper.  You are in\nthe right, said Homenas; it is the idea of that same good god on earth\nwhose coming we devoutly await, and whom we hope one day to see in this\ncountry.  O happy, wished-for, and much-expected day! and happy, most happy\nyou, whose propitious stars have so favoured you as to let you see the\nliving and real face of this good god on earth! by the single sight of\nwhose picture we obtain full remission of all the sins which we remember\nthat we have committed, as also a third part and eighteen quarantaines of\nthe sins which we have forgot; and indeed we only see it on high annual\nholidays.\n\nThis caused Pantagruel to say that it was a work like those which Daedalus\nused to make, since, though it were deformed and ill drawn, nevertheless\nsome divine energy, in point of pardons, lay hid and concealed in it.\nThus, said Friar John, at Seuille, the rascally beggars being one evening\non a solemn holiday at supper in the spital, one bragged of having got six\nblancs, or twopence halfpenny; another eight liards, or twopence; a third,\nseven caroluses, or sixpence; but an old mumper made his vaunts of having\ngot three testons, or five shillings.  Ah, but, cried his comrades, thou\nhast a leg of God; as if, continued Friar John, some divine virtue could\nlie hid in a stinking ulcerated rotten shank.  Pray, said Pantagruel, when\nyou are for telling us some such nauseous tale, be so kind as not to forget\nto provide a basin, Friar John; I'll assure you, I had much ado to forbear\nbringing up my breakfast.  Fie! I wonder a man of your coat is not ashamed\nto use thus the sacred name of God in speaking of things so filthy and\nabominable! fie, I say.  If among your monking tribes such an abuse of\nwords is allowed, I beseech you leave it there, and do not let it come out\nof the cloisters.  Physicians, said Epistemon, thus attribute a kind of\ndivinity to some diseases.  Nero also extolled mushrooms, and, in a Greek\nproverb, termed them divine food, because with them he had poisoned\nClaudius his predecessor.  But methinks, gentlemen, this same picture is\nnot over-like our late popes.  For I have seen them, not with their\npallium, amice, or rochet on, but with helmets on their heads, more like\nthe top of a Persian turban; and while the Christian commonwealth was in\npeace, they alone were most furiously and cruelly making war.  This must\nhave been then, returned Homenas, against the rebellious, heretical\nProtestants; reprobates who are disobedient to the holiness of this good\ngod on earth.  'Tis not only lawful for him to do so, but it is enjoined\nhim by the sacred decretals; and if any dare transgress one single iota\nagainst their commands, whether they be emperors, kings, dukes, princes, or\ncommonwealths, he is immediately to pursue them with fire and sword, strip\nthem of all their goods, take their kingdoms from them, proscribe them,\nanathematize them, and destroy not only their bodies, those of their\nchildren, relations, and others, but damn also their souls to the very\nbottom of the most hot and burning cauldron in hell.  Here, in the devil's\nname, said Panurge, the people are no heretics; such as was our\nRaminagrobis, and as they are in Germany and England.  You are Christians\nof the best edition, all picked and culled, for aught I see.  Ay, marry are\nwe, returned Homenas, and for that reason we shall all be saved.  Now let\nus go and bless ourselves with holy water, and then to dinner.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTable-talk in praise of the decretals.\n\nNow, topers, pray observe that while Homenas was saying his dry mass, three\ncollectors, or licensed beggars of the church, each of them with a large\nbasin, went round among the people, with a loud voice:  Pray remember the\nblessed men who have seen his face.  As we came out of the temple they\nbrought their basins brimful of Papimany chink to Homenas, who told us that\nit was plentifully to feast with; and that, of this contribution and\nvoluntary tax, one part should be laid out in good drinking, another in\ngood eating, and the remainder in both, according to an admirable\nexposition hidden in a corner of their holy decretals; which was performed\nto a T, and that at a noted tavern not much unlike that of Will's at\nAmiens.  Believe me, we tickled it off there with copious cramming and\nnumerous swilling.\n\nI made two notable observations at that dinner:  the one, that there was\nnot one dish served up, whether of cabrittas, capons, hogs (of which latter\nthere is great plenty in Papimany), pigeons, coneys, leverets, turkeys, or\nothers, without abundance of magistral stuff; the other, that every course,\nand the fruit also, were served up by unmarried females of the place, tight\nlasses, I'll assure you, waggish, fair, good-conditioned, and comely,\nspruce, and fit for business.  They were all clad in fine long white albs,\nwith two girts; their hair interwoven with narrow tape and purple ribbon,\nstuck with roses, gillyflowers, marjoram, daffadowndillies, thyme, and\nother sweet flowers.\n\nAt every cadence they invited us to drink and bang it about, dropping us\nneat and genteel courtesies; nor was the sight of them unwelcome to all the\ncompany; and as for Friar John, he leered on them sideways, like a cur that\nsteals a capon.  When the first course was taken off, the females\nmelodiously sung us an epode in the praise of the sacrosanct decretals; and\nthen the second course being served up, Homenas, joyful and cheery, said to\none of the she-butlers, Light here, Clerica.  Immediately one of the girls\nbrought him a tall-boy brimful of extravagant wine.  He took fast hold of\nit, and fetching a deep sigh, said to Pantagruel, My lord, and you, my good\nfriends, here's t'ye, with all my heart; you are all very welcome.  When he\nhad tipped that off, and given the tall-boy to the pretty creature, he\nlifted up his voice and said, O most holy decretals, how good is good wine\nfound through your means!  This is the best jest we have had yet, observed\nPanurge.  But it would still be a better, said Pantagruel, if they could\nturn bad wine into good.\n\nO seraphic Sextum! continued Homenas, how necessary are you not to the\nsalvation of poor mortals!  O cherubic Clementinae! how perfectly the\nperfect institution of a true Christian is contained and described in you!\nO angelical Extravagantes! how many poor souls that wander up and down in\nmortal bodies through this vale of misery would perish were it not for you!\nWhen, ah! when shall this special gift of grace be bestowed on mankind, as\nto lay aside all other studies and concerns, to use you, to peruse you, to\nunderstand you, to know you by heart, to practise you, to incorporate you,\nto turn you into blood, and incentre you into the deepest ventricles of\ntheir brains, the inmost marrow of their bones, and most intricate\nlabyrinth of their arteries?  Then, ah! then, and no sooner than then, nor\notherwise than thus, shall the world be happy!  While the old man was thus\nrunning on, Epistemon rose and softly said to Panurge:  For want of a\nclose-stool, I must even leave you for a moment or two; this stuff has\nunbunged the orifice of my mustard-barrel; but I'll not tarry long.\n\nThen, ah! then, continued Homenas, no hail, frost, ice, snow, overflowing,\nor vis major; then plenty of all earthly goods here below.  Then\nuninterrupted and eternal peace through the universe, an end of all wars,\nplunderings, drudgeries, robbing, assassinates, unless it be to destroy\nthese cursed rebels the heretics.  Oh! then, rejoicing, cheerfulness,\njollity, solace, sports, and delicious pleasures, over the face of the\nearth.  Oh! what great learning, inestimable erudition, and god-like\nprecepts are knit, linked, rivetted, and mortised in the divine chapters of\nthese eternal decretals!\n\nOh! how wonderfully, if you read but one demi-canon, short paragraph, or\nsingle observation of these sacrosanct decretals, how wonderfully, I say,\ndo you not perceive to kindle in your hearts a furnace of divine love,\ncharity towards your neighbour (provided he be no heretic), bold contempt\nof all casual and sublunary things, firm content in all your affections,\nand ecstatic elevation of soul even to the third heaven.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA continuation of the miracles caused by the decretals.\n\nWisely, brother Timothy, quoth Panurge, did am, did am; he says blew; but,\nfor my part, I believe as little of it as I can.  For one day by chance I\nhappened to read a chapter of them at Poictiers, at the most\ndecretalipotent Scotch doctor's, and old Nick turn me into bumfodder, if\nthis did not make me so hide-bound and costive, that for four or five days\nI hardly scumbered one poor butt of sir-reverence; and that, too, was full\nas dry and hard, I protest, as Catullus tells us were those of his\nneighbour Furius:\n\n  Nec toto decies cacas in anno,\n  Atque id durius est faba, et lapillis:\n  Quod tu si manibus teras, fricesque,\n  Non unquam digitum inquinare posses.\n\nOh, ho! cried Homenas; by'r lady, it may be you were then in the state of\nmortal sin, my friend.  Well turned, cried Panurge; this was a new strain,\negad.\n\nOne day, said Friar John, at Seuille, I had applied to my posteriors, by\nway of hind-towel, a leaf of an old Clementinae which our rent-gatherer,\nJohn Guimard, had thrown out into the green of our cloister.  Now the devil\nbroil me like a black pudding, if I wasn't so abominably plagued with\nchaps, chawns, and piles at the fundament, that the orifice of my poor\nnockandroe was in a most woeful pickle for I don't know how long.  By'r our\nlady, cried Homenas, it was a plain punishment of God for the sin that you\nhad committed in beraying that sacred book, which you ought rather to have\nkissed and adored; I say with an adoration of latria, or of hyperdulia at\nleast.  The Panormitan never told a lie in the matter.\n\nSaith Ponocrates:  At Montpelier, John Chouart having bought of the monks\nof St. Olary a delicate set of decretals, written on fine large parchment\nof Lamballe, to beat gold between the leaves, not so much as a piece that\nwas beaten in them came to good, but all were dilacerated and spoiled.\nMark this! cried Homenas; 'twas a divine punishment and vengeance.\n\nAt Mans, said Eudemon, Francis Cornu, apothecary, had turned an old set of\nExtravagantes into waste paper.  May I never stir, if whatever was lapped\nup in them was not immediately corrupted, rotten, and spoiled; incense,\npepper, cloves, cinnamon, saffron, wax, cassia, rhubarb, tamarinds, all\ndrugs and spices, were lost without exception.  Mark, mark, quoth Homenas,\nan effect of divine justice!  This comes of putting the sacred Scriptures\nto such profane uses.\n\nAt Paris, said Carpalin, Snip Groignet the tailor had turned an old\nClementinae into patterns and measures, and all the clothes that were cut\non them were utterly spoiled and lost; gowns, hoods, cloaks, cassocks,\njerkins, jackets, waistcoats, capes, doublets, petticoats, corps de robes,\nfarthingales, and so forth.  Snip, thinking to cut a hood, would cut you\nout a codpiece; instead of a cassock he would make you a high-crowned hat;\nfor a waistcoat he'd shape you out a rochet; on the pattern of a doublet\nhe'd make you a thing like a frying-pan.  Then his journeymen having\nstitched it up did jag it and pink it at the bottom, and so it looked like\na pan to fry chestnuts.  Instead of a cape he made a buskin; for a\nfarthingale he shaped a montero cap; and thinking to make a cloak, he'd cut\nout a pair of your big out-strouting Swiss breeches, with panes like the\noutside of a tabor.  Insomuch that Snip was condemned to make good the\nstuffs to all his customers; and to this day poor Cabbage's hair grows\nthrough his hood and his arse through his pocket-holes.  Mark, an effect of\nheavenly wrath and vengeance! cried Homenas.\n\nAt Cahusac, said Gymnast, a match being made by the lords of Estissac and\nViscount Lausun to shoot at a mark, Perotou had taken to pieces a set of\ndecretals and set one of the leaves for the white to shoot at.  Now I sell,\nnay, I give and bequeath for ever and aye, the mould of my doublet to\nfifteen hundred hampers full of black devils, if ever any archer in the\ncountry (though they are singular marksmen in Guienne) could hit the white.\nNot the least bit of the holy scribble was contaminated or touched; nay,\nand Sansornin the elder, who held stakes, swore to us, figues dioures, hard\nfigs (his greatest oath), that he had openly, visibly, and manifestly seen\nthe bolt of Carquelin moving right to the round circle in the middle of the\nwhite; and that just on the point, when it was going to hit and enter, it\nhad gone aside above seven foot and four inches wide of it towards the\nbakehouse.\n\nMiracle! cried Homenas, miracle! miracle!  Clerica, come wench, light,\nlight here.  Here's to you all, gentlemen; I vow you seem to me very sound\nChristians.  While he said this, the maidens began to snicker at his elbow,\ngrinning, giggling, and twittering among themselves.  Friar John began to\npaw, neigh, and whinny at the snout's end, as one ready to leap, or at\nleast to play the ass, and get up and ride tantivy to the devil like a\nbeggar on horseback.\n\nMethinks, said Pantagruel, a man might have been more out of danger near\nthe white of which Gymnast spoke than was formerly Diogenes near another.\nHow is that? asked Homenas; what was it?  Was he one of our decretalists?\nRarely fallen in again, egad, said Epistemon, returning from stool; I see\nhe will hook his decretals in, though by the head and shoulders.\n\nDiogenes, said Pantagruel, one day for pastime went to see some archers\nthat shot at butts, one of whom was so unskilful, that when it was his turn\nto shoot all the bystanders went aside, lest he should mistake them for the\nmark.  Diogenes had seen him shoot extremely wide of it; so when the other\nwas taking aim a second time, and the people removed at a great distance to\nthe right and left of the white, he placed himself close by the mark,\nholding that place to be the safest, and that so bad an archer would\ncertainly rather hit any other.\n\nOne of the Lord d'Estissac's pages at last found out the charm, pursued\nGymnast, and by his advice Perotou put in another white made up of some\npapers of Pouillac's lawsuit, and then everyone shot cleverly.\n\nAt Landerousse, said Rhizotome, at John Delif's wedding were very great\ndoings, as 'twas then the custom of the country.  After supper several\nfarces, interludes, and comical scenes were acted; they had also several\nmorris-dancers with bells and tabors, and divers sorts of masks and mummers\nwere let in.  My schoolfellows and I, to grace the festival to the best of\nour power (for fine white and purple liveries had been given to all of us\nin the morning), contrived a merry mask with store of cockle-shells, shells\nof snails, periwinkles, and such other.  Then for want of cuckoo-pint, or\npriest-pintle, lousebur, clote, and paper, we made ourselves false faces\nwith the leaves of an old Sextum that had been thrown by and lay there for\nanyone that would take it up, cutting out holes for the eyes, nose, and\nmouth.  Now, did you ever hear the like since you were born?  When we had\nplayed our little boyish antic tricks, and came to take off our sham faces,\nwe appeared more hideous and ugly than the little devils that acted the\nPassion at Douay; for our faces were utterly spoiled at the places which\nhad been touched by those leaves.  One had there the small-pox; another,\nGod's token, or the plague-spot; a third, the crinckums; a fourth, the\nmeasles; a fifth, botches, pushes, and carbuncles; in short, he came off\nthe least hurt who only lost his teeth by the bargain.  Miracle! bawled out\nHomenas, miracle!\n\nHold, hold! cried Rhizotome; it is not yet time to clap.  My sister Kate\nand my sister Ren had put the crepines of their hoods, their ruffles,\nsnuffekins, and neck-ruffs new washed, starched, and ironed, into that very\nbook of decretals; for, you must know, it was covered with thick boards and\nhad strong clasps.  Now, by the virtue of God--Hold, interrupted Homenas,\nwhat god do you mean?  There is but one, answered Rhizotome.  In heaven, I\ngrant, replied Homenas; but we have another here on earth, do you see?  Ay,\nmarry have we, said Rhizotome; but on my soul I protest I had quite forgot\nit.  Well then, by the virtue of god the pope, their pinners, neck-ruffs,\nbib, coifs, and other linen turned as black as a charcoal-man's sack.\nMiracle! cried Homenas.  Here, Clerica, light me here; and prithee, girl,\nobserve these rare stories.  How comes it to pass then, asked Friar John,\nthat people say,\n\n  Ever since decrees had tails,\n  And gendarmes lugged heavy mails,\n  Since each monk would have a horse,\n  All went here from bad to worse.\n\nI understand you, answered Homenas; this is one of the quirks and little\nsatires of the new-fangled heretics.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow by the virtue of the decretals, gold is subtilely drawn out of France\nto Rome.\n\nI would, said Epistemon, it had cost me a pint of the best tripe that ever\ncan enter into gut, so we had but compared with the original the dreadful\nchapters, Execrabilis, De multa, Si plures; De annatis per totum; Nisi\nessent; Cum ad monasterium; Quod delectio; Mandatum; and certain others,\nthat draw every year out of France to Rome four hundred thousand ducats and\nmore.\n\nDo you make nothing of this? asked Homenas.  Though, methinks, after all,\nit is but little, if we consider that France, the most Christian, is the\nonly nurse the see of Rome has.  However, find me in the whole world a\nbook, whether of philosophy, physic, law, mathematics, or other humane\nlearning, nay, even, by my God, of the Holy Scripture itself, will draw as\nmuch money thence?  None, none, psha, tush, blurt, pish; none can.  You may\nlook till your eyes drop out of your head, nay, till doomsday in the\nafternoon, before you can find another of that energy; I'll pass my word\nfor that.\n\nYet these devilish heretics refuse to learn and know it.  Burn 'em, tear\n'em, nip 'em with hot pincers, drown 'em, hang 'em, spit 'em at the\nbunghole, pelt 'em, paut 'em, bruise 'em, beat 'em, cripple 'em, dismember\n'em, cut 'em, gut 'em, bowel 'em, paunch 'em, thrash 'em, slash 'em, gash\n'em, chop 'em, slice 'em, slit 'em, carve 'em, saw 'em, bethwack 'em, pare\n'em, hack 'em, hew 'em, mince 'em, flay 'em, boil 'em, broil 'em, roast\n'em, toast 'em, bake 'em, fry 'em, crucify 'em, crush 'em, squeeze 'em,\ngrind 'em, batter 'em, burst 'em, quarter 'em, unlimb 'em, behump 'em,\nbethump 'em, belam 'em, belabour 'em, pepper 'em, spitchcock 'em, and\ncarbonade 'em on gridirons, these wicked heretics! decretalifuges,\ndecretalicides, worse than homicides, worse than patricides,\ndecretalictones of the devil of hell.\n\nAs for you other good people, I must earnestly pray and beseech you to\nbelieve no other thing, to think on, say, undertake, or do no other thing,\nthan what's contained in our sacred decretals and their corollaries, this\nfine Sextum, these fine Clementinae, these fine Extravagantes.  O deific\nbooks!  So shall you enjoy glory, honour, exaltation, wealth, dignities,\nand preferments in this world; be revered and dreaded by all, preferred,\nelected, and chosen above all men.\n\nFor there is not under the cope of heaven a condition of men out of which\nyou'll find persons fitter to do and handle all things than those who by\ndivine prescience, eternal predestination, have applied themselves to the\nstudy of the holy decretals.\n\nWould you choose a worthy emperor, a good captain, a fit general in time of\nwar, one that can well foresee all inconveniences, avoid all dangers,\nbriskly and bravely bring his men on to a breach or attack, still be on\nsure grounds, always overcome without loss of his men, and know how to make\na good use of his victory?  Take me a decretist.  No, no, I mean a\ndecretalist.  Ho, the foul blunder, whispered Epistemon.\n\nWould you, in time of peace, find a man capable of wisely governing the\nstate of a commonwealth, of a kingdom, of an empire, of a monarchy;\nsufficient to maintain the clergy, nobility, senate, and commons in wealth,\nfriendship, unity, obedience, virtue, and honesty?  Take a decretalist.\n\nWould you find a man who, by his exemplary life, eloquence, and pious\nadmonitions, may in a short time, without effusion of human blood, conquer\nthe Holy Land, and bring over to the holy Church the misbelieving Turks,\nJews, Tartars, Muscovites, Mamelukes, and Sarrabonites?  Take me a\ndecretalist.\n\nWhat makes, in many countries, the people rebellious and depraved, pages\nsaucy and mischievous, students sottish and duncical?  Nothing but that\ntheir governors and tutors were not decretalists.\n\nBut what, on your conscience, was it, do you think, that established,\nconfirmed, and authorized those fine religious orders with whom you see the\nChristian world everywhere adorned, graced, and illustrated, as the\nfirmament is with its glorious stars?  The holy decretals.\n\nWhat was it that founded, underpropped, and fixed, and now maintains,\nnourishes, and feeds the devout monks and friars in convents, monasteries,\nand abbeys; so that did they not daily and mightily pray without ceasing,\nthe world would be in evident danger of returning to its primitive chaos?\nThe sacred decretals.\n\nWhat makes and daily increases the famous and celebrated patrimony of St.\nPeter in plenty of all temporal, corporeal, and spiritual blessings?  The\nholy decretals.\n\nWhat made the holy apostolic see and pope of Rome, in all times, and at\nthis present, so dreadful in the universe, that all kings, emperors,\npotentates, and lords, willing, nilling, must depend upon him, hold of him,\nbe crowned, confirmed, and authorized by him, come thither to strike sail,\nbuckle, and fall down before his holy slipper, whose picture you have seen?\nThe mighty decretals of God.\n\nI will discover you a great secret.  The universities of your world have\ncommonly a book, either open or shut, in their arms and devices; what book\ndo you think it is?  Truly, I do not know, answered Pantagruel; I never\nread it.  It is the decretals, said Homenas, without which the privileges\nof all universities would soon be lost.  You must own that I have taught\nyou this; ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!\n\nHere Homenas began to belch, to fart, to funk, to laugh, to slaver, and to\nsweat; and then he gave his huge greasy four-cornered cap to one of the\nlasses, who clapped it on her pretty head with a great deal of joy, after\nshe had lovingly bussed it, as a sure token that she should be first\nmarried.  Vivat, cried Epistemon, fifat, bibat, pipat.\n\nO apocalyptic secret! continued Homenas; light, light, Clerica; light here\nwith double lanterns.  Now for the fruit, virgins.\n\nI was saying, then, that giving yourselves thus wholly to the study of the\nholy decretals, you will gain wealth and honour in this world.  I add, that\nin the next you will infallibly be saved in the blessed kingdom of heaven,\nwhose keys are given to our good god and decretaliarch.  O my good god,\nwhom I adore and never saw, by thy special grace open unto us, at the point\nof death at least, this most sacred treasure of our holy Mother Church,\nwhose protector, preserver, butler, chief-larder, administrator, and\ndisposer thou art; and take care, I beseech thee, O lord, that the precious\nworks of supererogation, the goodly pardons, do not fail us in time of\nneed; so that the devils may not find an opportunity to gripe our precious\nsouls, and the dreadful jaws of hell may not swallow us.  If we must pass\nthrough purgatory thy will be done.  It is in thy power to draw us out of\nit when thou pleasest.  Here Homenas began to shed huge hot briny tears, to\nbeat his breast, and kiss his thumbs in the shape of a cross.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Homenas gave Pantagruel some bon-Christian pears.\n\nEpistemon, Friar John, and Panurge, seeing this doleful catastrophe, began,\nunder the cover of their napkins, to cry Meeow, meeow, meeow; feigning to\nwipe their eyes all the while as if they had wept.  The wenches were doubly\ndiligent, and brought brimmers of Clementine wine to every one, besides\nstore of sweetmeats; and thus the feasting was revived.\n\nBefore we arose from table, Homenas gave us a great quantity of fair large\npears, saying, Here, my good friends, these are singular good pears.  You\nwill find none such anywhere else, I dare warrant.  Every soil bears not\neverything, you know.  India alone boasts black ebony; the best incense is\nproduced in Sabaea; the sphragitid earth at Lemnos; so this island is the\nonly place where such fine pears grow.  You may, if you please, make\nseminaries with their pippins in your country.\n\nI like their taste extremely, said Pantagruel.  If they were sliced, and\nput into a pan on the fire with wine and sugar, I fancy they would be very\nwholesome meat for the sick, as well as for the healthy.  Pray what do you\ncall 'em?  No otherwise than you have heard, replied Homenas.  We are a\nplain downright sort of people, as God would have it, and call figs, figs;\nplums, plums; and pears, pears.  Truly, said Pantagruel, if I live to go\nhome--which I hope will be speedily, God willing--I'll set off and graff\nsome in my garden in Touraine, by the banks of the Loire, and will call\nthem bon-Christian or good-Christian pears, for I never saw better\nChristians than are these good Papimans.  I would like him two to one\nbetter yet, said Friar John, would he but give us two or three cartloads of\nyon buxom lasses.  Why, what would you do with them? cried Homenas.  Quoth\nFriar John, No harm, only bleed the kind-hearted souls straight between the\ntwo great toes with certain clever lancets of the right stamp; by which\noperation good Christian children would be inoculated upon them, and the\nbreed be multiplied in our country, in which there are not many over-good,\nthe more's the pity.\n\nNay, verily, replied Homenas, we cannot do this; for you would make them\ntread their shoes awry, crack their pipkins, and spoil their shapes.  You\nlove mutton, I see; you will run at sheep.  I know you by that same nose\nand hair of yours, though I never saw your face before.  Alas! alas! how\nkind you are!  And would you indeed damn your precious soul?  Our decretals\nforbid this.  Ah, I wish you had them at your finger's-end.  Patience, said\nFriar John; but, si tu non vis dare, praesta, quaesumus.  Matter of\nbreviary.  As for that, I defy all the world, and I fear no man that wears\na head and a hood, though he were a crystalline, I mean a decretaline\ndoctor.\n\nDinner being over, we took our leave of the right reverend Homenas, and of\nall the good people, humbly giving thanks; and, to make them amends for\ntheir kind entertainment, promised them that, at our coming to Rome, we\nwould make our applications so effectually to the pope that he would\nspeedily be sure to come to visit them in person.  After this we went\no'board.\n\nPantagruel, by an act of generosity, and as an acknowledgment of the sight\nof the pope's picture, gave Homenas nine pieces of double friezed cloth of\ngold to be set before the grates of the window.  He also caused the church\nbox for its repairs and fabric to be quite filled with double crowns of\ngold; and ordered nine hundred and fourteen angels to be delivered to each\nof the lasses who had waited at table, to buy them husbands when they could\nget them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel, being at sea, heard various unfrozen words.\n\nWhen we were at sea, junketting, tippling, discoursing, and telling\nstories, Pantagruel rose and stood up to look out; then asked us, Do you\nhear nothing, gentlemen?  Methinks I hear some people talking in the air,\nyet I can see nobody.  Hark!  According to his command we listened, and\nwith full ears sucked in the air as some of you suck oysters, to find if we\ncould hear some sound scattered through the sky; and to lose none of it,\nlike the Emperor Antoninus some of us laid their hands hollow next to their\nears; but all this would not do, nor could we hear any voice.  Yet\nPantagruel continued to assure us he heard various voices in the air, some\nof men, and some of women.\n\nAt last we began to fancy that we also heard something, or at least that\nour ears tingled; and the more we listened, the plainer we discerned the\nvoices, so as to distinguish articulate sounds.  This mightily frightened\nus, and not without cause; since we could see nothing, yet heard such\nvarious sounds and voices of men, women, children, horses, &c., insomuch\nthat Panurge cried out, Cods-belly, there is no fooling with the devil; we\nare all beshit, let's fly.  There is some ambuscado hereabouts.  Friar\nJohn, art thou here my love?  I pray thee, stay by me, old boy.  Hast thou\ngot thy swindging tool?  See that it do not stick in thy scabbard; thou\nnever scourest it half as it should be.  We are undone.  Hark!  They are\nguns, gad judge me.  Let's fly, I do not say with hands and feet, as Brutus\nsaid at the battle of Pharsalia; I say, with sails and oars.  Let's whip it\naway.  I never find myself to have a bit of courage at sea; in cellars and\nelsewhere I have more than enough.  Let's fly and save our bacon.  I do not\nsay this for any fear that I have; for I dread nothing but danger, that I\ndon't; I always say it that shouldn't.  The free archer of Baignolet said\nas much.  Let us hazard nothing, therefore, I say, lest we come off bluely.\nTack about, helm a-lee, thou son of a bachelor.  Would I were now well in\nQuinquenais, though I were never to marry.  Haste away, let's make all the\nsail we can.  They'll be too hard for us; we are not able to cope with\nthem; they are ten to our one, I'll warrant you.  Nay, and they are on\ntheir dunghill, while we do not know the country.  They will be the death\nof us.  We'll lose no honour by flying.  Demosthenes saith that the man\nthat runs away may fight another day.  At least let us retreat to the\nleeward.  Helm a-lee; bring the main-tack aboard, haul the bowlines, hoist\nthe top-gallants.  We are all dead men; get off, in the devil's name, get\noff.\n\nPantagruel, hearing the sad outcry which Panurge made, said, Who talks of\nflying?  Let's first see who they are; perhaps they may be friends.  I can\ndiscover nobody yet, though I can see a hundred miles round me.  But let's\nconsider a little.  I have read that a philosopher named Petron was of\nopinion that there were several worlds that touched each other in an\nequilateral triangle; in whose centre, he said, was the dwelling of truth;\nand that the words, ideas, copies, and images of all things past and to\ncome resided there; round which was the age; and that with success of time\npart of them used to fall on mankind like rheums and mildews, just as the\ndew fell on Gideon's fleece, till the age was fulfilled.\n\nI also remember, continued he, that Aristotle affirms Homer's words to be\nflying, moving, and consequently animated.  Besides, Antiphanes said that\nPlato's philosophy was like words which, being spoken in some country\nduring a hard winter, are immediately congealed, frozen up, and not heard;\nfor what Plato taught young lads could hardly be understood by them when\nthey were grown old.  Now, continued he, we should philosophize and search\nwhether this be not the place where those words are thawed.\n\nYou would wonder very much should this be the head and lyre of Orpheus.\nWhen the Thracian women had torn him to pieces they threw his head and lyre\ninto the river Hebrus, down which they floated to the Euxine sea as far as\nthe island of Lesbos; the head continually uttering a doleful song, as it\nwere lamenting the death of Orpheus, and the lyre, with the wind's impulse\nmoving its strings and harmoniously accompanying the voice.  Let's see if\nwe cannot discover them hereabouts.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow among the frozen words Pantagruel found some odd ones.\n\nThe skipper made answer:  Be not afraid, my lord; we are on the confines of\nthe Frozen Sea, on which, about the beginning of last winter, happened a\ngreat and bloody fight between the Arimaspians and the Nephelibates.  Then\nthe words and cries of men and women, the hacking, slashing, and hewing of\nbattle-axes, the shocking, knocking, and jolting of armours and harnesses,\nthe neighing of horses, and all other martial din and noise, froze in the\nair; and now, the rigour of the winter being over, by the succeeding\nserenity and warmth of the weather they melt and are heard.\n\nBy jingo, quoth Panurge, the man talks somewhat like.  I believe him.  But\ncouldn't we see some of 'em?  I think I have read that, on the edge of the\nmountain on which Moses received the Judaic law, the people saw the voices\nsensibly.  Here, here, said Pantagruel, here are some that are not yet\nthawed.  He then threw us on the deck whole handfuls of frozen words, which\nseemed to us like your rough sugar-plums, of many colours, like those used\nin heraldry; some words gules (this means also jests and merry sayings),\nsome vert, some azure, some black, some or (this means also fair words);\nand when we had somewhat warmed them between our hands, they melted like\nsnow, and we really heard them, but could not understand them, for it was a\nbarbarous gibberish.  One of them only, that was pretty big, having been\nwarmed between Friar John's hands, gave a sound much like that of chestnuts\nwhen they are thrown into the fire without being first cut, which made us\nall start.  This was the report of a field-piece in its time, cried Friar\nJohn.\n\nPanurge prayed Pantagruel to give him some more; but Pantagruel told him\nthat to give words was the part of a lover.  Sell me some then, I pray you,\ncried Panurge.  That's the part of a lawyer, returned Pantagruel.  I would\nsooner sell you silence, though at a dearer rate; as Demosthenes formerly\nsold it by the means of his argentangina, or silver squinsy.\n\nHowever, he threw three or four handfuls of them on the deck; among which I\nperceived some very sharp words, and some bloody words, which the pilot\nsaid used sometimes to go back and recoil to the place whence they came,\nbut it was with a slit weasand.  We also saw some terrible words, and some\nothers not very pleasant to the eye.\n\nWhen they had been all melted together, we heard a strange noise, hin, hin,\nhin, hin, his, tick, tock, taack, bredelinbrededack, frr, frr, frr, bou,\nbou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, track, track, trr, trr, trr, trrr,\ntrrrrrr, on, on, on, on, on, on, ououououon, gog, magog, and I do not know\nwhat other barbarous words, which the pilot said were the noise made by the\ncharging squadrons, the shock and neighing of horses.\n\nThen we heard some large ones go off like drums and fifes, and others like\nclarions and trumpets.  Believe me, we had very good sport with them.  I\nwould fain have saved some merry odd words, and have preserved them in oil,\nas ice and snow are kept, and between clean straw.  But Pantagruel would\nnot let me, saying that 'tis a folly to hoard up what we are never like to\nwant or have always at hand, odd, quaint, merry, and fat words of gules\nnever being scarce among all good and jovial Pantagruelists.\n\nPanurge somewhat vexed Friar John, and put him in the pouts; for he took\nhim at his word while he dreamed of nothing less.  This caused the friar to\nthreaten him with such a piece of revenge as was put upon G. Jousseaume,\nwho having taken the merry Patelin at his word when he had overbid himself\nin some cloth, was afterwards fairly taken by the horns like a bullock by\nhis jovial chapman, whom he took at his word like a man.  Panurge, well\nknowing that threatened folks live long, bobbed and made mouths at him in\ntoken of derision, then cried, Would I had here the word of the Holy\nBottle, without being thus obliged to go further in pilgrimage to her.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel went ashore at the dwelling of Gaster, the first master of\narts in the world.\n\nThat day Pantagruel went ashore in an island which, for situation and\ngovernor, may be said not to have its fellow.  When you just come into it,\nyou find it rugged, craggy, and barren, unpleasant to the eye, painful to\nthe feet, and almost as inaccessible as the mountain of Dauphine, which is\nsomewhat like a toadstool, and was never climbed as any can remember by any\nbut Doyac, who had the charge of King Charles the Eighth's train of\nartillery.\n\nThis same Doyac with strange tools and engines gained that mountain's top,\nand there he found an old ram.  It puzzled many a wise head to guess how it\ngot thither.  Some said that some eagle or great horncoot, having carried\nit thither while it was yet a lambkin, it had got away and saved itself\namong the bushes.\n\nAs for us, having with much toil and sweat overcome the difficult ways at\nthe entrance, we found the top of the mountain so fertile, healthful, and\npleasant, that I thought I was then in the true garden of Eden, or earthly\nparadise, about whose situation our good theologues are in such a quandary\nand keep such a pother.\n\nAs for Pantagruel, he said that here was the seat of Arete--that is as much\nas to say, virtue--described by Hesiod.  This, however, with submission to\nbetter judgments.  The ruler of this place was one Master Gaster, the first\nmaster of arts in this world.  For, if you believe that fire is the great\nmaster of arts, as Tully writes, you very much wrong him and yourself;\nalas! Tully never believed this.  On the other side, if you fancy Mercury\nto be the first inventor of arts, as our ancient Druids believed of old,\nyou are mightily beside the mark.  The satirist's sentence, that affirms\nMaster Gaster to be the master of all arts, is true.  With him peacefully\nresided old goody Penia, alias Poverty, the mother of the ninety-nine\nMuses, on whom Porus, the lord of Plenty, formerly begot Love, that noble\nchild, the mediator of heaven and earth, as Plato affirms in Symposio.\n\nWe were all obliged to pay our homage and swear allegiance to that mighty\nsovereign; for he is imperious, severe, blunt, hard, uneasy, inflexible;\nyou cannot make him believe, represent to him, or persuade him anything.\n\nHe does not hear; and as the Egyptians said that Harpocrates, the god of\nsilence, named Sigalion in Greek, was astome, that is, without a mouth, so\nGaster was created without ears, even like the image of Jupiter in Candia.\n\nHe only speaks by signs, but those signs are more readily obeyed by\neveryone than the statutes of senates or commands of monarchs.  Neither\nwill he admit the least let or delay in his summons.  You say that when a\nlion roars all the beasts at a considerable distance round about, as far as\nhis roar can be heard, are seized with a shivering.  This is written, it is\ntrue, I have seen it. I assure you that at Master Gaster's command the very\nheavens tremble, and all the earth shakes.  His command is called, Do this\nor die.  Needs must when the devil drives; there's no gainsaying of it.\n\nThe pilot was telling us how, on a certain time, after the manner of the\nmembers that mutinied against the belly, as Aesop describes it, the whole\nkingdom of the Somates went off into a direct faction against Gaster,\nresolving to throw off his yoke; but they soon found their mistake, and\nmost humbly submitted, for otherwise they had all been famished.\n\nWhat company soever he is in, none dispute with him for precedence or\nsuperiority; he still goes first, though kings, emperors, or even the pope,\nwere there.  So he held the first place at the council of Basle; though\nsome will tell you that the council was tumultuous by the contention and\nambition of many for priority.\n\nEveryone is busied and labours to serve him, and indeed, to make amends for\nthis, he does this good to mankind, as to invent for them all arts,\nmachines, trades, engines, and crafts; he even instructs brutes in arts\nwhich are against their nature, making poets of ravens, jackdaws,\nchattering jays, parrots, and starlings, and poetesses of magpies, teaching\nthem to utter human language, speak, and sing; and all for the gut.  He\nreclaims and tames eagles, gerfalcons, falcons gentle, sakers, lanners,\ngoshawks, sparrowhawks, merlins, haggards, passengers, wild rapacious\nbirds; so that, setting them free in the air whenever he thinks fit, as\nhigh and as long as he pleases, he keeps them suspended, straying, flying,\nhovering, and courting him above the clouds.  Then on a sudden he makes\nthem stoop, and come down amain from heaven next to the ground; and all for\nthe gut.\n\nElephants, lions, rhinoceroses, bears, horses, mares, and dogs, he teaches\nto dance, prance, vault, fight, swim, hide themselves, fetch and carry what\nhe pleases; and all for the gut.\n\nSalt and fresh-water fish, whales, and the monsters of the main, he brings\nthem up from the bottom of the deep; wolves he forces out of the woods,\nbears out of the rocks, foxes out of their holes, and serpents out of the\nground, and all for the gut.\n\nIn short, he is so unruly, that in his rage he devours all men and beasts;\nas was seen among the Vascons, when Q. Metellus besieged them in the\nSertorian wars, among the Saguntines besieged by Hannibal; among the Jews\nbesieged by the Romans, and six hundred more; and all for the gut.  When\nhis regent Penia takes a progress, wherever she moves all senates are shut\nup, all statutes repealed, all orders and proclamations vain; she knows,\nobeys, and has no law.  All shun her, in every place choosing rather to\nexpose themselves to shipwreck at sea, and venture through fire, rocks,\ncaves, and precipices, than be seized by that most dreadful tormentor.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow, at the court of the master of ingenuity, Pantagruel detested the\nEngastrimythes and the Gastrolaters.\n\nAt the court of that great master of ingenuity, Pantagruel observed two\nsorts of troublesome and too officious apparitors, whom he very much\ndetested.  The first were called Engastrimythes; the others, Gastrolaters.\n\nThe first pretended to be descended of the ancient race of Eurycles, and\nfor this brought the authority of Aristophanes in his comedy called the\nWasps; whence of old they were called Euryclians, as Plato writes, and\nPlutarch in his book of the Cessation of Oracles.  In the holy decrees, 26,\nqu. 3, they are styled Ventriloqui; and the same name is given them in\nIonian by Hippocrates, in his fifth book of Epid., as men who speak from\nthe belly.  Sophocles calls them Sternomantes.  These were soothsayers,\nenchanters, cheats, who gulled the mob, and seemed not to speak and give\nanswers from the mouth, but from the belly.\n\nSuch a one, about the year of our Lord 1513, was Jacoba Rodogina, an\nItalian woman of mean extract; from whose belly we, as well as an infinite\nnumber of others at Ferrara and elsewhere, have often heard the voice of\nthe evil spirit speak, low, feeble, and small, indeed, but yet very\ndistinct, articulate, and intelligible, when she was sent for out of\ncuriosity by the lords and princes of the Cisalpine Gaul.  To remove all\nmanner of doubt, and be assured that this was not a trick, they used to\nhave her stripped stark naked, and caused her mouth and nose to be stopped.\nThis evil spirit would be called Curled-pate, or Cincinnatulo, seeming\npleased when any called him by that name, at which he was always ready to\nanswer.  If any spoke to him of things past or present, he gave pertinent\nanswers, sometimes to the amazement of the hearers; but if of things to\ncome, then the devil was gravelled, and used to lie as fast as a dog can\ntrot.  Nay, sometimes he seemed to own his ignorance, instead of an answer\nletting out a rousing fart, or muttering some words with barbarous and\nuncouth inflexions, and not to be understood.\n\nAs for the Gastrolaters, they stuck close to one another in knots and\ngangs.  Some of them merry, wanton, and soft as so many milk-sops; others\nlouring, grim, dogged, demure, and crabbed; all idle, mortal foes to\nbusiness, spending half their time in sleeping and the rest in doing\nnothing, a rent-charge and dead unnecessary weight on the earth, as Hesiod\nsaith; afraid, as we judged, of offending or lessening their paunch.\nOthers were masked, disguised, and so oddly dressed that it would have done\nyou good to have seen them.\n\nThere's a saying, and several ancient sages write, that the skill of nature\nappears wonderful in the pleasure which she seems to have taken in the\nconfiguration of sea-shells, so great is their variety in figures, colours,\nstreaks, and inimitable shapes.  I protest the variety we perceived in the\ndresses of the gastrolatrous coquillons was not less.  They all owned\nGaster for their supreme god, adored him as a god, offered him sacrifices\nas to their omnipotent deity, owned no other god, served, loved, and\nhonoured him above all things.\n\nYou would have thought that the holy apostle spoke of those when he said\n(Phil. chap. 3), Many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you\neven weeping, that they are enemies of the cross of Christ:  whose end is\ndestruction, whose God is their belly.  Pantagruel compared them to the\nCyclops Polyphemus, whom Euripides brings in speaking thus:  I only\nsacrifice to myself--not to the gods--and to this belly of mine, the\ngreatest of all the gods.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the ridiculous statue Manduce; and how and what the Gastrolaters\nsacrifice to their ventripotent god.\n\nWhile we fed our eyes with the sight of the phizzes and actions of these\nlounging gulligutted Gastrolaters, we on a sudden heard the sound of a\nmusical instrument called a bell; at which all of them placed themselves in\nrank and file as for some mighty battle, everyone according to his office,\ndegree, and seniority.\n\nIn this order they moved towards Master Gaster, after a plump, young,\nlusty, gorbellied fellow, who on a long staff fairly gilt carried a wooden\nstatue, grossly carved, and as scurvily daubed over with paint; such a one\nas Plautus, Juvenal, and Pomp. Festus describe it.  At Lyons during the\nCarnival it is called Maschecroute or Gnawcrust; they call'd this Manduce.\n\nIt was a monstrous, ridiculous, hideous figure, fit to fright little\nchildren; its eyes were bigger than its belly, and its head larger than all\nthe rest of its body; well mouth-cloven however, having a goodly pair of\nwide, broad jaws, lined with two rows of teeth, upper tier and under tier,\nwhich, by the magic of a small twine hid in the hollow part of the golden\nstaff, were made to clash, clatter, and rattle dreadfully one against\nanother; as they do at Metz with St. Clement's dragon.\n\nComing near the Gastrolaters I saw they were followed by a great number of\nfat waiters and tenders, laden with baskets, dossers, hampers, dishes,\nwallets, pots, and kettles.  Then, under the conduct of Manduce, and\nsinging I do not know what dithyrambics, crepalocomes, and epenons, opening\ntheir baskets and pots, they offered their god:\n\nWhite hippocras,         Fricassees, nine       Cold loins of veal,\n  with dry toasts.         sorts.                 with spice.\nWhite bread.             Monastical brewis.     Zinziberine.\nBrown bread.             Gravy soup.            Beatille pies.\nCarbonadoes, six         Hotch-pots.            Brewis.\n  sorts.                 Soft bread.            Marrow-bones, toast,\nBrawn.                   Household bread.         and cabbage.\nSweetbreads.             Capirotadoes.          Hashes.\n\nEternal drink intermixed.  Brisk delicate white wine led the van; claret\nand champagne followed, cool, nay, as cold as the very ice, I say, filled\nand offered in large silver cups.  Then they offered:\n\nChitterlings, gar-       Chines and peas.       Hams.\n  nished with mus-       Hog's haslets.         Brawn heads.\n  tard.                  Scotch collops.        Powdered venison,\nSausages.                Puddings.                with turnips.\nNeats' tongues.          Cervelats.             Pickled olives.\nHung beef.               Bologna sausages.\n\nAll this associated with sempiternal liquor.  Then they housed within his\nmuzzle:\n\nLegs of mutton, with     Ribs of pork, with     Caponets.\n  shallots.                onion sauce.         Caviare and toast.\nOlias.                   Roast capons, basted   Fawns, deer.\nLumber pies, with          with their own       Hares, leverets.\n  hot sauce.               dripping.            Plovers.\nPartridges and young     Flamingoes.            Herons, and young\n  partridges.            Cygnets.                 herons.\nDwarf-herons.            A reinforcement of     Olives.\nTeals.                     vinegar intermixed.  Thrushes.\nDuckers.                 Venison pasties.       Young sea-ravens.\nBitterns.                Lark pies.             Geese, goslings.\nShovellers.              Dormice pies.          Queests.\nCurlews.                 Cabretto pasties.      Widgeons.\nWood-hens.               Roebuck pasties.       Mavises.\nCoots, with leeks.       Pigeon pies.           Grouses.\nFat kids.                Kid pasties.           Turtles.\nShoulders of mutton,     Capon pies.            Doe-coneys.\n  with capers.           Bacon pies.            Hedgehogs.\nSirloins of beef.        Soused hog's feet.     Snites.\nBreasts of veal.         Fried pasty-crust.     Then large puffs.\nPheasants and phea-      Forced capons.         Thistle-finches.\n  sant poots.            Parmesan cheese.       Whore's farts.\nPeacocks.                Red and pale hip-      Fritters.\nStorks.                    pocras.              Cakes, sixteen sorts.\nWoodcocks.               Gold-peaches.          Crisp wafers.\nSnipes.                  Artichokes.            Quince tarts.\nOrtolans.                Dry and wet sweet-     Curds and cream.\nTurkey cocks, hen          meats, seventy-      Whipped cream.\n  turkeys, and turkey      eight sorts.         Preserved mirabo-\n  poots.                 Boiled hens, and fat     lans.\nStock-doves, and           capons marinated.    Jellies.\n  wood-culvers.          Pullets, with eggs.    Welsh barrapyclids.\nPigs, with wine sauce.   Chickens.              Macaroons.\nBlackbirds, ousels, and  Rabbits, and sucking   Tarts, twenty sorts.\n  rails.                   rabbits.             Lemon cream, rasp-\nMoorhens.                Quails, and young        berry cream, &c.\nBustards, and bustard      quails.              Comfits, one hundred\n  poots.                 Pigeons, squabs, and     colours.\nFig-peckers.               squeakers.           Cream wafers.\nYoung Guinea hens.       Fieldfares.            Cream cheese.\n\nVinegar brought up the rear to wash the mouth, and for fear of the squinsy;\nalso toasts to scour the grinders.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWhat the Gastrolaters sacrificed to their god on interlarded fish-days.\n\nPantagruel did not like this pack of rascally scoundrels with their\nmanifold kitchen sacrifices, and would have been gone had not Epistemon\nprevailed with him to stay and see the end of the farce.  He then asked the\nskipper what the idle lobcocks used to sacrifice to their gorbellied god on\ninterlarded fish-days.  For his first course, said the skipper, they gave\nhim:\n\nCaviare.                  tops, bishop's-cods,    Red herrings.\nBotargoes.                celery, chives, ram-    Pilchards.\nFresh butter.             pions, jew's-ears (a    Anchovies.\nPease soup.               sort of mushrooms       Fry of tunny.\nSpinach.                  that sprout out of      Cauliflowers.\nFresh herrings, full      old elders), spara-     Beans.\n  roed.                   gus, wood-bind,         Salt salmon.\nSalads, a hundred         and a world of          Pickled grigs.\n  varieties, of cres-     others.                 Oysters in the shell.\n  ses, sodden hop-\n\nThen he must drink, or the devil would gripe him at the throat; this,\ntherefore, they take care to prevent, and nothing is wanting.  Which being\ndone, they give him lampreys with hippocras sauce:\n\nGurnards.               Thornbacks.             Fried oysters.\nSalmon trouts.          Sleeves.                Cockles.\nBarbels, great and      Sturgeons.              Prawns.\n  small.                Sheath-fish.            Smelts.\nRoaches.                Mackerels.              Rock-fish.\nCockerels.              Maids.                  Gracious lords.\nMinnows.                Plaice.                 Sword-fish.\nSkate-fish.             Sharplings.             Soles.\nLamprels.               Tunnies.                Mussels.\nJegs.                   Silver eels.            Lobsters.\nPickerels.              Chevins.                Great prawns.\nGolden carps.           Crayfish.               Dace.\nBurbates.               Pallours.               Bleaks.\nSalmons.                Shrimps.                Tenches.\nSalmon-peels.           Congers.                Ombres.\nDolphins.               Porpoises.              Fresh cods.\nBarn trouts.            Bases.                  Dried melwels.\nMiller's-thumbs.        Shads.                  Darefish.\nPrecks.                 Murenes, a sort of      Fausens, and grigs.\nBret-fish.                lampreys.             Eel-pouts.\nFlounders.              Graylings.              Tortoises.\nSea-nettles.            Smys.                   Serpents, i.e. wood-\nMullets.                Turbots.                  eels.\nGudgeons.               Trout, not above a      Dories.\nDabs and sandings.        foot long.            Moor-game.\nHaddocks.               Salmons.                Perches.\nCarps.                  Meagers.                Loaches.\nPikes.                  Sea-breams.             Crab-fish.\nBottitoes.              Halibuts.               Snails and whelks.\nRochets.                Dog's tongue, or kind   Frogs.\nSea-bears.                fool.\n\nIf, when he had crammed all this down his guttural trapdoor, he did not\nimmediately make the fish swim again in his paunch, death would pack him\noff in a trice.  Special care is taken to antidote his godship with\nvine-tree syrup.  Then is sacrificed to him haberdines, poor-jack,\nminglemangled, mismashed, &c.\n\nEggs fried, beaten,       sliced, roasted in     Green-fish.\n  buttered, poached,      the embers, tossed     Sea-batts.\n  hardened, boiled,       in the chimney, &c.    Cod's sounds.\n  broiled, stewed,      Stock-fish.              Sea-pikes.\n\nWhich to concoct and digest the more easily, vinegar is multiplied.  For\nthe latter part of their sacrifices they offer:\n\nRice milk, and hasty    Stewed prunes, and       Raisins.\n  pudding.                baked bullace.         Dates.\nButtered wheat, and     Pistachios, or fistic    Chestnut and wal-\n  flummery.               nuts.                    nuts.\nWater-gruel, and        Figs.                    Filberts.\n  milk-porridge.        Almond butter.           Parsnips.\nFrumenty and bonny      Skirret root.            Artichokes.\n  clamber.              White-pot.\n              Perpetuity of soaking with the whole.\n\nIt was none of their fault, I will assure you, if this same god of theirs\nwas not publicly, preciously, and plentifully served in the sacrifices,\nbetter yet than Heliogabalus's idol; nay, more than Bel and the Dragon in\nBabylon, under King Belshazzar.  Yet Gaster had the manners to own that he\nwas no god, but a poor, vile, wretched creature.  And as King Antigonus,\nfirst of the name, when one Hermodotus (as poets will flatter, especially\nprinces) in some of his fustian dubbed him a god, and made the sun adopt\nhim for his son, said to him:  My lasanophore (or, in plain English, my\ngroom of the close-stool) can give thee the lie; so Master Gaster very\ncivilly used to send back his bigoted worshippers to his close-stool, to\nsee, smell, taste, philosophize, and examine what kind of divinity they\ncould pick out of his sir-reverence.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gaster invented means to get and preserve corn.\n\nThose gastrolatrous hobgoblins being withdrawn, Pantagruel carefully minded\nthe famous master of arts, Gaster.  You know that, by the institution of\nnature, bread has been assigned him for provision and food; and that, as an\naddition to this blessing, he should never want the means to get bread.\n\nAccordingly, from the beginning he invented the smith's art, and husbandry\nto manure the ground, that it might yield him corn; he invented arms and\nthe art of war to defend corn; physic and astronomy, with other parts of\nmathematics which might be useful to keep corn a great number of years in\nsafety from the injuries of the air, beasts, robbers, and purloiners; he\ninvented water, wind, and handmills, and a thousand other engines to grind\ncorn and to turn it into meal; leaven to make the dough ferment, and the\nuse of salt to give it a savour; for he knew that nothing bred more\ndiseases than heavy, unleavened, unsavoury bread.\n\nHe found a way to get fire to bake it; hour-glasses, dials, and clocks to\nmark the time of its baking; and as some countries wanted corn, he\ncontrived means to convey some out of one country into another.\n\nHe had the wit to pimp for asses and mares, animals of different species,\nthat they might copulate for the generation of a third, which we call\nmules, more strong and fit for hard service than the other two.  He\ninvented carts and waggons to draw him along with greater ease; and as seas\nand rivers hindered his progress, he devised boats, galleys, and ships (to\nthe astonishment of the elements) to waft him over to barbarous, unknown,\nand far distant nations, thence to bring, or thither to carry corn.\n\nBesides, seeing that when he had tilled the ground, some years the corn\nperished in it for want of rain in due season, in others rotted or was\ndrowned by its excess, sometimes spoiled by hail, eat by worms in the ear,\nor beaten down by storms, and so his stock was destroyed on the ground; we\nwere told that ever since the days of yore he has found out a way to\nconjure the rain down from heaven only with cutting certain grass, common\nenough in the field, yet known to very few, some of which was then shown\nus.  I took it to be the same as the plant, one of whose boughs being\ndipped by Jove's priest in the Agrian fountain on the Lycian mountain in\nArcadia, in time of drought raised vapours which gathered into clouds, and\nthen dissolved into rain that kindly moistened the whole country.\n\nOur master of arts was also said to have found a way to keep the rain up in\nthe air, and make it to fall into the sea; also to annihilate the hail,\nsuppress the winds, and remove storms as the Methanensians of Troezene used\nto do.  And as in the fields thieves and plunderers sometimes stole and\ntook by force the corn and bread which others had toiled to get, he\ninvented the art of building towns, forts, and castles, to hoard and secure\nthat staff of life.  On the other hand, finding none in the fields, and\nhearing that it was hoarded up and secured in towns, forts, and castles,\nand watched with more care than ever were the golden pippins of the\nHesperides, he turned engineer, and found ways to beat, storm, and demolish\nforts and castles with machines and warlike thunderbolts, battering-rams,\nballists, and catapults, whose shapes were shown to us, not over-well\nunderstood by our engineers, architects, and other disciples of Vitruvius;\nas Master Philibert de l'Orme, King Megistus's principal architect, has\nowned to us.\n\nAnd seeing that sometimes all these tools of destruction were baffled by\nthe cunning subtlety or the subtle cunning (which you please) of\nfortifiers, he lately invented cannons, field-pieces, culverins, bombards,\nbasiliskos, murdering instruments that dart iron, leaden, and brazen balls,\nsome of them outweighing huge anvils.  This by the means of a most dreadful\npowder, whose hellish compound and effect has even amazed nature, and made\nher own herself outdone by art, the Oxydracian thunders, hails, and storms\nby which the people of that name immediately destroyed their enemies in the\nfield being but mere potguns to these.  For one of our great guns when used\nis more dreadful, more terrible, more diabolical, and maims, tears, breaks,\nslays, mows down, and sweeps away more men, and causes a greater\nconsternation and destruction than a hundred thunderbolts.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gaster invented an art to avoid being hurt or touched by cannon-balls.\n\nGaster having secured himself with his corn within strongholds, has\nsometimes been attacked by enemies; his fortresses, by that thrice\nthreefold cursed instrument, levelled and destroyed; his dearly beloved\ncorn and bread snatched out of his mouth and sacked by a titanic force;\ntherefore he then sought means to preserve his walls, bastions, rampiers,\nand sconces from cannon-shot, and to hinder the bullets from hitting him,\nstopping them in their flight, or at least from doing him or the besieged\nwalls any damage.  He showed us a trial of this which has been since used\nby Fronton, and is now common among the pastimes and harmless recreations\nof the Thelemites.  I will tell you how he went to work, and pray for the\nfuture be a little more ready to believe what Plutarch affirms to have\ntried.  Suppose a herd of goats were all scampering as if the devil drove\nthem, do but put a bit of eringo into the mouth of the hindmost nanny, and\nthey will all stop stock still in the time you can tell three.\n\nThus Gaster, having caused a brass falcon to be charged with a sufficient\nquantity of gunpowder well purged from its sulphur, and curiously made up\nwith fine camphor, he then had a suitable ball put into the piece, with\ntwenty-four little pellets like hail-shot, some round, some pearl fashion;\nthen taking his aim and levelling it at a page of his, as if he would have\nhit him on the breast.  About sixty strides off the piece, halfway between\nit and the page in a right line, he hanged on a gibbet by a rope a very\nlarge siderite or iron-like stone, otherwise called herculean, formerly\nfound on Ida in Phrygia by one Magnes, as Nicander writes, and commonly\ncalled loadstone; then he gave fire to the prime on the piece's touch-hole,\nwhich in an instant consuming the powder, the ball and hail-shot were with\nincredible violence and swiftness hurried out of the gun at its muzzle,\nthat the air might penetrate to its chamber, where otherwise would have\nbeen a vacuum, which nature abhors so much, that this universal machine,\nheaven, air, land, and sea, would sooner return to the primitive chaos than\nadmit the least void anywhere.  Now the ball and small shot, which\nthreatened the page with no less than quick destruction, lost their\nimpetuosity and remained suspended and hovering round the stone; nor did\nany of them, notwithstanding the fury with which they rushed, reach the\npage.\n\nMaster Gaster could do more than all this yet, if you will believe me; for\nhe invented a way how to cause bullets to fly backwards, and recoil on\nthose that sent them with as great a force, and in the very numerical\nparallel for which the guns were planted.  And indeed, why should he have\nthought this difficult? seeing the herb ethiopis opens all locks\nwhatsoever, and an echinus or remora, a silly weakly fish, in spite of all\nthe winds that blow from the thirty-two points of the compass, will in the\nmidst of a hurricane make you the biggest first-rate remain stock still, as\nif she were becalmed or the blustering tribe had blown their last.  Nay,\nand with the flesh of that fish, preserved with salt, you may fish gold out\nof the deepest well that was ever sounded with a plummet; for it will\ncertainly draw up the precious metal, since Democritus affirmed it.\nTheophrastus believed and experienced that there was an herb at whose\nsingle touch an iron wedge, though never so far driven into a huge log of\nthe hardest wood that is, would presently come out; and it is this same\nherb your hickways, alias woodpeckers, use, when with some mighty axe\nanyone stops up the hole of their nests, which they industriously dig and\nmake in the trunk of some sturdy tree.  Since stags and hinds, when deeply\nwounded with darts, arrows, and bolts, if they do but meet the herb called\ndittany, which is common in Candia, and eat a little of it, presently the\nshafts come out and all is well again; even as kind Venus cured her beloved\nbyblow Aeneas when he was wounded on the right thigh with an arrow by\nJuturna, Turnus's sister.  Since the very wind of laurels, fig-trees, or\nsea-calves makes the thunder sheer off insomuch that it never strikes them.\nSince at the sight of a ram, mad elephants recover their former senses.\nSince mad bulls coming near wild fig-trees, called caprifici, grow tame,\nand will not budge a foot, as if they had the cramp.  Since the venomous\nrage of vipers is assuaged if you but touch them with a beechen bough.\nSince also Euphorion writes that in the isle of Samos, before Juno's temple\nwas built there, he has seen some beasts called neades, whose voice made\nthe neighbouring places gape and sink into a chasm and abyss.  In short,\nsince elders grow of a more pleasing sound, and fitter to make flutes, in\nsuch places where the crowing of cocks is not heard, as the ancient sages\nhave writ and Theophrastus relates; as if the crowing of a cock dulled,\nflattened, and perverted the wood of the elder, as it is said to astonish\nand stupify with fear that strong and resolute animal, a lion.  I know that\nsome have understood this of wild elder, that grows so far from towns or\nvillages that the crowing of cocks cannot reach near it; and doubtless that\nsort ought to be preferred to the stenching common elder that grows about\ndecayed and ruined places; but others have understood this in a higher\nsense, not literal, but allegorical, according to the method of the\nPythagoreans, as when it was said that Mercury's statue could not be made\nof every sort of wood; to which sentence they gave this sense, that God is\nnot to be worshipped in a vulgar form, but in a chosen and religious\nmanner.  In the same manner, by this elder which grows far from places\nwhere cocks are heard, the ancients meant that the wise and studious ought\nnot to give their minds to trivial or vulgar music, but to that which is\ncelestial, divine, angelical, more abstracted, and brought from remoter\nparts, that is, from a region where the crowing of cocks is not heard; for,\nto denote a solitary and unfrequented place, we say cocks are never heard\nto crow there.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel fell asleep near the island of Chaneph, and of the problems\nproposed to be solved when he waked.\n\nThe next day, merrily pursuing our voyage, we came in sight of the island\nof Chaneph, where Pantagruel's ship could not arrive, the wind chopping\nabout, and then failing us so that we were becalmed, and could hardly get\nahead, tacking about from starboard to larboard, and larboard to starboard,\nthough to our sails we added drabblers.\n\nWith this accident we were all out of sorts, moping, drooping,\nmetagrabolized, as dull as dun in the mire, in C sol fa ut flat, out of\ntune, off the hinges, and I-don't-know-howish, without caring to speak one\nsingle syllable to each other.\n\nPantagruel was taking a nap, slumbering and nodding on the quarter-deck by\nthe cuddy, with an Heliodorus in his hand; for still it was his custom to\nsleep better by book than by heart.\n\nEpistemon was conjuring, with his astrolabe, to know what latitude we were\nin.\n\nFriar John was got into the cook-room, examining, by the ascendant of the\nspits and the horoscope of ragouts and fricassees, what time of day it\nmight then be.\n\nPanurge (sweet baby!) held a stalk of Pantagruelions, alias hemp, next his\ntongue, and with it made pretty bubbles and bladders.\n\nGymnast was making tooth-pickers with lentisk.\n\nPonocrates, dozing, dozed, and dreaming, dreamed; tickled himself to make\nhimself laugh, and with one finger scratched his noddle where it did not\nitch.\n\nCarpalin, with a nutshell and a trencher of verne (that's a card in\nGascony), was making a pretty little merry windmill, cutting the card\nlongways into four slips, and fastening them with a pin to the convex of\nthe nut, and its concave to the tarred side of the gunnel of the ship.\n\nEusthenes, bestriding one of the guns, was playing on it with his fingers\nas if it had been a trump-marine.\n\nRhizotome, with the soft coat of a field tortoise, alias ycleped a mole,\nwas making himself a velvet purse.\n\nXenomanes was patching up an old weather-beaten lantern with a hawk's\njesses.\n\nOur pilot (good man!) was pulling maggots out of the seamen's noses.\n\nAt last Friar John, returning from the forecastle, perceived that\nPantagruel was awake.  Then breaking this obstinate silence, he briskly and\ncheerfully asked him how a man should kill time, and raise good weather,\nduring a calm at sea.\n\nPanurge, whose belly thought his throat cut, backed the motion presently,\nand asked for a pill to purge melancholy.\n\nEpistemon also came on, and asked how a man might be ready to bepiss\nhimself with laughing when he has no heart to be merry.\n\nGymnast, arising, demanded a remedy for a dimness of eyes.\n\nPonocrates, after he had a while rubbed his noddle and shaken his ears,\nasked how one might avoid dog-sleep.  Hold! cried Pantagruel, the\nPeripatetics have wisely made a rule that all problems, questions, and\ndoubts which are offered to be solved ought to be certain, clear, and\nintelligible.  What do you mean by dog-sleep?  I mean, answered Ponocrates,\nto sleep fasting in the sun at noonday, as the dogs do.\n\nRhizotome, who lay stooping on the pump, raised his drowsy head, and lazily\nyawning, by natural sympathy set almost everyone in the ship a-yawning too;\nthen he asked for a remedy against oscitations and gapings.\n\nXenomanes, half puzzled, and tired out with new-vamping his antiquated\nlantern, asked how the hold of the stomach might be so well ballasted and\nfreighted from the keel to the main hatch, with stores well stowed, that\nour human vessels might not heel or be walt, but well trimmed and stiff.\n\nCarpalin, twirling his diminutive windmill, asked how many motions are to\nbe felt in nature before a gentleman may be said to be hungry.\n\nEusthenes, hearing them talk, came from between decks, and from the capstan\ncalled out to know why a man that is fasting, bit by a serpent also\nfasting, is in greater danger of death than when man and serpent have eat\ntheir breakfasts;--why a man's fasting-spittle is poisonous to serpents and\nvenomous creatures.\n\nOne single solution may serve for all your problems, gentlemen, answered\nPantagruel; and one single medicine for all such symptoms and accidents.\nMy answer shall be short, not to tire you with a long needless train of\npedantic cant.  The belly has no ears, nor is it to be filled with fair\nwords; you shall be answered to content by signs and gestures.  As formerly\nat Rome, Tarquin the Proud, its last king, sent an answer by signs to his\nson Sextus, who was among the Gabii at Gabii.  (Saying this, he pulled the\nstring of a little bell, and Friar John hurried away to the cook-room.)\nThe son having sent his father a messenger to know how he might bring the\nGabii under a close subjection, the king, mistrusting the messenger, made\nhim no answer, and only took him into his privy garden, and in his presence\nwith his sword lopped off the heads of the tall poppies that were there.\nThe express returned without any other despatch, yet having related to the\nprince what he had seen his father do, he easily understood that by those\nsigns he advised him to cut off the heads of the chief men in the town, the\nbetter to keep under the rest of the people.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel gave no answer to the problems.\n\nPantagruel then asked what sort of people dwelt in that damned island.\nThey are, answered Xenomanes, all hypocrites, holy mountebanks, tumblers of\nbeads, mumblers of ave-marias, spiritual comedians, sham saints, hermits,\nall of them poor rogues who, like the hermit of Lormont between Blaye and\nBordeaux, live wholly on alms given them by passengers.  Catch me there if\nyou can, cried Panurge; may the devil's head-cook conjure my bumgut into a\npair of bellows if ever you find me among them!  Hermits, sham saints,\nliving forms of mortification, holy mountebanks, avaunt! in the name of\nyour father Satan, get out of my sight!  When the devil's a hog, you shall\neat bacon.  I shall not forget yet awhile our fat Concilipetes of Chesil.\nO that Beelzebub and Astaroth had counselled them to hang themselves out of\nthe way, and they had done't! we had not then suffered so much by devilish\nstorms as we did for having seen 'em.  Hark ye me, dear rogue, Xenomanes,\nmy friend, I prithee are these hermits, hypocrites, and eavesdroppers maids\nor married?  Is there anything of the feminine gender among them?  Could a\nbody hypocritically take there a small hypocritical touch?  Will they lie\nbackwards, and let out their fore-rooms?  There's a fine question to be\nasked, cried Pantagruel.  Yes, yes, answered Xenomanes; you may find there\nmany goodly hypocritesses, jolly spiritual actresses, kind hermitesses,\nwomen that have a plaguy deal of religion; then there's the copies of 'em,\nlittle hypocritillons, sham sanctitos, and hermitillons.  Foh! away with\nthem, cried Friar John; a young saint, an old devil!  (Mark this, an old\nsaying, and as true a one as, a young whore, an old saint.)  Were there not\nsuch, continued Xenomanes, the isle of Chaneph, for want of a\nmultiplication of progeny, had long ere this been desert and desolate.\n\nPantagruel sent them by Gymnast in the pinnace seventy-eight thousand fine\npretty little gold half-crowns, of those that are marked with a lantern.\nAfter this he asked, What's o'clock?  Past nine, answered Epistemon.  It is\nthen the best time to go to dinner, said Pantagruel; for the sacred line so\ncelebrated by Aristophanes in his play called Concionatrices is at hand,\nnever failing when the shadow is decempedal.\n\nFormerly, among the Persians, dinner-time was at a set hour only for kings;\nas for all others, their appetite and their belly was their clock; when\nthat chimed, they thought it time to go to dinner.  So we find in Plautus a\ncertain parasite making a heavy do, and sadly railing at the inventors of\nhour-glasses and dials as being unnecessary things, there being no clock\nmore regular than the belly.\n\nDiogenes being asked at what times a man ought to eat, answered, The rich\nwhen he is hungry, the poor when he has anything to eat.  Physicians more\nproperly say that the canonical hours are,\n\n  To rise at five, to dine at nine,\n  To sup at five, to sleep at nine.\n\nThe famous king Petosiris's magic was different,--Here the officers for the\ngut came in, and got ready the tables and cupboards; laid the cloth, whose\nsight and pleasant smell were very comfortable; and brought plates,\nnapkins, salts, tankards, flagons, tall-boys, ewers, tumblers, cups,\ngoblets, basins, and cisterns.\n\nFriar John, at the head of the stewards, sewers, yeomen of the pantry, and\nof the mouth, tasters, carvers, cupbearers, and cupboard-keepers, brought\nfour stately pasties, so huge that they put me in mind of the four bastions\nat Turin.  Ods-fish, how manfully did they storm them!  What havoc did they\nmake with the long train of dishes that came after them!  How bravely did\nthey stand to their pan-puddings, and paid off their dust!  How merrily did\nthey soak their noses!\n\nThe fruit was not yet brought in, when a fresh gale at west and by north\nbegan to fill the main-course, mizen-sail, fore-sail, tops, and\ntop-gallants; for which blessing they all sung divers hymns of thanks and\npraise.\n\nWhen the fruit was on the table, Pantagruel asked, Now tell me, gentlemen,\nare your doubts fully resolved or no?  I gape and yawn no more, answered\nRhizotome.  I sleep no longer like a dog, said Ponocrates.  I have cleared\nmy eyesight, said Gymnast.  I have broke my fast, said Eusthenes; so that\nfor this whole day I shall be secure from the danger of my spittle.\n\nAsps.             Black wag leg-flies.  Domeses.\nAmphisbenes.      Spanish flies.        Dryinades.\nAnerudutes.       Catoblepes.           Dragons.\nAbedissimons.     Horned snakes.        Elopes.\nAlhartrafz.       Caterpillars.         Enhydrides.\nAmmobates.        Crocodiles.           Falvises.\nApimaos.          Toads.                Galeotes.\nAlhatrabans.      Nightmares.           Harmenes.\nAractes.          Mad dogs.             Handons.\nAsterions.        Colotes.              Icles.\nAlcharates.       Cychriodes.           Jarraries.\nArges.            Cafezates.            Ilicines.\nSpiders.          Cauhares.             Pharaoh's mice.\nStarry lizards.   Snakes.               Kesudures.\nAttelabes.        Cuhersks, two-        Sea-hares.\nAscalabotes.        tongued adders.     Chalcidic newts.\nHaemorrhoids.     Amphibious ser-       Footed serpents.\nBasilisks.          pents.              Manticores.\nFitches.          Cenchres.             Molures.\nSucking water-    Cockatrices.          Mouse-serpents.\n  snakes.         Dipsades.             Shrew-mice.\nMiliares.         Salamanders.          Stinkfish.\nMegalaunes.       Slowworms.            Stuphes.\nSpitting-asps.    Stellions.            Sabrins.\nPorphyri.         Scorpenes.            Blood-sucking flies.\nPareades.         Scorpions.            Hornfretters.\nPhalanges.        Hornworms.            Scolopendres.\nPenphredons.      Scalavotins.          Tarantulas.\nPinetree-worms.   Solofuidars.          Blind worms.\nRuteles.          Deaf-asps.            Tetragnathias.\nWorms.            Horseleeches.         Teristales.\nRhagions.         Salt-haters.          Vipers, &c.\nRhaganes.         Rot-serpents.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel passed the time with his servants.\n\nIn what hierarchy of such venomous creatures do you place Panurge's future\nspouse? asked Friar John.  Art thou speaking ill of women, cried Panurge,\nthou mangy scoundrel, thou sorry, noddy-peaked shaveling monk?  By the\ncenomanic paunch and gixy, said Epistemon, Euripides has written, and makes\nAndromache say it, that by industry, and the help of the gods, men had\nfound remedies against all poisonous creatures; but none was yet found\nagainst a bad wife.\n\nThis flaunting Euripides, cried Panurge, was gabbling against women every\nfoot, and therefore was devoured by dogs, as a judgment from above; as\nAristophanes observes.  Let's go on.  Let him speak that is next.  I can\nleak now like any stone-horse, said then Epistemon.  I am, said Xenomanes,\nfull as an egg and round as a hoop; my ship's hold can hold no more, and\nwill now make shift to bear a steady sail.  Said Carpalin, A truce with\nthirst, a truce with hunger; they are strong, but wine and meat are\nstronger.  I'm no more in the dumps cried Panurge; my heart's a pound\nlighter.  I'm in the right cue now, as brisk as a body-louse, and as merry\nas a beggar.  For my part, I know what I do when I drink; and it is a true\nthing (though 'tis in your Euripides) that is said by that jolly toper\nSilenus of blessed memory, that--\n\n  The man's emphatically mad,\n  Who drinks the best, yet can be sad.\n\nWe must not fail to return our humble and hearty thanks to the Being who,\nwith this good bread, this cool delicious wine, these good meats and rare\ndainties, removes from our bodies and minds these pains and perturbations,\nand at the same time fills us with pleasure and with food.\n\nBut methinks, sir, you did not give an answer to Friar John's question;\nwhich, as I take it, was how to raise good weather.  Since you ask no more\nthan this easy question, answered Pantagruel, I'll strive to give you\nsatisfaction; and some other time we'll talk of the rest of the problems,\nif you will.\n\nWell then, Friar John asked how good weather might be raised.  Have we not\nraised it?  Look up and see our full topsails.  Hark how the wind whistles\nthrough the shrouds, what a stiff gale it blows.  Observe the rattling of\nthe tacklings, and see the sheets that fasten the mainsail behind; the\nforce of the wind puts them upon the stretch.  While we passed our time\nmerrily, the dull weather also passed away; and while we raised the glasses\nto our mouths, we also raised the wind by a secret sympathy in nature.\n\nThus Atlas and Hercules clubbed to raise and underprop the falling sky, if\nyou'll believe the wise mythologists, but they raised it some half an inch\ntoo high, Atlas to entertain his guest Hercules more pleasantly, and\nHercules to make himself amends for the thirst which some time before had\ntormented him in the deserts of Africa.  Your good father, said Friar John,\ninterrupting him, takes care to free many people from such an\ninconveniency; for I have been told by many venerable doctors that his\nchief-butler, Turelupin, saves above eighteen hundred pipes of wine yearly\nto make servants, and all comers and goers, drink before they are a-dry.\nAs the camels and dromedaries of a caravan, continued Pantagruel, use to\ndrink for the thirst that's past, for the present, and for that to come, so\ndid Hercules; and being thus excessively raised, this gave new motion to\nthe sky, which is that of titubation and trepidation, about which our\ncrackbrained astrologers make such a pother.  This, said Panurge, makes the\nsaying good:\n\n  While jolly companions carouse it together,\n  A fig for the storm, it gives way to good weather.\n\nNay, continued Pantagruel, some will tell you that we have not only\nshortened the time of the calm, but also much disburthened the ship; not\nlike Aesop's basket, by easing it of the provision, but by breaking our\nfasts; and that a man is more terrestrial and heavy when fasting than when\nhe has eaten and drank, even as they pretend that he weighs more dead than\nliving.  However it is, you will grant they are in the right who take their\nmorning's draught and breakfast before a long journey; then say that the\nhorses will perform the better, and that a spur in the head is worth two in\nthe flank; or, in the same horse dialect--\n\n  That a cup in the pate\n  Is a mile in the gate.\n\nDon't you know that formerly the Amycleans worshipped the noble Bacchus\nabove all other gods, and gave him the name of Psila, which in the Doric\ndialect signifies wings; for, as the birds raise themselves by a towering\nflight with their wings above the clouds, so, with the help of soaring\nBacchus, the powerful juice of the grape, our spirits are exalted to a\npitch above themselves, our bodies are more sprightly, and their earthly\nparts become soft and pliant.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow, by Pantagruel's order, the Muses were saluted near the isle of\nGanabim.\n\nThis fair wind and as fine talk brought us in sight of a high land, which\nPantagruel discovering afar off, showed it Xenomanes, and asked him, Do you\nsee yonder to the leeward a high rock with two tops, much like Mount\nParnassus in Phocis?  I do plainly, answered Xenomanes; 'tis the isle of\nGanabim.  Have you a mind to go ashore there?  No, returned Pantagruel.\nYou do well, indeed, said Xenomanes; for there is nothing worth seeing in\nthe place.  The people are all thieves; yet there is the finest fountain in\nthe world, and a very large forest towards the right top of the mountain.\nYour fleet may take in wood and water there.\n\nHe that spoke last, spoke well, quoth Panurge; let us not by any means be\nso mad as to go among a parcel of thieves and sharpers.  You may take my\nword for't, this place is just such another as, to my knowledge, formerly\nwere the islands of Sark and Herm, between the smaller and the greater\nBritain; such as was the Poneropolis of Philip in Thrace; islands of\nthieves, banditti, picaroons, robbers, ruffians, and murderers, worse than\nraw-head and bloody-bones, and full as honest as the senior fellows of the\ncollege of iniquity, the very outcasts of the county gaol's common-side.\nAs you love yourself, do not go among 'em.  If you go you'll come off but\nbluely, if you come off at all.  If you will not believe me, at least\nbelieve what the good and wise Xenomanes tells you; for may I never stir if\nthey are not worse than the very cannibals; they would certainly eat us\nalive.  Do not go among 'em, I pray you; it were safer to take a journey to\nhell.  Hark! by Cod's body, I hear 'em ringing the alarm-bell most\ndreadfully, as the Gascons about Bordeaux used formerly to do against the\ncommissaries and officers for the tax on salt, or my ears tingle.  Let's\nsheer off.\n\nBelieve me, sir, said Friar John, let's rather land; we will rid the world\nof that vermin, and inn there for nothing.  Old Nick go with thee for me,\nquoth Panurge.  This rash hairbrained devil of a friar fears nothing, but\nventures and runs on like a mad devil as he is, and cares not a rush what\nbecomes of others; as if everyone was a monk, like his friarship.  A pox on\ngrinning honour, say I.  Go to, returned the friar, thou mangy noddy-peak!\nthou forlorn druggle-headed sneaksby! and may a million of black devils\nanatomize thy cockle brain.  The hen-hearted rascal is so cowardly that he\nberays himself for fear every day.  If thou art so afraid, dunghill, do not\ngo; stay here and be hanged; or go and hide thy loggerhead under Madam\nProserpine's petticoat.\n\nPanurge hearing this, his breech began to make buttons; so he slunk in in\nan instant, and went to hide his head down in the bread-room among the\nmusty biscuits and the orts and scraps of broken bread.\n\nPantagruel in the meantime said to the rest:  I feel a pressing retraction\nin my soul, which like a voice admonishes me not to land there.  Whenever I\nhave felt such a motion within me I have found myself happy in avoiding\nwhat it directed me to shun, or in undertaking what it prompted me to do;\nand I never had occasion to repent following its dictates.\n\nAs much, said Epistemon, is related of the daemon of Socrates, so\ncelebrated among the Academics.  Well then, sir, said Friar John, while the\nship's crew water have you a mind to have good sport?  Panurge is got down\nsomewhere in the hold, where he is crept into some corner, and lurks like a\nmouse in a cranny.  Let 'em give the word for the gunner to fire yon gun\nover the round-house on the poop; this will serve to salute the Muses of\nthis Anti-parnassus; besides, the powder does but decay in it.  You are in\nthe right, said Pantagruel; here, give the word for the gunner.\n\nThe gunner immediately came, and was ordered by Pantagruel to fire that\ngun, and then charge it with fresh powder, which was soon done.  The\ngunners of the other ships, frigates, galleons, and galleys of the fleet,\nhearing us fire, gave every one a gun to the island; which made such a\nhorrid noise that you would have sworn heaven had been tumbling about our\nears.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge berayed himself for fear; and of the huge cat Rodilardus, which\nhe took for a puny devil.\n\nPanurge, like a wild, addle-pated, giddy-goat, sallies out of the\nbread-room in his shirt, with nothing else about him but one of his\nstockings, half on, half off, about his heel, like a rough-footed pigeon;\nhis hair and beard all bepowdered with crumbs of bread in which he had been\nover head and ears, and a huge and mighty puss partly wrapped up in his\nother stocking.  In this equipage, his chaps moving like a monkey's who's\na-louse-hunting, his eyes staring like a dead pig's, his teeth chattering,\nand his bum quivering, the poor dog fled to Friar John, who was then sitting\nby the chain-wales of the starboard side of the ship, and prayed him\nheartily to take pity on him and keep him in the safeguard of his trusty\nbilbo; swearing, by his share of Papimany, that he had seen all hell broke\nloose.\n\nWoe is me, my Jacky, cried he, my dear Johnny, my old crony, my brother, my\nghostly father! all the devils keep holiday, all the devils keep their\nfeast to-day, man.  Pork and peas choke me if ever thou sawest such\npreparations in thy life for an infernal feast.  Dost thou see the smoke of\nhell's kitchens?  (This he said, showing him the smoke of the gunpowder\nabove the ships.)  Thou never sawest so many damned souls since thou wast\nborn; and so fair, so bewitching they seem, that one would swear they are\nStygian ambrosia.  I thought at first, God forgive me! that they had been\nEnglish souls; and I don't know but that this morning the isle of Horses,\nnear Scotland, was sacked, with all the English who had surprised it, by\nthe lords of Termes and Essay.\n\nFriar John, at the approach of Panurge, was entertained with a kind of\nsmell that was not like that of gunpowder, nor altogether so sweet as musk;\nwhich made him turn Panurge about, and then he saw that his shirt was\ndismally bepawed and berayed with fresh sir-reverence.  The retentive\nfaculty of the nerve which restrains the muscle called sphincter ('tis the\narse-hole, an it please you) was relaxated by the violence of the fear\nwhich he had been in during his fantastic visions.  Add to this the\nthundering noise of the shooting, which seems more dreadful between decks\nthan above.  Nor ought you to wonder at such a mishap; for one of the\nsymptoms and accidents of fear is, that it often opens the wicket of the\ncupboard wherein second-hand meat is kept for a time.  Let's illustrate\nthis noble theme with some examples.\n\nMesser Pantolfe de la Cassina of Siena, riding post from Rome, came to\nChambery, and alighting at honest Vinet's took one of the pitchforks in the\nstable; then turning to the innkeeper, said to him, Da Roma in qua io non\nson andato del corpo.  Di gratia piglia in mano questa forcha, et fa mi\npaura.  (I have not had a stool since I left Rome.  I pray thee take this\npitchfork and fright me.)  Vinet took it, and made several offers as if he\nwould in good earnest have hit the signor, but all in vain; so the Sienese\nsaid to him, Si tu non fai altramente, tu non fai nulla; pero sforzati di\nadoperarli piu guagliardamente.  (If thou dost not go another way to work,\nthou hadst as good do nothing; therefore try to bestir thyself more\nbriskly.)  With this, Vinet lent him such a swinging stoater with the\npitchfork souse between the neck and the collar of his jerkin, that down\nfell signor on the ground arsyversy, with his spindle shanks wide\nstraggling over his poll.  Then mine host sputtering, with a full-mouthed\nlaugh, said to his guest, By Beelzebub's bumgut, much good may it do you,\nSignore Italiano.  Take notice this is datum Camberiaci, given at Chambery.\n'Twas well the Sienese had untrussed his points and let down his drawers;\nfor this physic worked with him as soon as he took it, and as copious was\nthe evacuation as that of nine buffaloes and fourteen missificating\narch-lubbers.  Which operation being over, the mannerly Sienese courteously\ngave mine host a whole bushel of thanks, saying to him, Io ti ringratio, bel\nmessere; cosi facendo tu m' ai esparmiata la speza d'un servitiale.  (I\nthank thee, good landlord; by this thou hast e'en saved me the expense of a\nclyster.)\n\nI'll give you another example of Edward V., King of England.  Master\nFrancis Villon, being banished France, fled to him, and got so far into his\nfavour as to be privy to all his household affairs.  One day the king,\nbeing on his close-stool, showed Villon the arms of France, and said to\nhim, Dost thou see what respect I have for thy French kings?  I have none\nof their arms anywhere but in this backside, near my close-stool.\nOds-life, said the buffoon, how wise, prudent, and careful of your health\nyour highness is!  How carefully your learned doctor, Thomas Linacre, looks\nafter you!  He saw that now you grow old you are inclined to be somewhat\ncostive, and every day were fain to have an apothecary, I mean a suppository\nor clyster, thrust into your royal nockandroe; so he has, much to the\npurpose, induced you to place here the arms of France; for the very sight of\nthem puts you into such a dreadful fright that you immediately let fly as\nmuch as would come from eighteen squattering bonasi of Paeonia.  And if they\nwere painted in other parts of your house, by jingo, you would presently\nconskite yourself wherever you saw them.  Nay, had you but here a picture of\nthe great oriflamme of France, ods-bodikins, your tripes and bowels would be\nin no small danger of dropping out at the orifice of your posteriors.  But\nhenh, henh, atque iterum henh.\n\n  A silly cockney am I not,\n    As ever did from Paris come?\n  And with a rope and sliding knot\n    My neck shall know what weighs my bum.\n\nA cockney of short reach, I say, shallow of judgment and judging shallowly,\nto wonder that you should cause your points to be untrussed in your chamber\nbefore you come into this closet.  By'r lady, at first I thought your\nclose-stool had stood behind the hangings of your bed; otherwise it seemed\nvery odd to me you should untruss so far from the place of evacuation.  But\nnow I find I was a gull, a wittol, a woodcock, a mere ninny, a dolt-head, a\nnoddy, a changeling, a calf-lolly, a doddipoll.  You do wisely, by the\nmass, you do wisely; for had you not been ready to clap your hind face on\nthe mustard-pot as soon as you came within sight of these arms--mark ye me,\ncop's body--the bottom of your breeches had supplied the office of a\nclose-stool.\n\nFriar John, stopping the handle of his face with his left hand, did, with\nthe forefinger of the right, point out Panurge's shirt to Pantagruel, who,\nseeing him in this pickle, scared, appalled, shivering, raving, staring,\nberayed, and torn with the claws of the famous cat Rodilardus, could not\nchoose but laugh, and said to him, Prithee what wouldst thou do with this\ncat?  With this cat? quoth Panurge; the devil scratch me if I did not think\nit had been a young soft-chinned devil, which, with this same stocking\ninstead of mitten, I had snatched up in the great hutch of hell as\nthievishly as any sizar of Montague college could have done.  The devil\ntake Tybert!  I feel it has all bepinked my poor hide, and drawn on it to\nthe life I don't know how many lobsters' whiskers.  With this he threw his\nboar-cat down.\n\nGo, go, said Pantagruel, be bathed and cleaned, calm your fears, put on a\nclean shift, and then your clothes.  What! do you think I am afraid? cried\nPanurge.  Not I, I protest.  By the testicles of Hercules, I am more\nhearty, bold, and stout, though I say it that should not, than if I had\nswallowed as many flies as are put into plumcakes and other paste at Paris\nfrom Midsummer to Christmas.  But what's this?  Hah! oh, ho! how the devil\ncame I by this?  Do you call this what the cat left in the malt, filth,\ndirt, dung, dejection, faecal matter, excrement, stercoration,\nsir-reverence, ordure, second-hand meats, fumets, stronts, scybal, or\nspyrathe? 'Tis Hibernian saffron, I protest.  Hah, hah, hah! 'tis Irish\nsaffron, by Shaint Pautrick, and so much for this time.  Selah.  Let's\ndrink.\n\n\n\n\nIndefatigable topers, and you, thrice precious martyrs of the smock, give\nme leave to put a serious question to your worships while you are idly\nstriking your codpieces, and I myself not much better employed.  Pray, why\nis it that people say that men are not such sots nowadays as they were in\nthe days of yore?  Sot is an old word that signifies a dunce, dullard,\njolthead, gull, wittol, or noddy, one without guts in his brains, whose\ncockloft is unfurnished, and, in short, a fool.  Now would I know whether\nyou would have us understand by this same saying, as indeed you logically\nmay, that formerly men were fools and in this generation are grown wise?\nHow many and what dispositions made them fools?  How many and what\ndispositions were wanting to make 'em wise?  Why were they fools?  How\nshould they be wise?  Pray, how came you to know that men were formerly\nfools?  How did you find that they are now wise?  Who the devil made 'em\nfools?  Who a God's name made 'em wise?  Who d'ye think are most, those\nthat loved mankind foolish, or those that love it wise?  How long has it\nbeen wise?  How long otherwise?  Whence proceeded the foregoing folly?\nWhence the following wisdom?  Why did the old folly end now, and no later?\nWhy did the modern wisdom begin now, and no sooner?  What were we the worse\nfor the former folly?  What the better for the succeeding wisdom?  How\nshould the ancient folly be come to nothing?  How should this same new\nwisdom be started up and established?\n\nNow answer me, an't please you.  I dare not adjure you in stronger terms,\nreverend sirs, lest I make your pious fatherly worships in the least\nuneasy.  Come, pluck up a good heart; speak the truth and shame the devil.\nBe cheery, my lads; and if you are for me, take me off three or five\nbumpers of the best, while I make a halt at the first part of the sermon;\nthen answer my question.  If you are not for me, avaunt! avoid, Satan!  For\nI swear by my great-grandmother's placket (and that's a horrid oath), that\nif you don't help me to solve that puzzling problem, I will, nay, I already\ndo repent having proposed it; for still I must remain nettled and\ngravelled, and a devil a bit I know how to get off.  Well, what say you?\nI'faith, I begin to smell you out.  You are not yet disposed to give me an\nanswer; nor I neither, by these whiskers.  Yet to give some light into the\nbusiness, I'll e'en tell you what had been anciently foretold in the matter\nby a venerable doctor, who, being moved by the spirit in a prophetic vein,\nwrote a book ycleped the Prelatical Bagpipe.  What d'ye think the old\nfornicator saith?  Hearken, you old noddies, hearken now or never.\n\n  The jubilee's year, when all like fools were shorn,\n  Is about thirty supernumerary.\n  O want of veneration! fools they seemed,\n  But, persevering, with long breves, at last\n  No more they shall be gaping greedy fools.\n  For they shall shell the shrub's delicious fruit,\n  Whose flower they in the spring so much had feared.\n\nNow you have it, what do you make on't?  The seer is ancient, the style\nlaconic, the sentences dark like those of Scotus, though they treat of\nmatters dark enough in themselves.  The best commentators on that good\nfather take the jubilee after the thirtieth to be the years that are\nincluded in this present age till 1550 (there being but one jubilee every\nfifty years).  Men shall no longer be thought fools next green peas season.\n\nThe fools, whose number, as Solomon certifies, is infinite, shall go to pot\nlike a parcel of mad bedlamites as they are; and all manner of folly shall\nhave an end, that being also numberless, according to Avicenna, maniae\ninfinitae sunt species.  Having been driven back and hidden towards the\ncentre during the rigour of the winter, 'tis now to be seen on the surface,\nand buds out like the trees.  This is as plain as a nose in a man's face;\nyou know it by experience; you see it.  And it was formerly found out by\nthat great good man Hippocrates, Aphorism Verae etenim maniae, &c.  This\nworld therefore wisifying itself, shall no longer dread the flower and\nblossoms of every coming spring, that is, as you may piously believe,\nbumper in hand and tears in eyes, in the woeful time of Lent, which used to\nkeep them company.\n\nWhole cartloads of books that seemed florid, flourishing, and flowery, gay,\nand gaudy as so many butterflies, but in the main were tiresome, dull,\nsoporiferous, irksome, mischievous, crabbed, knotty, puzzling, and dark as\nthose of whining Heraclitus, as unintelligible as the numbers of\nPythagoras, that king of the bean, according to Horace; those books, I say,\nhave seen their best days and shall soon come to nothing, being delivered\nto the executing worms and merciless petty chandlers; such was their\ndestiny, and to this they were predestinated.\n\nIn their stead beans in cod are started up; that is, these merry and\nfructifying Pantagruelian books, so much sought nowadays in expectation of\nthe following jubilee's period; to the study of which writings all people\nhave given their minds, and accordingly have gained the name of wise.\n\nNow I think I have fairly solved and resolved your problem; then reform,\nand be the better for it.  Hem once or twice like hearts of oak; stand to\nyour pan-puddings, and take me off your bumpers, nine go-downs, and huzza!\nsince we are like to have a good vintage, and misers hang themselves.  Oh!\nthey will cost me an estate in hempen collars if fair weather hold.  For I\nhereby promise to furnish them with twice as much as will do their business\non free cost, as often as they will take the pains to dance at a rope's end\nprovidently to save charges, to the no small disappointment of the finisher\nof the law.\n\nNow, my friends, that you may put in for a share of this new wisdom, and\nshake off the antiquated folly this very moment, scratch me out of your\nscrolls and quite discard the symbol of the old philosopher with the golden\nthigh, by which he has forbidden you to eat beans; for you may take it for\na truth granted among all professors in the science of good eating, that he\nenjoined you not to taste of them only with the same kind intent that a\ncertain fresh-water physician had when he did forbid to Amer, late Lord of\nCamelotiere, kinsman to the lawyer of that name, the wing of the partridge,\nthe rump of the chicken, and the neck of the pigeon, saying, Ala mala,\nrumpum dubium, collum bonum, pelle remota.  For the duncical dog-leech was\nso selfish as to reserve them for his own dainty chops, and allowed his\npoor patients little more than the bare bones to pick, lest they should\noverload their squeamish stomachs.\n\nTo the heathen philosopher succeeded a pack of Capuchins, monks who forbid\nus the use of beans, that is, Pantagruelian books.  They seem to follow the\nexample of Philoxenus and Gnatho, one of whom was a Sicilian of fulsome\nmemory, the ancient master-builders of their monastic cram-gut\nvoluptuousness, who, when some dainty bit was served up at a feast,\nfilthily used to spit on it, that none but their nasty selves might have\nthe stomach to eat of it, though their liquorish chops watered never so\nmuch after it.\n\nSo those hideous, snotty, phthisicky, eaves-dropping, musty, moving forms\nof mortification, both in public and private, curse those dainty books, and\nlike toads spit their venom upon them.\n\nNow, though we have in our mother-tongue several excellent works in verse\nand prose, and, heaven be praised! but little left of the trash and\ntrumpery stuff of those duncical mumblers of ave-maries and the barbarous\nforegoing Gothic age, I have made bold to choose to chirrup and warble my\nplain ditty, or, as they say, to whistle like a goose among the swans,\nrather than be thought deaf among so many pretty poets and eloquent\norators.  And thus I am prouder of acting the clown, or any other\nunder-part, among the many ingenious actors in that noble play, than of\nherding among those mutes, who, like so many shadows and ciphers, only serve\nto fill up the house and make up a number, gaping and yawning at the flies,\nand pricking up their lugs, like so many Arcadian asses, at the striking up\nof the music; thus silently giving to understand that their fopships are\ntickled in the right place.\n\nHaving taken this resolution, I thought it would not be amiss to move my\nDiogenical tub, that you might not accuse me of living without example.  I\nsee a swarm of our modern poets and orators, your Colinets, Marots,\nDrouets, Saint Gelais, Salels, Masuels, and many more, who, having\ncommenced masters in Apollo's academy on Mount Parnassus, and drunk\nbrimmers at the Caballin fountain among the nine merry Muses, have raised\nour vulgar tongue, and made it a noble and everlasting structure.  Their\nworks are all Parian marble, alabaster, porphyry, and royal cement; they\ntreat of nothing but heroic deeds, mighty things, grave and difficult\nmatters, and this in a crimson, alamode, rhetorical style.  Their writings\nare all divine nectar, rich, racy, sparkling, delicate, and luscious wine.\nNor does our sex wholly engross this honour; ladies have had their share of\nthe glory; one of them, of the royal blood of France, whom it were a\nprofanation but to name here, surprises the age at once by the transcendent\nand inventive genius in her writings and the admirable graces of her style.\nImitate those great examples if you can; for my part I cannot.  Everyone,\nyou know, cannot go to Corinth.  When Solomon built the temple, all could\nnot give gold by handfuls.\n\nSince then 'tis not in my power to improve our architecture as much as\nthey, I am e'en resolved to do like Renault of Montauban:  I'll wait on the\nmasons, set on the pot for the masons, cook for the stone-cutters; and\nsince it was not my good luck to be cut out for one of them, I will live\nand die the admirer of their divine writings.\n\nAs for you, little envious prigs, snarling bastards, puny critics, you'll\nsoon have railed your last; go hang yourselves, and choose you out some\nwell-spread oak, under whose shade you may swing in state, to the\nadmiration of the gaping mob; you shall never want rope enough.  While I\nhere solemnly protest before my Helicon, in the presence of my nine\nmistresses the Muses, that if I live yet the age of a dog, eked out with\nthat of three crows, sound wind and limbs, like the old Hebrew captain\nMoses, Xenophilus the musician, and Demonax the philosopher, by arguments\nno ways impertinent, and reasons not to be disputed, I will prove, in the\nteeth of a parcel of brokers and retailers of ancient rhapsodies and such\nmouldy trash, that our vulgar tongue is not so mean, silly, inept, poor,\nbarren, and contemptible as they pretend.  Nor ought I to be afraid of I\nknow not what botchers of old threadbare stuff, a hundred and a hundred\ntimes clouted up and pieced together; wretched bunglers that can do nothing\nbut new-vamp old rusty saws; beggarly scavengers that rake even the\nmuddiest canals of antiquity for scraps and bits of Latin as insignificant\nas they are often uncertain.  Beseeching our grandees of Witland that, as\nwhen formerly Apollo had distributed all the treasures of his poetical\nexchequer to his favourites, little hulchbacked Aesop got for himself the\noffice of apologue-monger; in the same manner, since I do not aspire\nhigher, they would not deny me that of puny rhyparographer, or riffraff\nfollower of the sect of Pyreicus.\n\nI dare swear they will grant me this; for they are all so kind, so\ngood-natured, and so generous, that they'll ne'er boggle at so small a\nrequest. Therefore, both dry and hungry souls, pot and trenchermen, fully\nenjoying those books, perusing, quoting them in their merry conventicles,\nand observing the great mysteries of which they treat, shall gain a singular\nprofit and fame; as in the like case was done by Alexander the Great with\nthe books of prime philosophy composed by Aristotle.\n\nO rare! belly on belly! what swillers, what twisters will there be!\n\nThen be sure all you that take care not to die of the pip, be sure, I say,\nyou take my advice, and stock yourselves with good store of such books as\nsoon as you meet with them at the booksellers; and do not only shell those\nbeans, but e'en swallow them down like an opiate cordial, and let them be\nin you; I say, let them be within you; then you shall find, my beloved,\nwhat good they do to all clever shellers of beans.\n\nHere is a good handsome basketful of them, which I here lay before your\nworships; they were gathered in the very individual garden whence the\nformer came.  So I beseech you, reverend sirs, with as much respect as was\never paid by dedicating author, to accept of the gift, in hopes of somewhat\nbetter against next visit the swallows give us.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel arrived at the Ringing Island, and of the noise that we\nheard.\n\nPursuing our voyage, we sailed three days without discovering anything; on\nthe fourth we made land.  Our pilot told us that it was the Ringing Island,\nand indeed we heard a kind of a confused and often repeated noise, that\nseemed to us at a great distance not unlike the sound of great,\nmiddle-sized, and little bells rung all at once, as 'tis customary at Paris,\nTours, Gergeau, Nantes, and elsewhere on high holidays; and the nearer we\ncame to the land the louder we heard that jangling.\n\nSome of us doubted that it was the Dodonian kettle, or the portico called\nHeptaphone in Olympia, or the eternal humming of the colossus raised on\nMemnon's tomb in Thebes of Egypt, or the horrid din that used formerly to\nbe heard about a tomb at Lipara, one of the Aeolian islands.  But this did\nnot square with chorography.\n\nI do not know, said Pantagruel, but that some swarms of bees hereabouts may\nbe taking a ramble in the air, and so the neighbourhood make this\ndingle-dangle with pans, kettles, and basins, the corybantine cymbals of\nCybele, grandmother of the gods, to call them back.  Let's hearken.  When we\nwere nearer, among the everlasting ringing of these indefatigable bells we\nheard the singing, as we thought, of some men.  For this reason, before we\noffered to land on the Ringing Island, Pantagruel was of opinion that we\nshould go in the pinnace to a small rock, near which we discovered an\nhermitage and a little garden.  There we found a diminutive old hermit,\nwhose name was Braguibus, born at Glenay.  He gave us a full account of all\nthe jangling, and regaled us after a strange sort of fashion--four livelong\ndays did he make us fast, assuring us that we should not be admitted into\nthe Ringing Island otherwise, because it was then one of the four fasting,\nor ember weeks.  As I love my belly, quoth Panurge, I by no means understand\nthis riddle.  Methinks this should rather be one of the four windy weeks;\nfor while we fast we are only puffed up with wind.  Pray now, good father\nhermit, have not you here some other pastime besides fasting? Methinks it is\nsomewhat of the leanest; we might well enough be without so many palace\nholidays and those fasting times of yours.  In my Donatus, quoth Friar John,\nI could find yet but three times or tenses, the preterit, the present, and\nthe future; doubtless here the fourth ought to be a work of supererogation.\nThat time or tense, said Epistemon, is aorist, derived from the\npreter-imperfect tense of the Greeks, admitted in war (?) and odd cases.\nPatience perforce is a remedy for a mad dog.  Saith the hermit:  It is, as I\ntold you, fatal to go against this; whosoever does it is a rank heretic, and\nwants nothing but fire and faggot, that's certain.  To deal plainly with\nyou, my dear pater, cried Panurge, being at sea, I much more fear being wet\nthan being warm, and being drowned than being burned.\n\nWell, however, let us fast, a God's name; yet I have fasted so long that it\nhas quite undermined my flesh, and I fear that at last the bastions of this\nbodily fort of mine will fall to ruin.  Besides, I am much more afraid of\nvexing you in this same trade of fasting; for the devil a bit I understand\nanything in it, and it becomes me very scurvily, as several people have\ntold me, and I am apt to believe them.  For my part, I have no great\nstomach to fasting; for alas! it is as easy as pissing a bed, and a trade\nof which anybody may set up; there needs no tools.  I am much more inclined\nnot to fast for the future; for to do so there is some stock required, and\nsome tools are set a-work.  No matter, since you are so steadfast, and\nwould have us fast, let us fast as fast as we can, and then breakfast in\nthe name of famine.  Now we are come to these esurial idle days.  I vow I\nhad quite put them out of my head long ago.  If we must fast, said\nPantagruel, I see no other remedy but to get rid of it as soon as we can,\nas we would out of a bad way.  I'll in that space of time somewhat look\nover my papers, and examine whether the marine study be as good as ours at\nland.  For Plato, to describe a silly, raw, ignorant fellow, compares him\nto those that are bred on shipboard, as we would do one bred up in a\nbarrel, who never saw anything but through the bung-hole.\n\nTo tell you the short and the long of the matter, our fasting was most\nhideous and terrible; for the first day we fasted on fisticuffs, the second\nat cudgels, the third at sharps, and the fourth at blood and wounds:  such\nwas the order of the fairies.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Ringing Island had been inhabited by the Siticines, who were become\nbirds.\n\nHaving fasted as aforesaid, the hermit gave us a letter for one whom he\ncalled Albian Camar, Master Aedituus of the Ringing Island; but Panurge\ngreeting him called him Master Antitus.  He was a little queer old fellow,\nbald-pated, with a snout whereat you might easily have lighted a\ncard-match, and a phiz as red as a cardinal's cap.  He made us all very\nwelcome, upon the hermit's recommendation, hearing that we had fasted, as I\nhave told you.\n\nWhen we had well stuffed our puddings, he gave us an account of what was\nremarkable in the island, affirming that it had been at first inhabited by\nthe Siticines; but that, according to the course of nature--as all things,\nyou know, are subject to change--they were become birds.\n\nThere I had a full account of all that Atteius Capito, Paulus, Marcellus,\nA. Gellius, Athenaeus, Suidas, Ammonius, and others had writ of the\nSiticines and Sicinnists; and then we thought we might as easily believe\nthe transmutations of Nectymene, Progne, Itys, Alcyone, Antigone, Tereus,\nand other birds.  Nor did we think it more reasonable to doubt of the\ntransmogrification of the Macrobian children into swans, or that of the men\nof Pallene in Thrace into birds, as soon as they had bathed themselves in\nthe Tritonic lake.  After this the devil a word could we get out of him but\nof birds and cages.\n\nThe cages were spacious, costly, magnificent, and of an admirable\narchitecture.  The birds were large, fine, and neat accordingly, looking as\nlike the men in my country as one pea does like another; for they ate and\ndrank like men, muted like men, endued or digested like men, farted like\nmen, but stunk like devils; slept, billed, and trod their females like men,\nbut somewhat oftener:  in short, had you seen and examined them from top to\ntoe, you would have laid your head to a turnip that they had been mere men.\nHowever, they were nothing less, as Master Aedituus told us; assuring us,\nat the same time, that they were neither secular nor laic; and the truth\nis, the diversity of their feathers and plumes did not a little puzzle us.\n\nSome of them were all over as white as swans, others as black as crows,\nmany as grey as owls, others black and white like magpies, some all red\nlike red-birds, and others purple and white like some pigeons.  He called\nthe males clerg-hawks, monk-hawks, priest-hawks, abbot-hawks, bish-hawks,\ncardin-hawks, and one pope-hawk, who is a species by himself.  He called\nthe females clerg-kites, nun-kites, priest-kites, abbess-kites, bish-kites,\ncardin-kites, and pope-kites.\n\nHowever, said he, as hornets and drones will get among the bees, and there\ndo nothing but buzz, eat, and spoil everything; so, for these last three\nhundred years, a vast swarm of bigottelloes flocked, I do not know how,\namong these goodly birds every fifth full moon, and have bemuted, berayed,\nand conskited the whole island.  They are so hard-favoured and monstrous\nthat none can abide them.  For their wry necks make a figure like a crooked\nbillet; their paws are hairy, like those of rough-footed pigeons; their\nclaws and pounces, belly and breech, like those of the Stymphalid harpies.\nNor is it possible to root them out, for if you get rid of one, straight\nfour-and-twenty new ones fly thither.\n\nThere had been need of another monster-hunter such as was Hercules; for\nFriar John had like to have run distracted about it, so much he was nettled\nand puzzled in the matter.  As for the good Pantagruel, he was even served\nas was Messer Priapus, contemplating the sacrifices of Ceres, for want of\nskin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow there is but one pope-hawk in the Ringing Island.\n\nWe then asked Master Aedituus why there was but one pope-hawk among such\nvenerable birds multiplied in all their species.  He answered that such was\nthe first institution and fatal destiny of the stars that the clerg-hawks\nbegot the priest-hawks and monk-hawks without carnal copulation, as some\nbees are born of a young bull; the priest-hawks begat the bish-hawks, the\nbish-hawks the stately cardin-hawks, and the stately cardin-hawks, if they\nlive long enough, at last come to be pope-hawk.\n\nOf this last kind there never is more than one at a time, as in a beehive\nthere is but one king, and in the world is but one sun.\n\nWhen the pope-hawk dies, another arises in his stead out of the whole brood\nof cardin-hawks, that is, as you must understand it all along, without\ncarnal copulation.  So that there is in that species an individual unity,\nwith a perpetuity of succession, neither more or less than in the Arabian\nphoenix.\n\n'Tis true that, about two thousand seven hundred and sixty moons ago, two\npope-hawks were seen upon the face of the earth; but then you never saw in\nyour lives such a woeful rout and hurly-burly as was all over this island.\nFor all these same birds did so peck, clapperclaw, and maul one another all\nthat time, that there was the devil and all to do, and the island was in a\nfair way of being left without inhabitants.  Some stood up for this\npope-hawk, some for t'other.  Some, struck with a dumbness, were as mute as\nso many fishes; the devil a note was to be got out of them; part of the\nmerry bells here were as silent as if they had lost their tongues, I mean\ntheir clappers.\n\nDuring these troublesome times they called to their assistance the\nemperors, kings, dukes, earls, barons, and commonwealths of the world that\nlive on t'other side the water; nor was this schism and sedition at an end\ntill one of them died, and the plurality was reduced to a unity.\n\nWe then asked what moved those birds to be thus continually chanting and\nsinging.  He answered that it was the bells that hung on the top of their\ncages.  Then he said to us, Will you have me make these monk-hawks whom you\nsee bardocuculated with a bag such as you use to still brandy, sing like\nany woodlarks?  Pray do, said we.  He then gave half-a-dozen pulls to a\nlittle rope, which caused a diminutive bell to give so many ting-tangs; and\npresently a parcel of monk-hawks ran to him as if the devil had drove 'em,\nand fell a-singing like mad.\n\nPray, master, cried Panurge, if I also rang this bell could I make those\nother birds yonder, with red-herring-coloured feathers, sing?  Ay, marry\nwould you, returned Aedituus.  With this Panurge hanged himself (by the\nhands, I mean) at the bell-rope's end, and no sooner made it speak but\nthose smoked birds hied them thither and began to lift up their voices and\nmake a sort of untowardly hoarse noise, which I grudge to call singing.\nAedituus indeed told us that they fed on nothing but fish, like the herns\nand cormorants of the world, and that they were a fifth kind of cucullati\nnewly stamped.\n\nHe added that he had been told by Robert Valbringue, who lately passed that\nway in his return from Africa, that a sixth kind was to fly hither out of\nhand, which he called capus-hawks, more grum, vinegar-faced, brain-sick,\nfroward, and loathsome than any kind whatsoever in the whole island.\nAfrica, said Pantagruel, still uses to produce some new and monstrous\nthing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the birds of the Ringing Island were all passengers.\n\nSince you have told us, said Pantagruel, how the pope-hawk is begot by the\ncardin-hawks, the cardin-hawks by the bish-hawks, and the bish-hawks by the\npriest-hawks, and the priest-hawks by the clerg-hawks, I would gladly know\nwhence you have these same clerg-hawks.  They are all of them passengers,\nor travelling birds, returned Aedituus, and come hither from t'other world;\npart out of a vast country called Want-o'-bread, the rest out of another\ntoward the west, which they style Too-many-of-'em.  From these two\ncountries flock hither, every year, whole legions of these clerg-hawks,\nleaving their fathers, mothers, friends, and relations.\n\nThis happens when there are too many children, whether male or female, in\nsome good family of the latter country; insomuch that the house would come\nto nothing if the paternal estate were shared among them all (as reason\nrequires, nature directs, and God commands).  For this cause parents use to\nrid themselves of that inconveniency by packing off the younger fry, and\nforcing them to seek their fortune in this isle Bossart (Crooked Island).\nI suppose he means L'Isle Bouchart, near Chinon, cried Panurge.  No,\nreplied t'other, I mean Bossart (Crooked), for there is not one in ten\namong them but is either crooked, crippled, blinking, limping,\nill-favoured, deformed, or an unprofitable load to the earth.\n\n'Twas quite otherwise among the heathens, said Pantagruel, when they used\nto receive a maiden among the number of vestals; for Leo Antistius affirms\nthat it was absolutely forbidden to admit a virgin into that order if she\nhad any vice in her soul or defect in her body, though it were but the\nsmallest spot on any part of it.  I can hardly believe, continued Aedituus,\nthat their dams on t'other side the water go nine months with them; for\nthey cannot endure them nine years, nay, scarce seven sometimes, in the\nhouse, but by putting only a shirt over the other clothes of the young\nurchins, and lopping off I don't well know how many hairs from their\ncrowns, mumbling certain apostrophized and expiatory words, they visibly,\nopenly, and plainly, by a Pythagorical metempsychosis, without the least\nhurt, transmogrify them into such birds as you now see; much after the\nfashion of the Egyptian heathens, who used to constitute their isiacs by\nshaving them and making them put on certain linostoles, or surplices.\nHowever, I don't know, my good friends, but that these she-things, whether\nclerg-kites, monk-kites, and abbess-kites, instead of singing pleasant\nverses and charisteres, such as used to be sung to Oromasis by Zoroaster's\ninstitution, may be bellowing out such catarates and scythropys (cursed\nlamentable and wretched imprecations) as were usually offered to the\nArimanian demon; being thus in devotion for their kind friends and\nrelations that transformed them into birds, whether when they were maids,\nor thornbacks, in their prime, or at their last prayers.\n\nBut the greatest numbers of our birds came out of Want-o'-bread, which,\nthough a barren country, where the days are of a most tedious lingering\nlength, overstocks this whole island with the lower class of birds.  For\nhither fly the asapheis that inhabit that land, either when they are in\ndanger of passing their time scurvily for want of belly-timber, being\nunable, or, what's more likely, unwilling to take heart of grace and follow\nsome honest lawful calling, or too proud-hearted and lazy to go to service\nin some sober family.  The same is done by your frantic inamoradoes, who,\nwhen crossed in their wild desires, grow stark staring mad, and choose this\nlife suggested to them by their despair, too cowardly to make them swing,\nlike their brother Iphis of doleful memory.  There is another sort, that\nis, your gaol-birds, who, having done some rogue's trick or other heinous\nvillainy, and being sought up and down to be trussed up and made to ride\nthe two or three-legged mare that groans for them, warily scour off and\ncome here to save their bacon; because all these sorts of birds are here\nprovided for, and grow in an instant as fat as hogs, though they came as\nlean as rakes; for having the benefit of the clergy, they are as safe as\nthieves in a mill within this sanctuary.\n\nBut, asked Pantagruel, do these birds never return to the world where they\nwere hatched?  Some do, answered Aedituus; formerly very few, very seldom,\nvery late, and very unwillingly; however, since some certain eclipses, by\nthe virtue of the celestial constellations, a great crowd of them fled back\nto the world.  Nor do we fret or vex ourselves a jot about it; for those\nthat stay wisely sing, The fewer the better cheer; and all those that fly\naway, first cast off their feathers here among these nettles and briars.\n\nAccordingly we found some thrown by there; and as we looked up and down, we\nchanced to light on what some people will hardly thank us for having\ndiscovered; and thereby hangs a tale.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOf the dumb Knight-hawks of the Ringing Island.\n\nThese words were scarce out of his mouth when some five-and-twenty or\nthirty birds flew towards us; they were of a hue and feather like which we\nhad not seen anything in the whole island.  Their plumes were as changeable\nas the skin of the chameleon, and the flower of tripolion, or teucrion.\nThey had all under the left wing a mark like two diameters dividing a\ncircle into equal parts, or, if you had rather have it so, like a\nperpendicular line falling on a right line.  The marks which each of them\nbore were much of the same shape, but of different colours; for some were\nwhite, others green, some red, others purple, and some blue.  Who are\nthose? asked Panurge; and how do you call them?  They are mongrels, quoth\nAedituus.\n\nWe call them knight-hawks, and they have a great number of rich\ncommanderies (fat livings) in your world.  Good your worship, said I, make\nthem give us a song, an't please you, that we may know how they sing.  They\nscorn your words, cried Aedituus; they are none of your singing-birds; but,\nto make amends, they feed as much as the best two of them all.  Pray where\nare their hens? where are their females? said I.  They have none, answered\nAedituus.  How comes it to pass then, asked Panurge, that they are thus\nbescabbed, bescurfed, all embroidered o'er the phiz with carbuncles,\npushes, and pock-royals, some of which undermine the handles of their\nfaces?  This same fashionable and illustrious disease, quoth Aedituus, is\ncommon among that kind of birds, because they are pretty apt to be tossed\non the salt deep.\n\nHe then acquainted us with the occasion of their coming.  This next to us,\nsaid he, looks so wistfully upon you to see whether he may not find among\nyour company a stately gaudy kind of huge dreadful birds of prey, which yet\nare so untoward that they ne'er could be brought to the lure nor to perch\non the glove.  They tell us that there are such in your world, and that\nsome of them have goodly garters below the knee with an inscription about\nthem which condemns him (qui mal y pense) who shall think ill of it to be\nberayed and conskited.  Others are said to wear the devil in a string\nbefore their paunches; and others a ram's skin.  All that's true enough,\ngood Master Aedituus, quoth Panurge; but we have not the honour to be\nacquainted with their knightships.\n\nCome on, cried Aedituus in a merry mood, we have had chat enough o'\nconscience! let's e'en go drink.  And eat, quoth Panurge.  Eat, replied\nAedituus, and drink bravely, old boy; twist like plough-jobbers and swill\nlike tinkers.  Pull away and save tide, for nothing is so dear and precious\nas time; therefore we will be sure to put it to a good use.\n\nHe would fain have carried us first to bathe in the bagnios of the\ncardin-hawks, which are goodly delicious places, and have us licked over\nwith precious ointments by the alyptes, alias rubbers, as soon as we should\ncome out of the bath.  But Pantagruel told him that he could drink but too\nmuch without that.  He then led us into a spacious delicate refectory, or\nfratery-room, and told us:  Braguibus the hermit made you fast four days\ntogether; now, contrariwise, I'll make you eat and drink of the best four\ndays through stitch before you budge from this place.  But hark ye me, cried\nPanurge, may not we take a nap in the mean time?  Ay, ay, answered Aedituus;\nthat is as you shall think good; for he that sleeps, drinks. Good Lord! how\nwe lived! what good bub! what dainty cheer!  O what a honest cod was this\nsame Aedituus!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the birds are crammed in the Ringing Island.\n\nPantagruel looked I don't know howish, and seemed not very well pleased\nwith the four days' junketting which Aedituus enjoined us.  Aedituus, who\nsoon found it out, said to him, You know, sir, that seven days before\nwinter, and seven days after, there is no storm at sea; for then the\nelements are still out of respect for the halcyons, or king-fishers, birds\nsacred to Thetis, which then lay their eggs and hatch their young near the\nshore.  Now here the sea makes itself amends for this long calm; and\nwhenever any foreigners come hither it grows boisterous and stormy for four\ndays together.  We can give no other reason for it but that it is a piece\nof its civility, that those who come among us may stay whether they will or\nno, and be copiously feasted all the while with the incomes of the ringing.\nTherefore pray don't think your time lost; for, willing, nilling, you'll be\nforced to stay, unless you are resolved to encounter Juno, Neptune, Doris,\nAeolus, and his fluster-busters, and, in short, all the pack of ill-natured\nleft-handed godlings and vejoves.  Do but resolve to be cheery, and fall-to\nbriskly.\n\nAfter we had pretty well stayed our stomachs with some tight snatches,\nFriar John said to Aedituus, For aught I see, you have none but a parcel of\nbirds and cages in this island of yours, and the devil a bit of one of them\nall that sets his hand to the plough, or tills the land whose fat he\ndevours; their whole business is to be frolic, to chirp it, to whistle it,\nto warble it, tossing it, and roar it merrily night and day.  Pray then, if\nI may be so bold, whence comes this plenty and overflowing of all dainty\nbits and good things which we see among you?  From all the other world,\nreturned Aedituus, if you except some part of the northern regions, who of\nlate years have stirred up the jakes.  Mum! they may chance ere long to rue\nthe day they did so; their cows shall have porridge, and their dogs oats;\nthere will be work made among them, that there will.  Come, a fig for't,\nlet's drink.  But pray what countrymen are you?  Touraine is our country,\nanswered Panurge.  Cod so, cried Aedituus, you were not then hatched of an\nill bird, I will say that for you, since the blessed Touraine is your\nmother; for from thence there comes hither every year such a vast store of\ngood things, that we were told by some folks of the place that happened to\ntouch at this island, that your Duke of Touraine's income will not afford\nhim to eat his bellyful of beans and bacon (a good dish spoiled between\nMoses and Pythagoras) because his predecessors have been more than liberal\nto these most holy birds of ours, that we might here munch it, twist it,\ncram it, gorge it, craw it, riot it, junket it, and tickle it off, stuffing\nour puddings with dainty pheasants, partridges, pullets with eggs, fat\ncapons of Loudunois, and all sorts of venison and wild fowl.  Come, box it\nabout; tope on, my friends.  Pray do you see yon jolly birds that are\nperched together, how fat, how plump, and in good case they look, with the\nincome that Touraine yields us!  And in faith they sing rarely for their\ngood founders, that is the truth on't.  You never saw any Arcadian birds\nmumble more fairly than they do over a dish when they see these two gilt\nbatons, or when I ring for them those great bells that you see above their\ncages.  Drink on, sirs, whip it away.  Verily, friends, 'tis very fine\ndrinking to-day, and so 'tis every day o' the week; then drink on, toss it\nabout, here's to you with all my soul.  You are most heartily welcome;\nnever spare it, I pray you; fear not we should ever want good bub and\nbelly-timber; for, look here, though the sky were of brass, and the earth\nof iron, we should not want wherewithal to stuff the gut, though they were\nto continue so seven or eight years longer than the famine in Egypt.  Let\nus then, with brotherly love and charity, refresh ourselves here with the\ncreature.\n\nWoons, man, cried Panurge, what a rare time you have on't in this world!\nPsha, returned Aedituus, this is nothing to what we shall have in t'other;\nthe Elysian fields will be the least that can fall to our lot.  Come, in\nthe meantime let us drink here; come, here's to thee, old fuddlecap.\n\nYour first Siticines, said I, were superlatively wise in devising thus a\nmeans for you to compass whatever all men naturally covet so much, and so\nfew, or, to speak more properly, none can enjoy together--I mean, a\nparadise in this life, and another in the next.  Sure you were born wrapt\nin your mother's smickets!  O happy creatures!  O more than men!  Would I\nhad the luck to fare like you!  (Motteux inserts Chapter XVI. after Chapter\nVI.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge related to Master Aedituus the fable of the horse and the ass.\n\nWhen we had crammed and crammed again, Aedituus took us into a chamber that\nwas well furnished, hung with tapestry, and finely gilt.  Thither he caused\nto be brought store of mirobolans, cashou, green ginger preserved, with\nplenty of hippocras, and delicious wine.  With those antidotes, that were\nlike a sweet Lethe, he invited us to forget the hardships of our voyage;\nand at the same time he sent plenty of provisions on board our ship that\nrid in the harbour.  After this, we e'en jogged to bed for that night; but\nthe devil a bit poor pilgarlic could sleep one wink--the everlasting\njingle-jangle of the bells kept me awake whether I would or no.\n\nAbout midnight Aedituus came to wake us that we might drink.  He himself\nshowed us the way, saying:  You men of t'other world say that ignorance is\nthe mother of all evil, and so far you are right; yet for all that you do\nnot take the least care to get rid of it, but still plod on, and live in\nit, with it, and by it; for which a plaguy deal of mischief lights on you\nevery day, and you are right enough served--you are perpetually ailing\nsomewhat, making a moan, and never right.  It is what I was ruminating upon\njust now.  And, indeed, ignorance keeps you here fastened in bed, just as\nthat bully-rock Mars was detained by Vulcan's art; for all the while you do\nnot mind that you ought to spare some of your rest, and be as lavish as you\ncan of the goods of this famous island.  Come, come, you should have eaten\nthree breakfasts already; and take this from me for a certain truth, that\nif you would consume the mouth-ammunition of this island, you must rise\nbetimes; eat them, they multiply; spare them, they diminish.\n\nFor example, mow a field in due season, and the grass will grow thicker and\nbetter; don't mow it, and in a short time 'twill be floored with moss.\nLet's drink, and drink again, my friends; come, let's all carouse it.  The\nleanest of our birds are now singing to us all; we'll drink to them, if you\nplease.  Let's take off one, two, three, nine bumpers.  Non zelus, sed\ncaritas.\n\nWhen day, peeping in the east, made the sky turn from black to red like a\nboiling lobster, he waked us again to take a dish of monastical brewis.\nFrom that time we made but one meal, that only lasted the whole day; so\nthat I cannot well tell how I may call it, whether dinner, supper,\nnunchion, or after-supper; only, to get a stomach, we took a turn or two in\nthe island, to see and hear the blessed singing-birds.\n\nAt night Panurge said to Aedituus:  Give me leave, sweet sir, to tell you a\nmerry story of something that happened some three and twenty moons ago in\nthe country of Chastelleraud.\n\nOne day in April, a certain gentleman's groom, Roger by name, was walking\nhis master's horses in some fallow ground.  There 'twas his good fortune to\nfind a pretty shepherdess feeding her bleating sheep and harmless lambkins\non the brow of a neighbouring mountain, in the shade of an adjacent grove;\nnear her, some frisking kids tripped it over a green carpet of nature's own\nspreading, and, to complete the landscape, there stood an ass.  Roger, who\nwas a wag, had a dish of chat with her, and after some ifs, ands, and buts,\nhems and heighs on her side, got her in the mind to get up behind him, to\ngo and see his stable, and there take a bit by the bye in a civil way.\nWhile they were holding a parley, the horse, directing his discourse to the\nass (for all brute beasts spoke that year in divers places), whispered\nthese words in his ear:  Poor ass, how I pity thee! thou slavest like any\nhack, I read it on thy crupper.  Thou dost well, however, since God has\ncreated thee to serve mankind; thou art a very honest ass, but not to be\nbetter rubbed down, currycombed, trapped, and fed than thou art, seems to\nme indeed to be too hard a lot.  Alas! thou art all rough-coated, in ill\nplight, jaded, foundered, crestfallen, and drooping, like a mooting duck,\nand feedest here on nothing but coarse grass, or briars and thistles.\nTherefore do but pace it along with me, and thou shalt see how we noble\nsteeds, made by nature for war, are treated.  Come, thou'lt lose nothing by\ncoming; I'll get thee a taste of my fare.  I' troth, sir, I can but love\nyou and thank you, returned the ass; I'll wait on you, good Mr. Steed.\nMethinks, gaffer ass, you might as well have said Sir Grandpaw Steed.  O!\ncry mercy, good Sir Grandpaw, returned the ass; we country clowns are\nsomewhat gross, and apt to knock words out of joint.  However, an't please\nyou, I will come after your worship at some distance, lest for taking this\nrun my side should chance to be firked and curried with a vengeance, as it\nis but too often, the more is my sorrow.\n\nThe shepherdess being got behind Roger, the ass followed, fully resolved to\nbait like a prince with Roger's steed; but when they got to the stable, the\ngroom, who spied the grave animal, ordered one of his underlings to welcome\nhim with a pitchfork and currycomb him with a cudgel.  The ass, who heard\nthis, recommended himself mentally to the god Neptune, and was packing off,\nthinking and syllogizing within himself thus:  Had not I been an ass, I had\nnot come here among great lords, when I must needs be sensible that I was\nonly made for the use of the small vulgar.  Aesop had given me a fair\nwarning of this in one of his fables.  Well, I must e'en scamper or take\nwhat follows.  With this he fell a-trotting, and wincing, and yerking, and\ncalcitrating, alias kicking, and farting, and funking, and curvetting, and\nbounding, and springing, and galloping full drive, as if the devil had come\nfor him in propria persona.\n\nThe shepherdess, who saw her ass scour off, told Roger that it was her\ncattle, and desired he might be kindly used, or else she would not stir her\nfoot over the threshold.  Friend Roger no sooner knew this but he ordered\nhim to be fetched in, and that my master's horses should rather chop straw\nfor a week together than my mistress's beast should want his bellyful of\ncorn.\n\nThe most difficult point was to get him back; for in vain the youngsters\ncomplimented and coaxed him to come.  I dare not, said the ass; I am\nbashful.  And the more they strove by fair means to bring him with them,\nthe more the stubborn thing was untoward, and flew out at the heels;\ninsomuch that they might have been there to this hour, had not his mistress\nadvised them to toss oats in a sieve or in a blanket, and call him; which\nwas done, and made him wheel about and say, Oats, with a witness! oats\nshall go to pot.  Adveniat; oats will do, there's evidence in the case; but\nnone of the rubbing down, none of the firking.  Thus melodiously singing\n(for, as you know, that Arcadian bird's note is very harmonious) he came to\nthe young gentleman of the horse, alias black garb, who brought him to the\nstable.\n\nWhen he was there, they placed him next to the great horse his friend,\nrubbed him down, currycombed him, laid clean straw under him up to the\nchin, and there he lay at rack and manger, the first stuffed with sweet\nhay, the latter with oats; which when the horse's valet-dear-chambre\nsifted, he clapped down his lugs, to tell them by signs that he could eat\nit but too well without sifting, and that he did not deserve so great an\nhonour.\n\nWhen they had well fed, quoth the horse to the ass;  Well, poor ass, how is\nit with thee now?  How dost thou like this fare?  Thou wert so nice at\nfirst, a body had much ado to get thee hither.  By the fig, answered the\nass, which, one of our ancestors eating, Philemon died laughing, this is\nall sheer ambrosia, good Sir Grandpaw; but what would you have an ass say?\nMethinks all this is yet but half cheer.  Don't your worships here now and\nthen use to take a leap?  What leaping dost thou mean? asked the horse; the\ndevil leap thee! dost thou take me for an ass?  In troth, Sir Grandpaw,\nquoth the ass, I am somewhat of a blockhead, you know, and cannot, for the\nheart's blood of me, learn so fast the court way of speaking of you\ngentlemen horses; I mean, don't you stallionize it sometimes here among\nyour mettled fillies?  Tush, whispered the horse, speak lower; for, by\nBucephalus, if the grooms but hear thee they will maul and belam thee\nthrice and threefold, so that thou wilt have but little stomach to a\nleaping bout.  Cod so, man, we dare not so much as grow stiff at the tip of\nthe lowermost snout, though it were but to leak or so, for fear of being\njerked and paid out of our lechery.  As for anything else, we are as happy\nas our master, and perhaps more.  By this packsaddle, my old acquaintance,\nquoth the ass, I have done with you; a fart for thy litter and hay, and a\nfart for thy oats; give me the thistles of our fields, since there we leap\nwhen we list.  Eat less, and leap more, I say; it is meat, drink, and cloth\nto us.  Ah! friend Grandpaw, it would do thy heart good to see us at a\nfair, when we hold our provincial chapter!  Oh! how we leap it, while our\nmistresses are selling their goslings and other poultry!  With this they\nparted.  Dixi; I have done.\n\nPanurge then held his peace.  Pantagruel would have had him to have gone on\nto the end of the chapter; but Aedituus said, A word to the wise is enough;\nI can pick out the meaning of that fable, and know who is that ass, and who\nthe horse; but you are a bashful youth, I perceive.  Well, know that\nthere's nothing for you here; scatter no words.  Yet, returned Panurge, I\nsaw but even now a pretty kind of a cooing abbess-kite as white as a dove,\nand her I had rather ride than lead.  May I never stir if she is not a\ndainty bit, and very well worth a sin or two.  Heaven forgive me! I meant\nno more harm in it than you; may the harm I meant in it befall me\npresently.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow with much ado we got a sight of the pope-hawk.\n\nOur junketting and banqueting held on at the same rate the third day as the\ntwo former.  Pantagruel then earnestly desired to see the pope-hawk; but\nAedituus told him it was not such an easy matter to get a sight of him.\nHow, asked Pantagruel, has he Plato's helmet on his crown, Gyges's ring on\nhis pounces, or a chameleon on his breast, to make him invisible when he\npleases?  No, sir, returned Aedituus; but he is naturally of pretty\ndifficult access.  However, I'll see and take care that you may see him, if\npossible.  With this he left us piddling; then within a quarter of an hour\ncame back, and told us the pope-hawk is now to be seen.  So he led us,\nwithout the least noise, directly to the cage wherein he sat drooping, with\nhis feathers staring about him, attended by a brace of little cardin-hawks\nand six lusty fusty bish-hawks.\n\nPanurge stared at him like a dead pig, examining exactly his figure, size,\nand motions.  Then with a loud voice he said, A curse light on the hatcher\nof the ill bird; o' my word, this is a filthy whoop-hooper.  Tush, speak\nsoftly, said Aedituus; by G--, he has a pair of ears, as formerly Michael\nde Matiscones remarked.  What then? returned Panurge; so hath a whoopcat.\nSo, said Aedituus; if he but hear you speak such another blasphemous word,\nyou had as good be damned.  Do you see that basin yonder in his cage?  Out\nof it shall sally thunderbolts and lightnings, storms, bulls, and the devil\nand all, that will sink you down to Peg Trantum's, an hundred fathom under\nground.  It were better to drink and be merry, quoth Friar John.\n\nPanurge was still feeding his eyes with the sight of the pope-hawk and his\nattendants, when somewhere under his cage he perceived a madge-howlet.\nWith this he cried out, By the devil's maker, master, there's roguery in\nthe case; they put tricks upon travellers here more than anywhere else, and\nwould make us believe that a t--d's a sugarloaf.  What damned cozening,\ngulling, and coney-catching have we here!  Do you see this madge-howlet?\nBy Minerva, we are all beshit.  Odsoons, said Aedituus, speak softly, I\ntell you.  It is no madge-howlet, no she-thing on my honest word; but a\nmale, and a noble bird.\n\nMay we not hear the pope-hawk sing? asked Pantagruel.  I dare not promise\nthat, returned Aedituus; for he only sings and eats at his own hours.  So\ndon't I, quoth Panurge; poor pilgarlic is fain to make everybody's time his\nown; if they have time, I find time.  Come, then, let us go drink, if you\nwill.  Now this is something like a tansy, said Aedituus; you begin to talk\nsomewhat like; still speak in that fashion, and I'll secure you from being\nthought a heretic.  Come on, I am of your mind.\n\nAs we went back to have t'other fuddling bout, we spied an old green-headed\nbish-hawk, who sat moping with his mate and three jolly bittern attendants,\nall snoring under an arbour.  Near the old cuff stood a buxom abbess-kite\nthat sung like any linnet; and we were so mightily tickled with her singing\nthat I vow and swear we could have wished all our members but one turned\ninto ears, to have had more of the melody.  Quoth Panurge, This pretty\ncherubim of cherubims is here breaking her head with chanting to this huge,\nfat, ugly face, who lies grunting all the while like a hog as he is.  I\nwill make him change his note presently, in the devil's name.  With this he\nrang a bell that hung over the bish-hawk's head; but though he rang and\nrang again, the devil a bit bish-hawk would hear; the louder the sound, the\nlouder his snoring.  There was no making him sing.  By G--, quoth Panurge,\nyou old buzzard, if you won't sing by fair means, you shall by foul.\nHaving said this, he took up one of St. Stephen's loaves, alias a stone,\nand was going to hit him with it about the middle.  But Aedituus cried to\nhim, Hold, hold, honest friend! strike, wound, poison, kill, and murder all\nthe kings and princes in the world, by treachery or how thou wilt, and as\nsoon as thou wouldst unnestle the angels from their cockloft.  Pope-hawk\nwill pardon thee all this.  But never be so mad as to meddle with these\nsacred birds, as much as thou lovest the profit, welfare, and life not only\nof thyself, and thy friends and relations alive or dead, but also of those\nthat may be born hereafter to the thousandth generation; for so long thou\nwouldst entail misery upon them.  Do but look upon that basin.  Catso! let\nus rather drink, then, quoth Panurge.  He that spoke last, spoke well, Mr.\nAntitus, quoth Friar John; while we are looking on these devilish birds we\ndo nothing but blaspheme; and while we are taking a cup we do nothing but\npraise God.  Come on, then, let's go drink; how well that word sounds!\n\nThe third day (after we had drank, as you must understand) Aedituus\ndismissed us.  We made him a present of a pretty little Perguois knife,\nwhich he took more kindly than Artaxerxes did the cup of cold water that\nwas given him by a clown.  He most courteously thanked us, and sent all\nsorts of provisions aboard our ships, wished us a prosperous voyage and\nsuccess in our undertakings, and made us promise and swear by Jupiter of\nstone to come back by his territories.  Finally he said to us, Friends,\npray note that there are many more stones in the world than men; take care\nyou don't forget it.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow we arrived at the island of Tools.\n\n\nHaving well ballasted the holds of our human vessels, we weighed anchor,\nhoised up sail, stowed the boats, set the land, and stood for the offing\nwith a fair loom gale, and for more haste unpareled the mizen-yard, and\nlaunched it and the sail over the lee-quarter, and fitted gyves to keep it\nsteady, and boomed it out; so in three days we made the island of Tools,\nthat is altogether uninhabited.  We saw there a great number of trees which\nbore mattocks, pickaxes, crows, weeding-hooks, scythes, sickles, spades,\ntrowels, hatchets, hedging-bills, saws, adzes, bills, axes, shears,\npincers, bolts, piercers, augers, and wimbles.\n\nOthers bore dags, daggers, poniards, bayonets, square-bladed tucks,\nstilettoes, poniardoes, skeans, penknives, puncheons, bodkins, swords,\nrapiers, back-swords, cutlasses, scimitars, hangers, falchions, glaives,\nraillons, whittles, and whinyards.\n\nWhoever would have any of these needed but to shake the tree, and\nimmediately they dropped down as thick as hops, like so many ripe plums;\nnay, what's more, they fell on a kind of grass called scabbard, and\nsheathed themselves in it cleverly.  But when they came down, there was\nneed of taking care lest they happened to touch the head, feet, or other\nparts of the body.  For they fell with the point downwards, and in they\nstuck, or slit the continuum of some member, or lopped it off like a twig;\neither of which generally was enough to have killed a man, though he were a\nhundred years old, and worth as many thousand spankers, spur-royals, and\nrose-nobles.\n\nUnder some other trees, whose names I cannot justly tell you, I saw some\ncertain sorts of weeds that grew and sprouted like pikes, lances, javelins,\njavelots, darts, dartlets, halberds, boar-spears, eel-spears, partizans,\ntridents, prongs, trout-staves, spears, half-pikes, and hunting-staves.  As\nthey sprouted up and chanced to touch the tree, straight they met with\ntheir heads, points, and blades, each suitable to its kind, made ready for\nthem by the trees over them, as soon as every individual wood was grown up,\nfit for its steel; even like the children's coats, that are made for them\nas soon as they can wear them and you wean them of their swaddling clothes.\nNor do you mutter, I pray you, at what Plato, Anaxagoras, and Democritus\nhave said.  Ods-fish! they were none of your lower-form gimcracks, were\nthey?\n\nThose trees seemed to us terrestrial animals, in no wise so different from\nbrute beasts as not to have skin, fat, flesh, veins, arteries, ligaments,\nnerves, cartilages, kernels, bones, marrow, humours, matrices, brains, and\narticulations; for they certainly have some, since Theophrastus will have\nit so.  But in this point they differed from other animals, that their\nheads, that is, the part of their trunks next to the root, are downwards;\ntheir hair, that is, their roots, in the earth; and their feet, that is,\ntheir branches, upside down; as if a man should stand on his head with\noutstretched legs.  And as you, battered sinners, on whom Venus has\nbestowed something to remember her, feel the approach of rains, winds,\ncold, and every change of weather, at your ischiatic legs and your\nomoplates, by means of the perpetual almanack which she has fixed there; so\nthese trees have notice given them, by certain sensations which they have\nat their roots, stocks, gums, paps, or marrow, of the growth of the staves\nunder them, and accordingly they prepare suitable points and blades for\nthem beforehand.  Yet as all things, except God, are sometimes subject to\nerror, nature itself not free from it when it produceth monstrous things,\nlikewise I observed something amiss in these trees.  For a half-pike that\ngrew up high enough to reach the branches of one of these instrumentiferous\ntrees, happened no sooner to touch them but, instead of being joined to an\niron head, it impaled a stubbed broom at the fundament.  Well, no matter,\n'twill serve to sweep the chimney.  Thus a partizan met with a pair of\ngarden shears.  Come, all's good for something; 'twill serve to nip off\nlittle twigs and destroy caterpillars.  The staff of a halberd got the\nblade of a scythe, which made it look like a hermaphrodite.\nHappy-be-lucky, 'tis all a case; 'twill serve for some mower.  Oh, 'tis a\ngreat blessing to put our trust in the Lord!  As we went back to our ships I\nspied behind I don't know what bush, I don't know what folks, doing I don't\nknow what business, in I don't know what posture, scouring I don't know what\ntools, in I don't know what manner, and I don't know what place.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel arrived at the island of Sharping.\n\nWe left the island of Tools to pursue our voyage, and the next day stood in\nfor the island of Sharping, the true image of Fontainebleau, for the land\nis so very lean that the bones, that is, the rocks, shoot through its skin.\nBesides, 'tis sandy, barren, unhealthy, and unpleasant.  Our pilot showed\nus there two little square rocks which had eight equal points in the shape\nof a cube.  They were so white that I might have mistaken them for\nalabaster or snow, had he not assured us they were made of bone.\n\nHe told us that twenty chance devils very much feared in our country dwelt\nthere in six different storeys, and that the biggest twins or braces of\nthem were called sixes, and the smallest ambs-ace; the rest cinques,\nquatres, treys, and deuces.  When they were conjured up, otherwise coupled,\nthey were called either sice cinque, sice quatre, sice trey, sice deuce,\nand sice ace; or cinque quatre, cinque trey, and so forth.  I made there a\nshrewd observation.  Would you know what 'tis, gamesters?  'Tis that there\nare very few of you in the world but what call upon and invoke the devils.\nFor the dice are no sooner thrown on the board, and the greedy gazing\nsparks have hardly said, Two sixes, Frank; but Six devils damn it! cry as\nmany of them.  If ambs-ace; then, A brace of devils broil me! will they\nsay.  Quatre-deuce, Tom; The deuce take it! cries another.  And so on to\nthe end of the chapter.  Nay, they don't forget sometimes to call the black\ncloven-footed gentlemen by their Christian names and surnames; and what is\nstranger yet, they use them as their greatest cronies, and make them so\noften the executors of their wills, not only giving themselves, but\neverybody and everything, to the devil, that there's no doubt but he takes\ncare to seize, soon or late, what's so zealously bequeathed him.  Indeed,\n'tis true Lucifer does not always immediately appear by his lawful\nattorneys; but, alas! 'tis not for want of goodwill; he is really to be\nexcused for his delay; for what the devil would you have a devil do?  He\nand his black guards are then at some other places, according to the\npriority of the persons that call on them; therefore, pray let none be so\nventuresome as to think that the devils are deaf and blind.\n\nHe then told us that more wrecks had happened about those square rocks, and\na greater loss of body and goods, than about all the Syrtes, Scyllas and\nCharybdes, Sirens, Strophades, and gulfs in the universe.  I had not much\nado to believe it, remembering that formerly, among the wise Egyptians,\nNeptune was described in hieroglyphics for the first cube, Apollo by an\nace, Diana by a deuce, Minerva by seven, and so forth.\n\nHe also told us that there was a phial of sanc-greal, a most divine thing,\nand known to a few.  Panurge did so sweeten up the syndics of the place\nthat they blessed us with the sight of 't; but it was with three times more\npother and ado, with more formalities and antic tricks, than they show the\npandects of Justinian at Florence, or the holy Veronica at Rome.  I never\nsaw such a sight of flambeaux, torches, and hagios, sanctified tapers,\nrush-lights, and farthing candles in my whole life.  After all, that which\nwas shown us was only the ill-faced countenance of a roasted coney.\n\nAll that we saw there worth speaking of was a good face set upon an ill\ngame, and the shells of the two eggs formerly laid up and hatched by Leda,\nout of which came Castor and Pollux, fair Helen's brothers.  These same\nsyndics sold us a piece of 'em for a song, I mean, for a morsel of bread.\nBefore we went we bought a parcel of hats and caps of the manufacture of\nthe place, which, I fear, will turn to no very good account; nor are those\nwho shall take 'em off our hands more likely to commend their wearing.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow we passed through the wicket inhabited by Gripe-men-all, Archduke of\nthe Furred Law-cats.\n\nFrom thence Condemnation was passed by us.  'Tis another damned barren\nisland, whereat none for the world cared to touch.  Then we went through\nthe wicket; but Pantagruel had no mind to bear us company, and 'twas well\nhe did not, for we were nabbed there, and clapped into lob's-pound by order\nof Gripe-men-all, Archduke of the Furred Law-cats, because one of our\ncompany would ha' put upon a sergeant some hats of the Sharping Island.\n\nThe Furred Law-cats are most terrible and dreadful monsters, they devour\nlittle children, and trample over marble stones.  Pray tell me, noble\ntopers, do they not deserve to have their snouts slit?  The hair of their\nhides doesn't lie outward, but inwards, and every mother's son of 'em for\nhis device wears a gaping pouch, but not all in the same manner; for some\nwear it tied to their neck scarfwise, others upon the breech, some on the\npaunch, others on the side, and all for a cause, with reason and mystery.\nThey have claws so very strong, long, and sharp that nothing can get from\n'em that is once fast between their clutches.  Sometimes they cover their\nheads with mortar-like caps, at other times with mortified caparisons.\n\nAs we entered their den, said a common mumper, to whom we had given half a\nteston, Worshipful culprits, God send you a good deliverance!  Examine\nwell, said he, the countenance of these stout props and pillars of this\ncatch-coin law and iniquity; and pray observe, that if you still live but\nsix olympiads, and the age of two dogs more, you'll see these Furred\nLaw-cats lords of all Europe, and in peaceful possession of all the estates\nand dominions belonging to it; unless, by divine providence, what's got over\nthe devil's back is spent under his belly, or the goods which they unjustly\nget perish with their prodigal heirs.  Take this from an honest beggar.\n\nAmong 'em reigns the sixth essence; by the means of which they gripe all,\ndevour all, conskite all, burn all, draw all, hang all, quarter all, behead\nall, murder all, imprison all, waste all, and ruin all, without the least\nnotice of right or wrong; for among them vice is called virtue; wickedness,\npiety; treason, loyalty; robbery, justice.  Plunder is their motto, and\nwhen acted by them is approved by all men, except the heretics; and all\nthis they do because they dare; their authority is sovereign and\nirrefragable.  For a sign of the truth of what I tell you, you'll find that\nthere the mangers are above the racks.  Remember hereafter that a fool told\nyou this; and if ever plague, famine, war, fire, earthquakes, inundations,\nor other judgments befall the world, do not attribute 'em to the aspects\nand conjunctions of the malevolent planets; to the abuses of the court of\nRomania, or the tyranny of secular kings and princes; to the impostures of\nthe false zealots of the cowl, heretical bigots, false prophets, and\nbroachers of sects; to the villainy of griping usurers, clippers, and\ncoiners; or to the ignorance, impudence, and imprudence of physicians,\nsurgeons, and apothecaries; nor to the lewdness of adulteresses and\ndestroyers of by-blows; but charge them all, wholly and solely, to the\ninexpressible, incredible, and inestimable wickedness and ruin which is\ncontinually hatched, brewed, and practised in the den or shop of those\nFurred Law-cats.  Yet 'tis no more known in the world than the cabala of\nthe Jews, the more's the pity; and therefore 'tis not detested, chastised,\nand punished as 'tis fit it should be.  But should all their villainy be\nonce displayed in its true colours and exposed to the people, there never\nwas, is, nor will be any spokesman so sweet-mouthed, whose fine colloguing\ntongue could save 'em; nor any law so rigorous and draconic that could\npunish 'em as they deserve; nor yet any magistrate so powerful as to hinder\ntheir being burnt alive in their coneyburrows without mercy.  Even their\nown furred kittlings, friends, and relations would abominate 'em.\n\nFor this reason, as Hannibal was solemnly sworn by his father Amilcar to\npursue the Romans with the utmost hatred as long as ever he lived, so my\nlate father has enjoined me to remain here without, till God Almighty's\nthunder reduce them there within to ashes, like other presumptuous Titans,\nprofane wretches, and opposers of God; since mankind is so inured to their\noppressions that they either do not remember, foresee, or have a sense of\nthe woes and miseries which they have caused; or, if they have, either will\nnot, dare not, or cannot root 'em out.\n\nHow, said Panurge, say you so?  Catch me there and hang me!  Damme, let's\nmarch off!  This noble beggar has scared me worse than thunder in autumn\n(Motteux gives 'than the thunder would do them.').  Upon this we were\nfiling off; but, alas! we found ourselves trapped--the door was\ndouble-locked and barricadoed.  Some messengers of ill news told us it was\nfull as easy to get in there as into hell, and no less hard to get out.  Ay,\nthere indeed lay the difficulty, for there is no getting loose without a\npass and discharge in due course from the bench.  This for no other reason\nthan because folks go easier out of a church than out of a sponging-house,\nand because they could not have our company when they would.  The worst on't\nwas when we got through the wicket; for we were carried, to get out our pass\nor discharge, before a more dreadful monster than ever was read of in the\nlegends of knight-errantry.  They called him Gripe-men-all.  I can't tell\nwhat to compare it to better than to a Chimaera, a Sphinx, a Cerberus; or to\nthe image of Osiris, as the Egyptians represented him, with three heads, one\nof a roaring lion, t'other of a fawning cur, and the last of a howling,\nprowling wolf, twisted about with a dragon biting his tail, surrounded with\nfiery rays.  His hands were full of gore, his talons like those of the\nharpies, his snout like a hawk's bill, his fangs or tusks like those of an\novergrown brindled wild boar; his eyes were flaming like the jaws of hell,\nall covered with mortars interlaced with pestles, and nothing of his arms\nwas to be seen but his clutches.  His hutch, and that of the warren-cats his\ncollaterals, was a long, spick-and-span new rack, a-top of which (as the\nmumper told us) some large stately mangers were fixed in the reverse.  Over\nthe chief seat was the picture of an old woman holding the case or scabbard\nof a sickle in her right hand, a pair of scales in her left, with spectacles\non her nose; the cups or scales of the balance were a pair of velvet\npouches, the one full of bullion, which overpoised t'other, empty and long,\nhoisted higher than the middle of the beam.  I'm of opinion it was the true\neffigies of Justice Gripe-men-all; far different from the institution of the\nancient Thebans, who set up the statues of their dicasts without hands, in\nmarble, silver, or gold, according to their merit, even after their death.\n\nWhen we made our personal appearance before him, a sort of I don't know\nwhat men, all clothed with I don't know what bags and pouches, with long\nscrolls in their clutches, made us sit down upon a cricket (such as\ncriminals sit on when tried in France).  Quoth Panurge to 'em, Good my\nlords, I'm very well as I am; I'd as lief stand, an't please you.  Besides,\nthis same stool is somewhat of the lowest for a man that has new breeches\nand a short doublet.  Sit you down, said Gripe-men-all again, and look that\nyou don't make the court bid you twice.  Now, continued he, the earth shall\nimmediately open its jaws and swallow you up to quick damnation if you\ndon't answer as you should.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Gripe-men-all propounded a riddle to us.\n\nWhen we were sat, Gripe-men-all, in the middle of his furred cats, called\nto us in a hoarse dreadful voice, Well, come on, give me presently--an\nanswer.  Well, come on, muttered Panurge between his teeth, give, give me\npresently--a comforting dram.  Hearken to the court, continued\nGripe-men-all.\n\n                An Enigma.\n\n  A young tight thing, as fair as may be,\n  Without a dad conceived a baby,\n  And brought him forth without the pother\n  In labour made by teeming mother.\n  Yet the cursed brat feared not to gripe her,\n  But gnawed, for haste, her sides like viper.\n  Then the black upstart boldly sallies,\n  And walks and flies o'er hills and valleys.\n  Many fantastic sons of wisdom,\n  Amazed, foresaw their own in his doom;\n  And thought like an old Grecian noddy,\n  A human spirit moved his body.\n\nGive, give me out of hand--an answer to this riddle, quoth Gripe-men-all.\nGive, give me--leave to tell you, good, good my lord, answered Panurge,\nthat if I had but a sphinx at home, as Verres one of your precursors had, I\nmight then solve your enigma presently.  But verily, good my lord, I was\nnot there; and, as I hope to be saved, am as innocent in the matter as the\nchild unborn.  Foh, give me--a better answer, cried Gripe-men-all; or, by\ngold, this shall not serve your turn.  I'll not be paid in such coin; if\nyou have nothing better to offer, I'll let your rascalship know that it had\nbeen better for you to have fallen into Lucifer's own clutches than into\nours.  Dost thou see 'em here, sirrah? hah? and dost thou prate here of thy\nbeing innocent, as if thou couldst be delivered from our racks and tortures\nfor being so?  Give me--Patience! thou widgeon.  Our laws are like cobwebs;\nyour silly little flies are stopped, caught, and destroyed therein, but\nyour stronger ones break them, and force and carry them which way they\nplease.  Likewise, don't think we are so mad as to set up our nets to snap\nup your great robbers and tyrants.  No, they are somewhat too hard for us,\nthere's no meddling with them; for they would make no more of us than we\nmake of the little ones.  But you paltry, silly, innocent wretches must\nmake us amends; and, by gold, we will innocentize your fopship with a\nwannion, you never were so innocentized in your days; the devil shall sing\nmass among ye.\n\nFriar John, hearing him run on at that mad rate, had no longer the power to\nremain silent, but cried to him, Heigh-day!  Prithee, Mr. Devil in a coif,\nwouldst thou have a man tell thee more than he knows?  Hasn't the fellow\ntold you he does not know a word of the business?  His name is Twyford.\nA plague rot you! won't truth serve your turns?  Why, how now,\nMr. Prate-apace, cried Gripe-men-all, taking him short, marry come up, who\nmade you so saucy as to open your lips before you were spoken to?  Give me\n--Patience!  By gold! this is the first time since I have reigned that\nanyone has had the impudence to speak before he was bidden.  How came this\nmad fellow to break loose?  (Villain, thou liest, said Friar John, without\nstirring his lips.)  Sirrah, sirrah, continued Gripe-men-all, I doubt thou\nwilt have business enough on thy hands when it comes to thy turn to answer.\n(Damme, thou liest, said Friar John, silently.)  Dost thou think, continued\nmy lord, thou art in the wilderness of your foolish university, wrangling\nand bawling among the idle, wandering searchers and hunters after truth? By\ngold, we have here other fish to fry; we go another gate's-way to work, that\nwe do.  By gold, people here must give categorical answers to what they\ndon't know.  By gold, they must confess they have done those things which\nthey have not nor ought to have done.  By gold, they must protest that they\nknow what they never knew in their lives; and, after all, patience perforce\nmust be their only remedy, as well as a mad dog's.  Here silly geese are\nplucked, yet cackle not.  Sirrah, give me--an account whether you had a\nletter of attorney, or whether you were feed or no, that you offered to bawl\nin another man's cause?  I see you had no authority to speak, and I may\nchance to have you wed to something you won't like.  Oh, you devils, cried\nFriar John, proto-devils, panto-devils, you would wed a monk, would you?  Ho\nhu! ho hu!  A heretic! a heretic!  I'll give thee out for a rank heretic.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Panurge solved Gripe-men-all's riddle.\n\nGripe-men-all, as if he had not heard what Friar John said, directed his\ndiscourse to Panurge, saying to him, Well, what have you to say for\nyourself, Mr. Rogue-enough, hah?  Give, give me out of hand--an answer.\nSay? quoth Panurge; why, what would you have me say?  I say that we are\ndamnably beshit, since you give no heed at all to the equity of the plea,\nand the devil sings among you.  Let this answer serve for all, I beseech\nyou, and let us go out about our business; I am no longer able to hold out,\nas gad shall judge me.\n\nGo to, go to, cried Gripe-men-all; when did you ever hear that for these\nthree hundred years last past anybody ever got out of this weel without\nleaving something of his behind him?  No, no, get out of the trap if you\ncan without losing leather, life, or at least some hair, and you will have\ndone more than ever was done yet.  For why, this would bring the wisdom of\nthe court into question, as if we had took you up for nothing, and dealt\nwrongfully by you.  Well, by hook or by crook, we must have something out\nof you.  Look ye, it is a folly to make a rout for a fart and ado; one word\nis as good as twenty.  I have no more to say to thee, but that, as thou\nlikest thy former entertainment, thou wilt tell me more of the next; for it\nwill go ten times worse with thee unless, by gold, you give me--a solution\nto the riddle I propounded.  Give, give--it, without any more ado.\n\nBy gold, quoth Panurge, 'tis a black mite or weevil which is born of a\nwhite bean, and sallies out at the hole which he makes gnawing it; the mite\nbeing turned into a kind of fly, sometimes walks and sometimes flies over\nhills and dales.  Now Pythagoras, the philosopher, and his sect, besides\nmany others, wondering at its birth in such a place (which makes some argue\nfor equivocal generation), thought that by a metempsychosis the body of\nthat insect was the lodging of a human soul.  Now, were you men here, after\nyour welcomed death, according to his opinion, your souls would most\ncertainly enter into the body of mites or weevils; for in your present\nstate of life you are good for nothing in the world but to gnaw, bite, eat,\nand devour all things, so in the next you'll e'en gnaw and devour your\nmother's very sides, as the vipers do.  Now, by gold, I think I have fairly\nsolved and resolved your riddle.\n\nMay my bauble be turned into a nutcracker, quoth Friar John, if I could not\nalmost find in my heart to wish that what comes out at my bunghole were\nbeans, that these evil weevils might feed as they deserve.\n\nPanurge then, without any more ado, threw a large leathern purse stuffed\nwith gold crowns (ecus au soleil) among them.\n\nThe Furred Law-cats no sooner heard the jingling of the chink but they all\nbegan to bestir their claws, like a parcel of fiddlers running a division;\nand then fell to't, squimble, squamble, catch that catch can.  They all\nsaid aloud, These are the fees, these are the gloves; now, this is somewhat\nlike a tansy.  Oh! 'twas a pretty trial, a sweet trial, a dainty trial.  O'\nmy word, they did not starve the cause.  These are none of your snivelling\nforma pauperis's; no, they are noble clients, gentlemen every inch of them.\nBy gold, it is gold, quoth Panurge, good old gold, I'll assure you.\n\nSaith Gripe-men-all, The court, upon a full hearing (of the gold, quoth\nPanurge), and weighty reasons given, finds the prisoners not guilty, and\naccordingly orders them to be discharged out of custody, paying their fees.\nNow, gentlemen, proceed, go forwards, said he to us; we have not so much of\nthe devil in us as we have of his hue; though we are stout, we are\nmerciful.\n\nAs we came out at the wicket, we were conducted to the port by a detachment\nof certain highland griffins, scribere cum dashoes, who advised us before\nwe came to our ships not to offer to leave the place until we had made the\nusual presents, first to the Lady Gripe-men-all, then to all the Furred\nLaw-pusses; otherwise we must return to the place from whence we came.\nWell, well, said Friar John, we'll fumble in our fobs, examine every one of\nus his concern, and e'en give the women their due; we'll ne'er boggle or\nstick out on that account; as we tickled the men in the palm, we'll tickle\nthe women in the right place.  Pray, gentlemen, added they, don't forget to\nleave somewhat behind you for us poor devils to drink your healths.  O\nlawd! never fear, answered Friar John, I don't remember that I ever went\nanywhere yet where the poor devils are not remembered and encouraged.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Furred Law-cats live on corruption.\n\nFriar John had hardly said those words ere he perceived seventy-eight\ngalleys and frigates just arriving at the port.  So he hied him thither to\nlearn some news; and as he asked what goods they had o' board, he soon\nfound that their whole cargo was venison, hares, capons, turkeys, pigs,\nswine, bacon, kids, calves, hens, ducks, teals, geese, and other poultry\nand wildfowl.\n\nHe also spied among these some pieces of velvet, satin, and damask.  This\nmade him ask the new-comers whither and to whom they were going to carry\nthose dainty goods.  They answered that they were for Gripe-men-all and the\nFurred Law-cats.\n\nPray, asked he, what is the true name of all these things in your country\nlanguage?  Corruption, they replied.  If they live on corruption, said the\nfriar, they will perish with their generation.  May the devil be damned, I\nhave it now:  their fathers devoured the good gentlemen who, according to\ntheir state of life, used to go much a-hunting and hawking, to be the\nbetter inured to toil in time of war; for hunting is an image of a martial\nlife, and Xenophon was much in the right of it when he affirmed that\nhunting had yielded a great number of excellent warriors, as well as the\nTrojan horse.  For my part, I am no scholar; I have it but by hearsay, yet\nI believe it.  Now the souls of those brave fellows, according to\nGripe-men-all's riddle, after their decease enter into wild boars, stags,\nroebucks, herns, and such other creatures which they loved, and in quest of\nwhich they went while they were men; and these Furred Law-cats, having\nfirst destroyed and devoured their castles, lands, demesnes, possessions,\nrents, and revenues, are still seeking to have their blood and soul in\nanother life.  What an honest fellow was that same mumper who had\nforewarned us of all these things, and bid us take notice of the mangers\nabove the racks!\n\nBut, said Panurge to the new-comers, how do you come by all this venison?\nMethinks the great king has issued out a proclamation strictly inhibiting\nthe destroying of stags, does, wild boars, roebucks, or other royal game,\non pain of death.  All this is true enough, answered one for the rest, but\nthe great king is so good and gracious, you must know, and these Furred\nLaw-cats so curst and cruel, so mad, and thirsting after Christian blood,\nthat we have less cause to fear in trespassing against that mighty\nsovereign's commands than reason to hope to live if we do not continually\nstop the mouths of these Furred Law-cats with such bribes and corruption.\nBesides, added he, to-morrow Gripe-men-all marries a furred law-puss of his\nto a high and mighty double-furred law-tybert.  Formerly we used to call\nthem chop-hay; but alas! they are not such neat creatures now as to eat\nany, or chew the cud.  We call them chop-hares, chop-partridges,\nchop-woodcocks, chop-pheasants, chop-pullets, chop-venison, chop-coneys,\nchop-pigs, for they scorn to feed on coarser meat.  A t--d for their chops,\ncried Friar John, next year we'll have 'em called chop-dung, chop-stront,\nchop-filth.\n\nWould you take my advice? added he to the company.  What is it? answered\nwe.  Let's do two things, returned he.  First, let us secure all this\nvenison and wild fowl--I mean, paying well for them; for my part, I am but\ntoo much tired already with our salt meat, it heats my flanks so horribly.\nIn the next place, let's go back to the wicket, and destroy all these\ndevilish Furred Law-cats.  For my part, quoth Panurge, I know better\nthings; catch me there, and hang me.  No, I am somewhat more inclined to be\nfearful than bold; I love to sleep in a whole skin.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Friar John talks of rooting out the Furred Law-cats.\n\nVirtue of the frock, quoth Friar John, what kind of voyage are we making?\nA shitten one, o' my word; the devil of anything we do but fizzling,\nfarting, funking, squattering, dozing, raving, and doing nothing.\nOds-belly, 'tisn't in my nature to lie idle; I mortally hate it.  Unless I\nam doing some heroic feat every foot, I can't sleep one wink o' nights.\nDamn it, did you then take me along with you for your chaplain, to sing mass\nand shrive you?  By Maundy Thursday, the first of ye all that comes to me on\nsuch an account shall be fitted; for the only penance I'll enjoin shall be,\nthat he immediately throw himself headlong overboard into the sea like a\nbase cowhearted son of ten fathers.  This in deduction of the pains of\npurgatory.\n\nWhat made Hercules such a famous fellow, d'ye think?  Nothing but that\nwhile he travelled he still made it his business to rid the world of\ntyrannies, errors, dangers, and drudgeries; he still put to death all\nrobbers, all monsters, all venomous serpents and hurtful creatures.  Why\nthen do we not follow his example, doing as he did in the countries through\nwhich we pass?  He destroyed the Stymphalides, the Lernaean hydra, Cacus,\nAntheus, the Centaurs, and what not; I am no clericus, those that are such\ntell me so.\n\nIn imitation of that noble by-blow, let's destroy and root out these wicked\nFurred Law-cats, that are a kind of ravenous devils; thus we shall remove\nall manner of tyranny out of the land.  Mawmet's tutor swallow me body and\nsoul, tripes and guts, if I would stay to ask your help or advice in the\nmatter were I but as strong as he was.  Come, he that would be thought a\ngentleman, let him storm a town; well, then, shall we go?  I dare swear\nwe'll do their business for them with a wet finger; they'll bear it, never\nfear; since they could swallow down more foul language that came from us\nthan ten sows and their babies could swill hogwash.  Damn 'em, they don't\nvalue all the ill words or dishonour in the world at a rush, so they but\nget the coin into their purses, though they were to have it in a shitten\nclout.  Come, we may chance to kill 'em all, as Hercules would have done\nhad they lived in his time.  We only want to be set to work by another\nEurystheus, and nothing else for the present, unless it be what I heartily\nwish them, that Jupiter may give 'em a short visit, only some two or three\nhours long, and walk among their lordships in the same equipage that\nattended him when he came last to his Miss Semele, jolly Bacchus's mother.\n\n'Tis a very great mercy, quoth Panurge, that you have got out of their\nclutches.  For my part, I have no stomach to go there again; I'm hardly\ncome to myself yet, so scared and appalled I was.  My hair still stands up\nan end when I think on't; and most damnably troubled I was there, for three\nvery weighty reasons.  First, because I was troubled.  Secondly, because I\nwas troubled.  Thirdly and lastly, because I was troubled.  Hearken to me a\nlittle on thy right side, Friar John, my left cod, since thou'lt not hear\nat the other.  Whenever the maggot bites thee to take a trip down to hell\nand visit the tribunal of Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, (and Dis,) do but\ntell me, and I'll be sure to bear thee company, and never leave thee as\nlong as my name's Panurge, but will wade over Acheron, Styx, and Cocytus,\ndrink whole bumpers of Lethe's water--though I mortally hate that element\n--and even pay thy passage to that bawling, cross-grained ferryman, Charon.\nBut as for the damned wicket, if thou art so weary of thy life as to go\nthither again, thou mayst e'en look for somebody else to bear thee company,\nfor I'll not move one step that way; e'en rest satisfied with this positive\nanswer.  By my good will I'll not stir a foot to go thither as long as I\nlive, any more than Calpe will come over to Abyla (Here Motteux adds the\nfollowing note:  'Calpe is a mountain in Spain that faces another, called\nAbyla, in Mauritania, both said to have been severed by Hercules.').  Was\nUlysses so mad as to go back into the Cyclop's cave to fetch his sword?\nNo, marry was he not.  Now I have left nothing behind me at the wicket\nthrough forgetfulness; why then should I think of going thither?\n\nWell, quoth Friar John, as good sit still as rise up and fall; what cannot\nbe cured must be endured.  But, prithee, let's hear one another speak.\nCome, wert thou not a wise doctor to fling away a whole purse of gold on\nthose mangy scoundrels?  Ha!  A squinsy choke thee! we were too rich, were\nwe?  Had it not been enough to have thrown the hell-hounds a few cropped\npieces of white cash?\n\nHow could I help it? returned Panurge.  Did you not see how Gripe-men-all\nheld his gaping velvet pouch, and every moment roared and bellowed, By\ngold, give me out of hand; by gold, give, give, give me presently?  Now,\nthought I to myself, we shall never come off scot-free.  I'll e'en stop\ntheir mouths with gold, that the wicket may be opened, and we may get out;\nthe sooner the better.  And I judged that lousy silver would not do the\nbusiness; for, d'ye see, velvet pouches do not use to gape for little\npaltry clipt silver and small cash; no, they are made for gold, my friend\nJohn; that they are, my dainty cod.  Ah! when thou hast been larded,\nbasted, and roasted, as I was, thou wilt hardly talk at this rate, I doubt.\nBut now what is to be done?  We are enjoined by them to go forwards.\n\nThe scabby slabberdegullions still waited for us at the port, expecting to\nbe greased in the fist as well as their masters.  Now when they perceived\nthat we were ready to put to sea, they came to Friar John and begged that\nwe would not forget to gratify the apparitors before we went off, according\nto the assessment for the fees at our discharge.  Hell and damnation! cried\nFriar John; are ye here still, ye bloodhounds, ye citing, scribbling imps\nof Satan?  Rot you, am I not vexed enough already, but you must have the\nimpudence to come and plague me, ye scurvy fly-catchers you?  By\ncob's-body, I'll gratify your ruffianships as you deserve; I'll apparitorize\nyou presently with a wannion, that I will.  With this, he lugged out his\nslashing cutlass, and in a mighty heat came out of the ship to cut the\ncozening varlets into steaks, but they scampered away and got out of sight\nin a trice.\n\nHowever, there was somewhat more to do, for some of our sailors, having got\nleave of Pantagruel to go ashore while we were had before Gripe-men-all,\nhad been at a tavern near the haven to make much of themselves, and roar\nit, as seamen will do when they come into some port.  Now I don't know\nwhether they had paid their reckoning to the full or no, but, however it\nwas, an old fat hostess, meeting Friar John on the quay, was making a\nwoeful complaint before a sergeant, son-in-law to one of the furred\nlaw-cats, and a brace of bums, his assistants.\n\nThe friar, who did not much care to be tired with their impertinent\nprating, said to them, Harkee me, ye lubberly gnat-snappers! do ye presume\nto say that our seamen are not honest men?  I'll maintain they are, ye\ndotterels, and will prove it to your brazen faces, by justice--I mean, this\ntrusty piece of cold iron by my side.  With this he lugged it out and\nflourished with it.  The forlorn lobcocks soon showed him their backs,\nbetaking themselves to their heels; but the old fusty landlady kept her\nground, swearing like any butter-whore that the tarpaulins were very honest\ncods, but that they only forgot to pay for the bed on which they had lain\nafter dinner, and she asked fivepence, French money, for the said bed.  May\nI never sup, said the friar, if it be not dog-cheap; they are sorry guests\nand unkind customers, that they are; they do not know when they have a\npennyworth, and will not always meet with such bargains.  Come, I myself\nwill pay you the money, but I would willingly see it first.\n\nThe hostess immediately took him home with her, and showed him the bed, and\nhaving praised it for all its good qualifications, said that she thought as\ntimes went she was not out of the way in asking fivepence for it.  Friar\nJohn then gave her the fivepence; and she no sooner turned her back but he\npresently began to rip up the ticking of the feather-bed and bolster, and\nthrew all the feathers out at the window.  In the meantime the old hag came\ndown and roared out for help, crying out murder to set all the\nneighbourhood in an uproar.  Yet she also fell to gathering the feathers\nthat flew up and down in the air, being scattered by the wind.  Friar John\nlet her bawl on, and, without any further ado, marched off with the\nblanket, quilt, and both the sheets, which he brought aboard undiscovered,\nfor the air was darkened with the feathers, as it uses sometimes to be with\nsnow.  He gave them away to the sailors; then said to Pantagruel that beds\nwere much cheaper at that place than in Chinnonois, though we have there\nthe famous geese of Pautile; for the old beldam had asked him but fivepence\nfor a bed which in Chinnonois had been worth about twelve francs.  (As soon\nas Friar John and the rest of the company were embarked, Pantagruel set\nsail.  But there arose a south-east wind, which blew so vehemently they\nlost their way, and in a manner going back to the country of the Furred\nLaw-cats, they entered into a huge gulf, where the sea ran so high and\nterrible that the shipboy on the top of the mast cried out he again saw the\nhabitation of Gripe-men-all; upon which Panurge, frightened almost out of\nhis wits, roared out, Dear master, in spite of the wind and waves, change\nyour course, and turn the ship's head about.  O my friend, let us come no\nmore into that cursed country where I left my purse.  So the wind carried\nthem near an island, where however they did not dare at first to land, but\nentered about a mile off.  (Motteux omitted this passage altogether in the\nedition of 1694.  It was restored by Ozell in the edition of 1738.))\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Pantagruel came to the island of the Apedefers, or Ignoramuses, with\nlong claws and crooked paws, and of terrible adventures and monsters there.\n\nAs soon as we had cast anchor and had moored the ship, the pinnace was put\nover the ship's side and manned by the coxswain's crew.  When the good\nPantagruel had prayed publicly, and given thanks to the Lord that had\ndelivered him from so great a danger, he stepped into it with his whole\ncompany to go on shore, which was no ways difficult to do, for, as the sea\nwas calm and the winds laid, they soon got to the cliffs.  When they were\nset on shore, Epistemon, who was admiring the situation of the place and\nthe strange shape of the rocks, discovered some of the natives.  The first\nhe met had on a short purple gown, a doublet cut in panes, like a Spanish\nleather jerkin, half sleeves of satin, and the upper part of them leather,\na coif like a black pot tipped with tin.  He was a good likely sort of a\nbody, and his name, as we heard afterwards, was Double-fee.  Epistemon\nasked him how they called those strange craggy rocks and deep valleys.  He\ntold them it was a colony brought out of Attorneyland, and called Process,\nand that if we forded the river somewhat further beyond the rocks we should\ncome into the island of the Apedefers.  By the memory of the decretals,\nsaid Friar John, tell us, I pray you, what you honest men here live on?\nCould not a man take a chirping bottle with you to taste your wine?  I can\nsee nothing among you but parchment, ink-horns, and pens.  We live on\nnothing else, returned Double-fee; and all who live in this place must come\nthrough my hands.  How, quoth Panurge, are you a shaver, then?  Do you\nfleece 'em?  Ay, ay, their purse, answered Double-fee; nothing else.  By\nthe foot of Pharaoh, cried Panurge, the devil a sou will you get of me.\nHowever, sweet sir, be so kind as to show an honest man the way to those\nApedefers, or ignorant people, for I come from the land of the learned,\nwhere I did not learn over much.\n\nStill talking on, they got to the island of the Apedefers, for they were\nsoon got over the ford.  Pantagruel was not a little taken up with admiring\nthe structure and habitation of the people of the place.  For they live in\na swingeing wine-press, fifty steps up to it.  You must know there are some\nof all sorts, little, great, private, middle-sized, and so forth.  You go\nthrough a large peristyle, alias a long entry set about with pillars, in\nwhich you see, in a kind of landscape, the ruins of almost the whole world,\nbesides so many great robbers' gibbets, so many gallows and racks, that\n'tis enough to fright you out of your seven senses.  Double-fee perceiving\nthat Pantagruel was taken up with contemplating those things, Let us go\nfurther, sir, said he to him; all this is nothing yet.  Nothing, quotha,\ncried Friar John; by the soul of my overheated codpiece, friend Panurge and\nI here shake and quiver for mere hunger.  I had rather be drinking than\nstaring at these ruins.  Pray come along, sir, said Double-fee.  He then\nled us into a little wine-press that lay backwards in a blind corner, and\nwas called Pithies in the language of the country.  You need not ask\nwhether Master John and Panurge made much of their sweet selves there; it\nis enough that I tell you there was no want of Bolognia sausages, turkey\npoots, capons, bustards, malmsey, and all other sorts of good belly-timber,\nvery well dressed.\n\nA pimping son of ten fathers, who, for want of a better, did the office of\na butler, seeing that Friar John had cast a sheep's eye at a choice bottle\nthat stood near a cupboard by itself, at some distance from the rest of the\nbottellic magazine, like a jack-in-an-office said to Pantagruel, Sir, I\nperceive that one of your men here is making love to this bottle.  He ogles\nit, and would fain caress it; but I beg that none offer to meddle with it;\nfor it is reserved for their worships.  How, cried Panurge, there are some\ngrandees here then, I see.  It is vintage time with you, I perceive.\n\nThen Double-fee led us up to a private staircase, and showed us into a\nroom, whence, without being seen, out at a loophole we could see their\nworships in the great wine-press, where none could be admitted without\ntheir leave.  Their worships, as he called them, were about a score of\nfusty crack-ropes and gallow-clappers, or rather more, all posted before a\nbar, and staring at each other like so many dead pigs.  Their paws were as\nlong as a crane's foot, and their claws four-and-twenty inches long at\nleast; for you must know they are enjoined never to pare off the least chip\nof them, so that they grow as crooked as a Welsh hook or a hedging-bill.\n\nWe saw a swingeing bunch of grapes that are gathered and squeezed in that\ncountry, brought in by them.  As soon as it was laid down, they clapped it\ninto the press, and there was not a bit of it out of which each of them did\nnot squeeze some oil of gold; insomuch that the poor grape was tried with a\nwitness, and brought off so drained and picked, and so dry, that there was\nnot the least moisture, juice, or substance left in it; for they had\npressed out its very quintessence.\n\nDouble-fee told us they had not often such huge bunches; but, let the worst\ncome to the worst, they were sure never to be without others in their\npress.  But hark you me, master of mine, asked Panurge, have they not some\nof different growth?  Ay, marry have they, quoth Double-fee.  Do you see\nhere this little bunch, to which they are going to give t'other wrench?  It\nis of tithe-growth, you must know; they crushed, wrung, squeezed and\nstrained out the very heart's blood of it but the other day; but it did not\nbleed freely; the oil came hard, and smelt of the priest's chest; so that\nthey found there was not much good to be got out of it.  Why then, said\nPantagruel, do they put it again into the press?  Only, answered\nDouble-fee, for fear there should still lurk some juice among the husks and\nhullings in the mother of the grape.  The devil be damned! cried Friar\nJohn; do you call these same folks illiterate lobcocks and duncical\ndoddipolls?  May I be broiled like a red herring if I do not think they are\nwise enough to skin a flint and draw oil out of a brick wall.  So they are,\nsaid Double-fee; for they sometimes put castles, parks, and forests into\nthe press, and out of them all extract aurum potabile.  You mean portabile,\nI suppose, cried Epistemon, such as may be borne.  I mean as I said,\nreplied Double-fee, potabile, such as may be drunk; for it makes them drink\nmany a good bottle more than otherwise they should.\n\nBut I cannot better satisfy you as to the growth of the vine-tree sirup\nthat is here squeezed out of grapes, than in desiring you to look yonder in\nthat back-yard, where you will see above a thousand different growths that\nlie waiting to be squeezed every moment.  Here are some of the public and\nsome of the private growth; some of the builders' fortifications, loans,\ngifts, and gratuities, escheats, forfeitures, fines, and recoveries, penal\nstatutes, crown lands, and demesne, privy purse, post-offices, offerings,\nlordships of manors, and a world of other growths, for which we want names.\nPray, quoth Epistemon, tell me of what growth is that great one, with all\nthose little grapelings about it.  Oh, oh! returned Double-fee, that plump\none is of the treasury, the very best growth in the whole country.\nWhenever anyone of that growth is squeezed, there is not one of their\nworships but gets juice enough of it to soak his nose six months together.\nWhen their worships were up, Pantagruel desired Double-fee to take us into\nthat great wine-press, which he readily did.  As soon as we were in,\nEpistemon, who understood all sorts of tongues, began to show us many\ndevices on the press, which was large and fine, and made of the wood of the\ncross--at least Double-fee told us so.  On each part of it were names of\neverything in the language of the country.  The spindle of the press was\ncalled receipt; the trough, cost and damages; the hole for the vice-pin,\nstate; the side-boards, money paid into the office; the great beam, respite\nof homage; the branches, radietur; the side-beams, recuperetur; the fats,\nignoramus; the two-handled basket, the rolls; the treading-place,\nacquittance; the dossers, validation; the panniers, authentic decrees; the\npailes, potentials; the funnels, quietus est.\n\nBy the Queen of the Chitterlings, quoth Panurge, all the hieroglyphics of\nEgypt are mine a-- to this jargon.  Why! here are a parcel of words full as\nanalogous as chalk and cheese, or a cat and a cart-wheel!  But why,\nprithee, dear Double-fee, do they call these worshipful dons of yours\nignorant fellows?  Only, said Double-fee, because they neither are, nor\nought to be, clerks, and all must be ignorant as to what they transact\nhere; nor is there to be any other reason given, but, The court hath said\nit; The court will have it so; The court has decreed it.  Cop's body, quoth\nPantagruel, they might full as well have called 'em necessity; for\nnecessity has no law.\n\nFrom thence, as he was leading us to see a thousand little puny presses, we\nspied another paltry bar, about which sat four are five ignorant waspish\nchurls, of so testy, fuming a temper, (like an ass with squibs and crackers\ntied to its tail,) and so ready to take pepper in the nose for yea and nay,\nthat a dog would not have lived with 'em.  They were hard at it with the\nlees and dregs of the grapes, which they gripped over and over again, might\nand main, with their clenched fists.  They were called contractors in the\nlanguage of the country.  These are the ugliest, misshapen, grim-looking\nscrubs, said Friar John, that ever were beheld, with or without spectacles.\nThen we passed by an infinite number of little pimping wine-presses all\nfull of vintage-mongers, who were picking, examining, and raking the grapes\nwith some instruments called bills-of-charge.\n\nFinally we came into a hall downstairs, where we saw an overgrown cursed\nmangy cur with a pair of heads, a wolf's belly, and claws like the devil of\nhell.  The son of a bitch was fed with costs, for he lived on a\nmultiplicity of fine amonds and amerciaments by order of their worships, to\neach of whom the monster was worth more than the best farm in the land.  In\ntheir tongue of ignorance they called him Twofold.  His dam lay by him, and\nher hair and shape was like her whelp's, only she had four heads, two male\nand two female, and her name was Fourfold.  She was certainly the most\ncursed and dangerous creature of the place, except her grandam, which we\nsaw, and had been kept locked up in a dungeon time out of mind, and her\nname was Refusing-of-fees.\n\nFriar John, who had always twenty yards of gut ready empty to swallow a\ngallimaufry of lawyers, began to be somewhat out of humour, and desired\nPantagruel to remember he had not dined, and bring Double-fee along with\nhim.  So away we went, and as we marched out at the back-gate whom should\nwe meet but an old piece of mortality in chains.  He was half ignorant and\nhalf learned, like an hermaphrodite of Satan.  The fellow was all\ncaparisoned with spectacles as a tortoise is with shells, and lived on\nnothing but a sort of food which, in their gibberish, was called appeals.\nPantagruel asked Double-fee of what breed was that prothonotary, and what\nname they gave him.  Double-fee told us that time out of mind he had been\nkept there in chains, to the great grief of their worships, who starved\nhim, and his name was Review.  By the pope's sanctified two-pounders, cried\nFriar John, I do not much wonder at the meagre cheer which this old chuff\nfinds among their worships.  Do but look a little on the weather-beaten\nscratch-toby, friend Panurge; by the sacred tip of my cowl, I'll lay five\npounds to a hazel-nut the foul thief has the very looks of Gripe-me-now.\nThese same fellows here, ignorant as they be, are as sharp and knowing as\nother folk.  But were it my case, I would send him packing with a squib in\nhis breech like a rogue as he is.  By my oriental barnacles, quoth Panurge,\nhonest friar, thou art in the right; for if we but examine that treacherous\nReview's ill-favoured phiz, we find that the filthy snudge is yet more\nmischievous and ignorant than these ignorant wretches here, since they\n(honest dunces) grapple and glean with as little harm and pother as they\ncan, without any long fiddle-cum-farts or tantalizing in the case; nor do\nthey dally and demur in your suit, but in two or three words, whip-stitch,\nin a trice, they finish the vintage of the close, bating you all these\ndamned tedious interlocutories, examinations, and appointments which fret\nto the heart's blood your furred law-cats.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow we went forwards, and how Panurge had like to have been killed.\n\nWe put to sea that very moment, steering our course forwards, and gave\nPantagruel a full account of our adventures, which so deeply struck him\nwith compassion that he wrote some elegies on that subject to divert\nhimself during the voyage.  When we were safe in the port we took some\nrefreshment, and took in fresh water and wood.  The people of the place,\nwho had the countenance of jolly fellows and boon companions, were all of\nthem forward folks, bloated and puffed up with fat.  And we saw some who\nslashed and pinked their skins to open a passage to the fat, that it might\nswell out at the slits and gashes which they made; neither more nor less\nthan the shit-breech fellows in our country bepink and cut open their\nbreeches that the taffety on the inside may stand out and be puffed up.\nThey said that what they did was not out of pride or ostentation, but\nbecause otherwise their skins would not hold them without much pain.\nHaving thus slashed their skin, they used to grow much bigger, like the\nyoung trees on whose barks the gardeners make incisions that they may grow\nthe better.\n\nNear the haven there was a tavern, which forwards seemed very fine and\nstately.  We repaired thither, and found it filled with people of the\nforward nation, of all ages, sexes, and conditions; so that we thought some\nnotable feast or other was getting ready, but we were told that all that\nthrong were invited to the bursting of mine host, which caused all his\nfriends and relations to hasten thither.\n\nWe did not understand that jargon, and therefore thought in that country by\nthat bursting they meant some merry meeting or other, as we do in ours by\nbetrothing, wedding, groaning, christening, churching (of women), shearing\n(of sheep), reaping (of corn, or harvest-home), and many other junketting\nbouts that end in -ing.  But we soon heard that there was no such matter in\nhand.\n\nThe master of the house, you must know, had been a good fellow in his time,\nloved heartily to wind up his bottom, to bang the pitcher, and lick his\ndish.  He used to be a very fair swallower of gravy soup, a notable\naccountant in matter of hours, and his whole life was one continual dinner,\nlike mine host at Rouillac (in Perigord).  But now, having farted out much\nfat for ten years together, according to the custom of the country, he was\ndrawing towards his bursting hour; for neither the inner thin kell\nwherewith the entrails are covered, nor his skin that had been jagged and\nmangled so many years, were able to hold and enclose his guts any longer,\nor hinder them from forcing their way out.  Pray, quoth Panurge, is there\nno remedy, no help for the poor man, good people?  Why don't you swaddle\nhim round with good tight girths, or secure his natural tub with a strong\nsorb-apple-tree hoop?  Nay, why don't you iron-bind him, if needs be?  This\nwould keep the man from flying out and bursting.  The word was not yet out\nof his mouth when we heard something give a loud report, as if a huge\nsturdy oak had been split in two.  Then some of the neighbours told us that\nthe bursting was over, and that the clap or crack which we heard was the\nlast fart, and so there was an end of mine host.\n\nThis made me call to mind a saying of the venerable abbot of Castilliers,\nthe very same who never cared to hump his chambermaids but when he was in\npontificalibus.  That pious person, being much dunned, teased, and\nimportuned by his relations to resign his abbey in his old age, said and\nprofessed that he would not strip till he was ready to go to bed, and that\nthe last fart which his reverend paternity was to utter should be the fart\nof an abbot.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow our ships were stranded, and we were relieved by some people that were\nsubject to Queen Whims (qui tenoient de la Quinte).\n\nWe weighed and set sail with a merry westerly gale.  When about seven\nleagues off (twenty-two miles) some gusts or scuds of wind suddenly arose,\nand the wind veering and shifting from point to point, was, as they say,\nlike an old woman's breech, at no certainty; so we first got our starboard\ntacks aboard, and hauled off our lee-sheets.  Then the gusts increased, and\nby fits blowed all at once from several quarters, yet we neither settled\nnor braided up close our sails, but only let fly the sheets, not to go\nagainst the master of the ship's direction; and thus having let go amain,\nlest we should spend our topsails, or the ship's quick-side should lie in\nthe water and she be overset, we lay by and run adrift; that is, in a\nlandloper's phrase, we temporized it.  For he assured us that, as these\ngusts and whirlwinds would not do us much good, so they could not do us\nmuch harm, considering their easiness and pleasant strife, as also the\nclearness of the sky and calmness of the current.  So that we were to\nobserve the philosopher's rule, bear and forbear; that is, trim, or go\naccording to the time.\n\nHowever, these whirlwinds and gusts lasted so long that we persuaded the\nmaster to let us go and lie at trie with our main course; that is, to haul\nthe tack aboard, the sheet close aft, the bowline set up, and the helm tied\nclose aboard; so, after a stormy gale of wind, we broke through the\nwhirlwind.  But it was like falling into Scylla to avoid Charybdis (out of\nthe frying-pan into the fire).  For we had not sailed a league ere our\nships were stranded upon some sands such as are the flats of St. Maixent.\n\nAll our company seemed mightily disturbed except Friar John, who was not a\njot daunted, and with sweet sugar-plum words comforted now one and then\nanother, giving them hopes of speedy assistance from above, and telling\nthem that he had seen Castor at the main-yardarm.  Oh! that I were but now\nashore, cried Panurge, that is all I wish for myself at present, and that\nyou who like the sea so well had each man of you two hundred thousand\ncrowns.  I would fairly let you set up shop on these sands, and would get a\nfat calf dressed and a hundred of faggots (i.e. bottles of wine) cooled for\nyou against you come ashore.  I freely consent never to mount a wife, so\nyou but set me ashore and mount me on a horse, that I may go home.  No\nmatter for a servant, I will be contented to serve myself; I am never\nbetter treated than when I am without a man.  Faith, old Plautus was in the\nright on't when he said the more servants the more crosses; for such they\nare, even supposing they could want what they all have but too much of, a\ntongue, that most busy, dangerous, and pernicious member of servants.\nAccordingly, 'twas for their sakes alone that the racks and tortures for\nconfession were invented, though some foreign civilians in our time have\ndrawn alogical and unreasonable consequences from it.\n\nThat very moment we spied a sail that made towards us.  When it was close\nby us, we soon knew what was the lading of the ship and who was aboard of\nher.  She was full freighted with drums.  I was acquainted with many of the\npassengers that came in her, who were most of 'em of good families; among\nthe rest Harry Cotiral, an old toast, who had got a swinging ass's\ntouch-tripe (penis) fastened to his waist, as the good women's beads are to their\ngirdle.  In his left hand he held an old overgrown greasy foul cap, such as\nyour scald-pated fellows wear, and in the right a huge cabbage-stump.\n\nAs soon as he saw me he was overjoyed, and bawled out to me, What cheer,\nho?  How dost like me now?  Behold the true Algamana (this he said showing\nme the ass's tickle-gizzard).  This doctor's cap is my true elixir; and\nthis (continued he, shaking the cabbage-stump in his fist) is lunaria\nmajor, you old noddy.  I have 'em, old boy, I have 'em; we'll make 'em when\nthou'rt come back.  But pray, father, said I, whence come you?  Whither are\nyou bound?  What's your lading?  Have you smelt the salt deep?  To these\nfour questions he answered, From Queen Whims; for Touraine; alchemy; to the\nvery bottom.\n\nWhom have you got o' board? said I.  Said he, Astrologers, fortune-tellers,\nalchemists, rhymers, poets, painters, projectors, mathematicians,\nwatchmakers, sing-songs, musicianers, and the devil and all of others that\nare subject to Queen Whims (Motteux gives the following footnote:--'La\nQuinte, This means a fantastic Humour, Maggots, or a foolish Giddiness of\nBrains; and also, a fifth, or the Proportion of Five in music, &c.').  They\nhave very fair legible patents to show for't, as anybody may see.  Panurge\nhad no sooner heard this but he was upon the high-rope, and began to rail\nat them like mad.  What o' devil d'ye mean, cried he, to sit idly here like\na pack of loitering sneaksbies, and see us stranded, while you may help us,\nand tow us off into the current?  A plague o' your whims! you can make all\nthings whatsoever, they say, so much as good weather and little children;\nyet won't make haste to fasten some hawsers and cables, and get us off.  I\nwas just coming to set you afloat, quoth Harry Cotiral; by Trismegistus,\nI'll clear you in a trice.  With this he caused 7,532,810 huge drums to be\nunheaded on one side, and set that open side so that it faced the end of\nthe streamers and pendants; and having fastened them to good tacklings and\nour ship's head to the stern of theirs, with cables fastened to the bits\nabaft the manger in the ship's loof, they towed us off ground at one pull\nso easily and pleasantly that you'd have wondered at it had you been there.\nFor the dub-a-dub rattling of the drums, with the soft noise of the gravel\nwhich murmuring disputed us our way, and the merry cheers and huzzas of the\nsailors, made an harmony almost as good as that of the heavenly bodies when\nthey roll and are whirled round their spheres, which rattling of the\ncelestial wheels Plato said he heard some nights in his sleep.\n\nWe scorned to be behindhand with 'em in civility, and gratefully gave 'em\nstore of our sausages and chitterlings, with which we filled their drums;\nand we were just a-hoisting two-and-sixty hogsheads of wine out of the\nhold, when two huge whirlpools with great fury made towards their ship,\nspouting more water than is in the river Vienne (Vigenne) from Chinon to\nSaumur; to make short, all their drums, all their sails, their concerns,\nand themselves were soused, and their very hose were watered by the collar.\n\nPanurge was so overjoyed, seeing this, and laughed so heartily, that he was\nforced to hold his sides, and it set him into a fit of the colic for two\nhours and more.  I had a mind, quoth he, to make the dogs drink, and those\nhonest whirlpools, egad, have saved me that labour and that cost.  There's\nsauce for them; ariston men udor.  Water is good, saith a poet; let 'em\nPindarize upon't.  They never cared for fresh water but to wash their hands\nor their glasses.  This good salt water will stand 'em in good stead for\nwant of sal ammoniac and nitre in Geber's kitchen.\n\nWe could not hold any further discourse with 'em; for the former whirlwind\nhindered our ship from feeling the helm.  The pilot advised us\nhenceforwards to let her run adrift and follow the stream, not busying\nourselves with anything, but making much of our carcasses.  For our only\nway to arrive safe at the queendom of Whims was to trust to the whirlwind\nand be led by the current.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow we arrived at the queendom of Whims or Entelechy.\n\nWe did as he directed us for about twelve hours, and on the third day the\nsky seemed to us somewhat clearer, and we happily arrived at the port of\nMateotechny, not far distant from Queen Whims, alias the Quintessence.\n\nWe met full butt on the quay a great number of guards and other military\nmen that garrisoned the arsenal, and we were somewhat frighted at first\nbecause they made us all lay down our arms, and in a haughty manner asked\nus whence we came.\n\nCousin, quoth Panurge to him that asked the question, we are of Touraine,\nand come from France, being ambitious of paying our respects to the Lady\nQuintessence and visit this famous realm of Entelechy.\n\nWhat do you say? cried they; do you call it Entelechy or Endelechy?  Truly,\ntruly, sweet cousins, quoth Panurge, we are a silly sort of grout-headed\nlobcocks, an't please you; be so kind as to forgive us if we chance to\nknock words out of joint.  As for anything else, we are downright honest\nfellows and true hearts.\n\nWe have not asked you this question without a cause, said they; for a great\nnumber of others who have passed this way from your country of Touraine\nseemed as mere jolt-headed doddipolls as ever were scored o'er the coxcomb,\nyet spoke as correct as other folks.  But there has been here from other\ncountries a pack of I know not what overweening self-conceited prigs, as\nmoody as so many mules and as stout as any Scotch lairds, and nothing would\nserve these, forsooth, but they must wilfully wrangle and stand out against\nus at their coming; and much they got by it after all.  Troth, we e'en\nfitted them and clawed 'em off with a vengeance, for all they looked so big\nand so grum.\n\nPray tell me, does your time lie so heavy upon you in your world that you\ndo not know how to bestow it better than in thus impudently talking,\ndisputing, and writing of our sovereign lady?  There was much need that\nyour Tully, the consul, should go and leave the care of his commonwealth to\nbusy himself idly about her; and after him your Diogenes Laertius, the\nbiographer, and your Theodorus Gaza, the philosopher, and your Argiropilus,\nthe emperor, and your Bessario, the cardinal, and your Politian, the\npedant, and your Budaeus, the judge, and your Lascaris, the ambassador, and\nthe devil and all of those you call lovers of wisdom; whose number, it\nseems, was not thought great enough already, but lately your Scaliger,\nBigot, Chambrier, Francis Fleury, and I cannot tell how many such other\njunior sneaking fly-blows must take upon 'em to increase it.\n\nA squinsy gripe the cod's-headed changelings at the swallow and eke at the\ncover-weasel; we shall make 'em--But the deuce take 'em!  (They flatter the\ndevil here, and smoothify his name, quoth Panurge, between his teeth.)  You\ndon't come here, continued the captain, to uphold 'em in their folly; you\nhave no commission from 'em to this effect; well then, we will talk no more\non't.\n\nAristotle, that first of men and peerless pattern of all philosophy, was\nour sovereign lady's godfather, and wisely and properly gave her the name\nof Entelechy.  Her true name then is Entelechy, and may he be in tail\nbeshit, and entail a shit-a-bed faculty and nothing else on his family, who\ndares call her by any other name; for whoever he is, he does her wrong, and\nis a very impudent person.  You are heartily welcome, gentlemen.  With\nthis they colled and clipped us about the neck, which was no small comfort\nto us, I'll assure you.\n\nPanurge then whispered me, Fellow-traveller, quoth he, hast thou not been\nsomewhat afraid this bout?  A little, said I.  To tell you the truth of it,\nquoth he, never were the Ephraimites in a greater fear and quandary when\nthe Gileadites killed and drowned them for saying sibboleth instead of\nshibboleth; and among friends, let me tell you that perhaps there is not a\nman in the whole country of Beauce but might easily have stopped my\nbunghole with a cartload of hay.\n\nThe captain afterwards took us to the queen's palace, leading us silently\nwith great formality.  Pantagruel would have said something to him, but the\nother, not being able to come up to his height, wished for a ladder or a\nvery long pair of stilts; then said, Patience, if it were our sovereign\nlady's will, we would be as tall as you; well, we shall when she pleases.\n\nIn the first galleries we saw great numbers of sick persons, differently\nplaced according to their maladies.  The leprous were apart; those that\nwere poisoned on one side; those that had got the plague on another; those\nthat had the pox in the first rank, and the rest accordingly.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Quintessence cured the sick with a song.\n\nThe captain showed us the queen, attended with her ladies and gentlemen, in\nthe second gallery.  She looked young, though she was at least eighteen\nhundred years old, and was handsome, slender, and as fine as a queen, that\nis, as hands could make her.  He then said to us:  It is not yet a fit time\nto speak to the queen; be you but mindful of her doings in the meanwhile.\n\nYou have kings in your world that fantastically pretend to cure some\ncertain diseases, as, for example, scrofula or wens, swelled throats,\nnicknamed the king's evil, and quartan agues, only with a touch; now our\nqueen cures all manner of diseases without so much as touching the sick,\nbut barely with a song, according to the nature of the distemper.  He then\nshowed us a set of organs, and said that when it was touched by her those\nmiraculous cures were performed.  The organ was indeed the strangest that\never eyes beheld; for the pipes were of cassia fistula in the cod; the top\nand cornice of guiacum; the bellows of rhubarb; the pedas of turbith, and\nthe clavier or keys of scammony.\n\nWhile we were examining this wonderful new make of an organ, the leprous\nwere brought in by her abstractors, spodizators, masticators, pregustics,\ntabachins, chachanins, neemanins, rabrebans, nercins, rozuins, nebidins,\ntearins, segamions, perarons, chasinins, sarins, soteins, aboth, enilins,\narchasdarpenins, mebins, chabourins, and other officers, for whom I want\nnames; so she played 'em I don't know what sort of a tune or song, and they\nwere all immediately cured.\n\nThen those who were poisoned were had in, and she had no sooner given them\na song but they began to find a use for their legs, and up they got.  Then\ncame on the deaf, the blind, and the dumb, and they too were restored to\ntheir lost faculties and senses with the same remedy; which did so\nstrangely amaze us (and not without reason, I think) that down we fell on\nour faces, remaining prostrate, like men ravished in ecstasy, and were not\nable to utter one word through the excess of our admiration, till she came,\nand having touched Pantagruel with a fine fragrant nosegay of white roses\nwhich she held in her hand, thus made us recover our senses and get up.\nThen she made us the following speech in byssin words, such as Parisatis\ndesired should be spoken to her son Cyrus, or at least of crimson alamode:\n\nThe probity that scintillizes in the superfices of your persons informs my\nratiocinating faculty, in a most stupendous manner, of the radiant virtues\nlatent within the precious caskets and ventricles of your minds.  For,\ncontemplating the mellifluous suavity of your thrice discreet reverences,\nit is impossible not to be persuaded with facility that neither your\naffections nor your intellects are vitiated with any defect or privation of\nliberal and exalted sciences.  Far from it, all must judge that in you are\nlodged a cornucopia and encyclopaedia, an unmeasurable profundity of\nknowledge in the most peregrine and sublime disciplines, so frequently the\nadmiration, and so rarely the concomitants of the imperite vulgar.  This\ngently compels me, who in preceding times indefatigably kept my private\naffections absolutely subjugated, to condescend to make my application to\nyou in the trivial phrase of the plebeian world, and assure you that you\nare well, more than most heartily welcome.\n\nI have no hand at making of speeches, quoth Panurge to me privately;\nprithee, man, make answer to her for us, if thou canst.  This would not\nwork with me, however; neither did Pantagruel return a word.  So that Queen\nWhims, or Queen Quintessence (which you please), perceiving that we stood\nas mute as fishes, said:  Your taciturnity speaks you not only disciples of\nPythagoras, from whom the venerable antiquity of my progenitors in\nsuccessive propagation was emaned and derives its original, but also\ndiscovers, that through the revolution of many retrograde moons, you have\nin Egypt pressed the extremities of your fingers with the hard tenants of\nyour mouths, and scalptized your heads with frequent applications of your\nunguicules.  In the school of Pythagoras, taciturnity was the symbol of\nabstracted and superlative knowledge, and the silence of the Egyptians was\nagnited as an expressive manner of divine adoration; this caused the\npontiffs of Hierapolis to sacrifice to the great deity in silence,\nimpercussively, without any vociferous or obstreperous sound.  My design is\nnot to enter into a privation of gratitude towards you, but by a vivacious\nformality, though matter were to abstract itself from me, excentricate to\nyou my cogitations.\n\nHaving spoken this, she only said to her officers, Tabachins, a panacea;\nand straight they desired us not to take it amiss if the queen did not\ninvite us to dine with her; for she never ate anything at dinner but some\ncategories, jecabots, emnins, dimions, abstractions, harborins, chelemins,\nsecond intentions, carradoths, antitheses, metempsychoses, transcendent\nprolepsies, and such other light food.\n\nThen they took us into a little closet lined through with alarums, where we\nwere treated God knows how.  It is said that Jupiter writes whatever is\ntransacted in the world on the dipthera or skin of the Amalthaean goat that\nsuckled him in Crete, which pelt served him instead of a shield against the\nTitans, whence he was nicknamed Aegiochos.  Now, as I hate to drink water,\nbrother topers, I protest it would be impossible to make eighteen goatskins\nhold the description of all the good meat they brought before us, though it\nwere written in characters as small as those in which were penned Homer's\nIliads, which Tully tells us he saw enclosed in a nutshell.\n\nFor my part, had I one hundred mouths, as many tongues, a voice of iron, a\nheart of oak, and lungs of leather, together with the mellifluous abundance\nof Plato, yet I never could give you a full account of a third part of a\nsecond of the whole.\n\nPantagruel was telling me that he believed the queen had given the symbolic\nword used among her subjects to denote sovereign good cheer, when she said\nto her tabachins, A panacea; just as Lucullus used to say, In Apollo, when\nhe designed to give his friends a singular treat; though sometimes they\ntook him at unawares, as, among the rest, Cicero and Hortensius sometimes\nused to do.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Queen passed her time after dinner.\n\nWhen we had dined, a chachanin led us into the queen's hall, and there we\nsaw how, after dinner, with the ladies and the princes of her court, she\nused to sift, searce, bolt, range, and pass away time with a fine large\nwhite and blue silk sieve.  We also perceived how they revived ancient\nsports, diverting themselves together at--\n\n1.  Cordax.      6.  Phrygia.        11.  Monogas.\n2.  Emmelia.     7.  Thracia.        12.  Terminalia.\n3.  Sicinnia.    8.  Calabrisme.     13.  Floralia.\n4.  Jambics.     9.  Molossia.       14.  Pyrrhice.\n5.  Persica.    10.  Cernophorum.    15.  (Nicatism.)\n            And a thousand other dances.\n\n(Motteux has the following footnote:--'1. A sort of country-dance.  2. A\nstill tragic dance.  3. Dancing and singing used at funerals.  4. Cutting\nsarcasms and lampoons.  5. The Persian dance.  6. Tunes, whose measure\ninspired men with a kind of divine fury.  7. The Thracian movement.  8.\nSmutty verses.  9. A measure to which the Molossi of Epirus danced a\ncertain morrice.  10. A dance with bowls or pots in their hands.  11. A\nsong where one sings alone.  12. Sports at the holidays of the god of\nbounds.  13. Dancing naked at Flora's holidays.  14. The Trojan dance in\narmour.')\n\nAfterwards she gave orders that they should show us the apartments and\ncuriosities in her palace.  Accordingly we saw there such new, strange, and\nwonderful things, that I am still ravished in admiration every time I think\nof't.  However, nothing surprised us more than what was done by the\ngentlemen of her household, abstractors, parazons, nebidins, spodizators,\nand others, who freely and without the least dissembling told us that the\nqueen their mistress did all impossible things, and cured men of incurable\ndiseases; and they, her officers, used to do the rest.\n\nI saw there a young parazon cure many of the new consumption, I mean the\npox, though they were never so peppered.  Had it been the rankest Roan ague\n(Anglice, the Covent-garden gout), 'twas all one to him; touching only\ntheir dentiform vertebrae thrice with a piece of a wooden shoe, he made\nthem as wholesome as so many sucking-pigs.\n\nAnother did thoroughly cure folks of dropsies, tympanies, ascites, and\nhyposarcides, striking them on the belly nine times with a Tenedian\nhatchet, without any solution of the continuum.\n\nAnother cured all manner of fevers and agues on the spot, only with hanging\na fox-tail on the left side of the patient's girdle.\n\nOne removed the toothache only with washing thrice the root of the aching\ntooth with elder-vinegar, and letting it dry half-an-hour in the sun.\n\nAnother the gout, whether hot or cold, natural or accidental, by barely\nmaking the gouty person shut his mouth and open his eyes.\n\nI saw another ease nine gentlemen of St. Francis's distemper ('A\nconsumption in the pocket, or want of money; those of St. Francis's order\nmust carry none about 'em.'--Motteux.) in a very short space of time,\nhaving clapped a rope about their necks, at the end of which hung a box\nwith ten thousand gold crowns in't.\n\nOne with a wonderful engine threw the houses out at the windows, by which\nmeans they were purged of all pestilential air.\n\nAnother cured all the three kinds of hectics, the tabid, atrophes, and\nemaciated, without bathing, Tabian milk, dropax, alias depilatory, or other\nsuch medicaments, only turning the consumptive for three months into monks;\nand he assured me that if they did not grow fat and plump in a monastic way\nof living, they never would be fattened in this world, either by nature or\nby art.\n\nI saw another surrounded with a crowd of two sorts of women.  Some were\nyoung, quaint, clever, neat, pretty, juicy, tight, brisk, buxom, proper,\nkind-hearted, and as right as my leg, to any man's thinking.  The rest were\nold, weather-beaten, over-ridden, toothless, blear-eyed, tough, wrinkled,\nshrivelled, tawny, mouldy, phthisicky, decrepit hags, beldams, and walking\ncarcasses.  We were told that his office was to cast anew those she-pieces\nof antiquity, and make them such as the pretty creatures whom we saw, who\nhad been made young again that day, recovering at once the beauty, shape,\nsize, and disposition which they enjoyed at sixteen; except their heels,\nthat were now much shorter than in their former youth.\n\nThis made them yet more apt to fall backwards whenever any man happened to\ntouch 'em, than they had been before.  As for their counterparts, the old\nmother-scratch-tobies, they most devoutly waited for the blessed hour when\nthe batch that was in the oven was to be drawn, that they might have their\nturns, and in a mighty haste they were pulling and hauling the man like\nmad, telling him that 'tis the most grievous and intolerable thing in\nnature for the tail to be on fire and the head to scare away those who\nshould quench it.\n\nThe officer had his hands full, never wanting patients; neither did his\nplace bring him in little, you may swear.  Pantagruel asked him whether he\ncould also make old men young again.  He said he could not.  But the way to\nmake them new men was to get 'em to cohabit with a new-cast female; for\nthis they caught that fifth kind of crinckams, which some call pellade, in\nGreek, ophiasis, that makes them cast off their old hair and skin, just as\nthe serpents do, and thus their youth is renewed like the Arabian\nphoenix's.  This is the true fountain of youth, for there the old and\ndecrepit become young, active, and lusty.\n\nJust so, as Euripides tells us, Iolaus was transmogrified; and thus Phaon,\nfor whom kind-hearted Sappho run wild, grew young again, for Venus's use;\nso Tithon by Aurora's means; so Aeson by Medea, and Jason also, who, if\nyou'll believe Pherecides and Simonides, was new-vamped and dyed by that\nwitch; and so were the nurses of jolly Bacchus, and their husbands, as\nAeschylus relates.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow Queen Whims' officers were employed; and how the said lady retained us\namong her abstractors.\n\nI then saw a great number of the queen's officers, who made blackamoors\nwhite as fast as hops, just rubbing their bellies with the bottom of a\npannier.\n\nOthers, with three couples of foxes in one yoke, ploughed a sandy shore,\nand did not lose their seed.\n\nOthers washed burnt tiles, and made them lose their colour.\n\nOthers extracted water out of pumice-stones, braying them a good while in a\nmortar, and changed their substance.\n\nOthers sheared asses, and thus got long fleece wool.\n\nOthers gathered barberries and figs off of thistles.\n\nOthers stroked he-goats by the dugs, and saved their milk in a sieve; and\nmuch they got by it.\n\n(Others washed asses' heads without losing their soap.)\n\nOthers taught cows to dance, and did not lose their fiddling.\n\nOthers pitched nets to catch the wind, and took cock-lobsters in them.\n\nI saw a spodizator, who very artificially got farts out of a dead ass, and\nsold 'em for fivepence an ell.\n\nAnother did putrefy beetles.  O the dainty food!\n\nPoor Panurge fairly cast up his accounts, and gave up his halfpenny (i.e.\nvomited), seeing an archasdarpenin who laid a huge plenty of chamber lye to\nputrefy in horsedung, mishmashed with abundance of Christian sir-reverence.\nPugh, fie upon him, nasty dog!  However, he told us that with this sacred\ndistillation he watered kings and princes, and made their sweet lives a\nfathom or two the longer.\n\nOthers built churches to jump over the steeples.\n\nOthers set carts before the horses, and began to flay eels at the tail;\nneither did the eels cry before they were hurt, like those of Melun.\n\nOthers out of nothing made great things, and made great things return to\nnothing.\n\nOthers cut fire into steaks with a knife, and drew water with a fish-net.\n\nOthers made chalk of cheese, and honey of a dog's t--d.\n\nWe saw a knot of others, about a baker's dozen in number, tippling under an\narbour.  They toped out of jolly bottomless cups four sorts of cool,\nsparkling, pure, delicious, vine-tree sirup, which went down like mother's\nmilk; and healths and bumpers flew about like lightning.  We were told that\nthese true philosophers were fairly multiplying the stars by drinking till\nthe seven were fourteen, as brawny Hercules did with Atlas.\n\nOthers made a virtue of necessity, and the best of a bad market, which\nseemed to me a very good piece of work.\n\nOthers made alchemy (i.e. sir-reverence) with their teeth, and clapping\ntheir hind retort to the recipient, made scurvy faces, and then squeezed.\n\nOthers, in a large grass plot, exactly measured how far the fleas could go\nat a hop, a step, and jump; and told us that this was exceedingly useful\nfor the ruling of kingdoms, the conduct of armies, and the administration\nof commonwealths; and that Socrates, who first got philosophy out of\nheaven, and from idling and trifling made it profitable and of moment, used\nto spend half his philosophizing time in measuring the leaps of fleas, as\nAristophanes the quintessential affirms.\n\nI saw two gibroins by themselves keeping watch on the top of a tower, and\nwe were told they guarded the moon from the wolves.\n\nIn a blind corner I met four more very hot at it, and ready to go to\nloggerheads.  I asked what was the cause of the stir and ado, the mighty\ncoil and pother they made.  And I heard that for four livelong days those\noverwise roisters had been at it ding-dong, disputing on three high, more\nthan metaphysical propositions, promising themselves mountains of gold by\nsolving them.  The first was concerning a he-ass's shadow; the second, of\nthe smoke of a lantern; and the third of goat's hair, whether it were wool\nor no.  We heard that they did not think it a bit strange that two\ncontradictions in mode, form, figure, and time should be true; though I\nwill warrant the sophists of Paris had rather be unchristened than own so\nmuch.\n\nWhile we were admiring all those men's wonderful doings, the evening star\nalready twinkling, the queen (God bless her!) appeared, attended with her\ncourt, and again amazed and dazzled us.  She perceived it, and said to us:\n\nWhat occasions the aberrations of human cogitations through the perplexing\nlabyrinths and abysses of admiration, is not the source of the effects,\nwhich sagacious mortals visibly experience to be the consequential result\nof natural causes.  'Tis the novelty of the experiment which makes\nimpressions on their conceptive, cogitative faculties; that do not previse\nthe facility of the operation adequately, with a subact and sedate\nintellection, associated with diligent and congruous study.  Consequently\nlet all manner of perturbation abdicate the ventricles of your brains, if\nanyone has invaded them while they were contemplating what is transacted by\nmy domestic ministers.  Be spectators and auditors of every particular\nphenomenon and every individual proposition within the extent of my\nmansion; satiate yourselves with all that can fall here under the\nconsideration of your visual or auscultating powers, and thus emancipate\nyourselves from the servitude of crassous ignorance.  And that you may be\ninduced to apprehend how sincerely I desire this in consideration of the\nstudious cupidity that so demonstratively emicates at your external organs,\nfrom this present particle of time I retain you as my abstractors.  Geber,\nmy principal Tabachin, shall register and initiate you at your departing.\n\nWe humbly thanked her queenship without saying a word, accepting of the\nnoble office she conferred on us.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the Queen was served at dinner, and of her way of eating.\n\nQueen Whims after this said to her gentlemen:  The orifice of the\nventricle, that ordinary embassador for the alimentation of all members,\nwhether superior or inferior, importunes us to restore, by the apposition\nof idoneous sustenance, what was dissipated by the internal calidity's\naction on the radical humidity.  Therefore spodizators, gesinins, memains,\nand parazons, be not culpable of dilatory protractions in the apposition of\nevery re-roborating species, but rather let them pullulate and superabound\non the tables.  As for you, nobilissim praegustators, and my gentilissim\nmasticators, your frequently experimented industry, internected with\nperdiligent sedulity and sedulous perdiligence, continually adjuvates you\nto perficiate all things in so expeditious a manner that there is no\nnecessity of exciting in you a cupidity to consummate them.  Therefore I\ncan only suggest to you still to operate as you are assuefacted\nindefatigably to operate.\n\nHaving made this fine speech, she retired for a while with part of her\nwomen, and we were told that 'twas to bathe, as the ancients did more\ncommonly than we use nowadays to wash our hands before we eat.  The tables\nwere soon placed, the cloth spread, and then the queen sat down.  She ate\nnothing but celestial ambrosia, and drank nothing but divine nectar.  As\nfor the lords and ladies that were there, they, as well as we, fared on as\nrare, costly, and dainty dishes as ever Apicius wot or dreamed of in his\nlife.\n\nWhen we were as round as hoops, and as full as eggs, with stuffing the gut,\nan olla podrida ('Some call it an Olio.  Rabelais Pot-pourry.'--Motteux.)\nwas set before us to force hunger to come to terms with us, in case it had\nnot granted us a truce; and such a huge vast thing it was that the plate\nwhich Pythius Althius gave King Darius would hardly have covered it.  The\nolla consisted of several sorts of pottages, salads, fricassees,\nsaugrenees, cabirotadoes, roast and boiled meat, carbonadoes, swingeing\npieces of powdered beef, good old hams, dainty somates, cakes, tarts, a\nworld of curds after the Moorish way, fresh cheese, jellies, and fruit of\nall sorts.  All this seemed to me good and dainty; however, the sight of it\nmade me sigh; for alas! I could not taste a bit on't, so full I had filled\nmy puddings before, and a bellyful is a bellyful you know.  Yet I must tell\nyou what I saw that seemed to me odd enough o' conscience; 'twas some\npasties in paste; and what should those pasties in paste be, d'ye think,\nbut pasties in pots?  At the bottom I perceived store of dice, cards,\ntarots ('Great cards on which many different things are figured.'\n--Motteux.), luettes ('Pieces of ivory to play withal.'--Motteux.),\nchessmen, and chequers, besides full bowls of gold crowns, for those who had\na mind to have a game or two and try their chance.  Under this I saw a jolly\ncompany of mules in stately trappings, with velvet footcloths, and a troop\nof ambling nags, some for men and some for women; besides I don't know how\nmany litters all lined with velvet, and some coaches of Ferrara make; all\nthis for those who had a mind to take the air.\n\nThis did not seem strange to me; but if anything did 'twas certainly the\nqueen's way of eating, and truly 'twas very new, and very odd; for she\nchewed nothing, the good lady; not but that she had good sound teeth, and\nher meat required to be masticated, but such was her highness's custom.\nWhen her praegustators had tasted the meat, her masticators took it and\nchewed it most nobly; for their dainty chops and gullets were lined through\nwith crimson satin, with little welts and gold purls, and their teeth were\nof delicate white ivory.  Thus, when they had chewed the meat ready for her\nhighness's maw, they poured it down her throat through a funnel of fine\ngold, and so on to her craw.  For that reason they told us she never\nvisited a close-stool but by proxy.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow there was a ball in the manner of a tournament, at which Queen Whims\nwas present.\n\nAfter supper there was a ball in the form of a tilt or a tournament, not\nonly worth seeing, but also never to be forgotten.  First, the floor of the\nhall was covered with a large piece of velveted white and yellow chequered\ntapestry, each chequer exactly square, and three full spans in breadth.\n\nThen thirty-two young persons came into the hall; sixteen of them arrayed\nin cloth of gold, and of these eight were young nymphs such as the ancients\ndescribed Diana's attendants; the other eight were a king, a queen, two\nwardens of the castle, two knights, and two archers.  Those of the other\nband were clad in cloth of silver.\n\nThey posted themselves on the tapestry in the following manner:  the kings\non the last line on the fourth square; so that the golden king was on a\nwhite square, and the silvered king on a yellow square, and each queen by\nher king; the golden queen on a yellow square, and the silvered queen on a\nwhite one:  and on each side stood the archers to guide their kings and\nqueens; by the archers the knights, and the wardens by them.  In the next\nrow before 'em stood the eight nymphs; and between the two bands of nymphs\nfour rows of squares stood empty.\n\nEach band had its musicians, eight on each side, dressed in its livery; the\none with orange-coloured damask, the other with white; and all played on\ndifferent instruments most melodiously and harmoniously, still varying in\ntime and measure as the figure of the dance required.  This seemed to me an\nadmirable thing, considering the numerous diversity of steps, back-steps,\nbounds, rebounds, jerks, paces, leaps, skips, turns, coupes, hops,\nleadings, risings, meetings, flights, ambuscadoes, moves, and removes.\n\nI was also at a loss when I strove to comprehend how the dancers could so\nsuddenly know what every different note meant; for they no sooner heard\nthis or that sound but they placed themselves in the place which was\ndenoted by the music, though their motions were all different.  For the\nnymphs that stood in the first file, as if they designed to begin the\nfight, marched straight forwards to their enemies from square to square,\nunless it were the first step, at which they were free to move over two\nsteps at once.  They alone never fall back (which is not very natural to\nother nymphs), and if any of them is so lucky as to advance to the opposite\nking's row, she is immediately crowned queen of her king, and after that\nmoves with the same state and in the same manner as the queen; but till\nthat happens they never strike their enemies but forwards, and obliquely in\na diagonal line.  However, they make it not their chief business to take\ntheir foes; for, if they did, they would leave their queen exposed to the\nadverse parties, who then might take her.\n\nThe kings move and take their enemies on all sides square-ways, and only\nstep from a white square into a yellow one, and vice versa, except at their\nfirst step the rank should want other officers than the wardens; for then\nthey can set 'em in their place, and retire by him.\n\nThe queens take a greater liberty than any of the rest; for they move\nbackwards and forwards all manner of ways, in a straight line as far as\nthey please, provided the place be not filled with one of her own party,\nand diagonally also, keeping to the colour on which she stands.\n\nThe archers move backwards or forwards, far and near, never changing the\ncolour on which they stand.  The knights move and take in a lineal manner,\nstepping over one square, though a friend or foe stand upon it, posting\nthemselves on the second square to the right or left, from one colour to\nanother, which is very unwelcome to the adverse party, and ought to be\ncarefully observed, for they take at unawares.\n\nThe wardens move and take to the right or left, before or behind them, like\nthe kings, and can advance as far as they find places empty; which liberty\nthe kings take not.\n\nThe law which both sides observe is, at the end of the fight, to besiege\nand enclose the king of either party, so that he may not be able to move;\nand being reduced to that extremity, the battle is over, and he loses the\nday.\n\nNow, to avoid this, there is none of either sex of each party but is\nwilling to sacrifice his or her life, and they begin to take one another on\nall sides in time, as soon as the music strikes up.  When anyone takes a\nprisoner, he makes his honours, and striking him gently in the hand, puts\nhim out of the field and combat, and encamps where he stood.\n\nIf one of the kings chance to stand where he might be taken, it is not\nlawful for any of his adversaries that had discovered him to lay hold on\nhim; far from it, they are strictly enjoined humbly to pay him their\nrespects, and give him notice, saying, God preserve you, sir! that his\nofficers may relieve and cover him, or he may remove, if unhappily he could\nnot be relieved.  However, he is not to be taken, but greeted with a\nGood-morrow, the others bending the knee; and thus the tournament uses\nto end.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow the thirty-two persons at the ball fought.\n\nThe two companies having taken their stations, the music struck up, and\nwith a martial sound, which had something of horrid in it, like a point of\nwar, roused and alarmed both parties, who now began to shiver, and then\nsoon were warmed with warlike rage; and having got in readiness to fight\ndesperately, impatient of delay stood waiting for the charge.\n\nThen the music of the silvered band ceased playing, and the instruments of\nthe golden side alone were heard, which denoted that the golden party\nattacked.  Accordingly, a new movement was played for the onset, and we saw\nthe nymph who stood before the queen turn to the left towards her king, as\nit were to ask leave to fight; and thus saluting her company at the same\ntime, she moved two squares forwards, and saluted the adverse party.\n\nNow the music of the golden brigade ceased playing, and their antagonists\nbegan again.  I ought to have told you that the nymph who began by saluting\nher company, had by that formality also given them to understand that they\nwere to fall on.  She was saluted by them in the same manner, with a full\nturn to the left, except the queen, who went aside towards her king to the\nright; and the same manner of salutation was observed on both sides during\nthe whole ball.\n\nThe silvered nymph that stood before her queen likewise moved as soon as\nthe music of her party sounded a charge; her salutations, and those of her\nside, were to the right, and her queen's to the left.  She moved in the\nsecond square forwards, and saluted her antagonists, facing the first\ngolden nymph; so that there was not any distance between them, and you\nwould have thought they two had been going to fight; but they only strike\nsideways.\n\nTheir comrades, whether silvered or golden, followed 'em in an intercalary\nfigure, and seemed to skirmish a while, till the golden nymph who had first\nentered the lists, striking a silvered nymph in the hand on the right, put\nher out of the field, and set herself in her place.  But soon the music\nplaying a new measure, she was struck by a silvered archer, who after that\nwas obliged himself to retire.  A silvered knight then sallied out, and the\ngolden queen posted herself before her king.\n\nThen the silvered king, dreading the golden queen's fury, removed to the\nright, to the place where his warden stood, which seemed to him strong and\nwell guarded.\n\nThe two knights on the left, whether golden or silvered, marched up, and on\neither side took up many nymphs who could not retreat; principally the\ngolden knight, who made this his whole business; but the silvered knight\nhad greater designs, dissembling all along, and even sometimes not taking a\nnymph when he could have done it, still moving on till he was come up to\nthe main body of the enemies in such a manner that he saluted their king\nwith a God save you, sir!\n\nThe whole golden brigade quaked for fear and anger, those words giving\nnotice of their king's danger; not but that they could soon relieve him,\nbut because their king being thus saluted they were to lose their warden on\nthe right wing without any hopes of a recovery.  Then the golden king\nretired to the left, and the silvered knight took the golden warden, which\nwas a mighty loss to that party.  However, they resolved to be revenged,\nand surrounded the knight that he might not escape.  He tried to get off,\nbehaving himself with a great deal of gallantry, and his friends did what\nthey could to save him; but at last he fell into the golden queen's hands,\nand was carried off.\n\nHer forces, not yet satisfied, having lost one of her best men, with more\nfury than conduct moved about, and did much mischief among their enemies.\nThe silvered party warily dissembled, watching their opportunity to be even\nwith them, and presented one of their nymphs to the golden queen, having\nlaid an ambuscado; so that the nymph being taken, a golden archer had like\nto have seized the silvered queen.  Then the golden knight undertakes to\ntake the silvered king and queen, and says, Good-morrow!  Then the silvered\narcher salutes them, and was taken by a golden nymph, and she herself by a\nsilvered one.\n\nThe fight was obstinate and sharp.  The wardens left their posts, and\nadvanced to relieve their friends.  The battle was doubtful, and victory\nhovered over both armies.  Now the silvered host charge and break through\ntheir enemy's ranks as far as the golden king's tent, and now they are\nbeaten back.  The golden queen distinguishes herself from the rest by her\nmighty achievements still more than by her garb and dignity; for at once\nshe takes an archer, and, going sideways, seizes a silvered warden.  Which\nthing the silvered queen perceiving, she came forwards, and, rushing on\nwith equal bravery, takes the last golden warden and some nymphs.  The two\nqueens fought a long while hand to hand; now striving to take each other by\nsurprise, then to save themselves, and sometimes to guard their kings.\nFinally, the golden queen took the silvered queen; but presently after she\nherself was taken by the silvered archer.\n\nThen the silvered king had only three nymphs, an archer, and a warden left,\nand the golden only three nymphs and the right knight, which made them\nfight more slowly and warily than before.  The two kings seemed to mourn\nfor the loss of their loving queens, and only studied and endeavoured to\nget new ones out of all their nymphs to be raised to that dignity, and thus\nbe married to them.  This made them excite those brave nymphs to strive to\nreach the farthest rank, where stood the king of the contrary party,\npromising them certainly to have them crowned if they could do this.  The\ngolden nymphs were beforehand with the others, and out of their number was\ncreated a queen, who was dressed in royal robes, and had a crown set on her\nhead.  You need not doubt the silvered nymphs made also what haste they\ncould to be queens.  One of them was within a step of the coronation place,\nbut there the golden knight lay ready to intercept her, so that she could\ngo no further.\n\nThe new golden queen, resolved to show herself valiant and worthy of her\nadvancement to the crown, achieved great feats of arms.  But in the\nmeantime the silvered knight takes the golden warden who guarded the camp;\nand thus there was a new silvered queen, who, like the other, strove to\nexcel in heroic deeds at the beginning of her reign.  Thus the fight grew\nhotter than before.  A thousand stratagems, charges, rallyings, retreats,\nand attacks were tried on both sides; till at last the silvered queen,\nhaving by stealth advanced as far as the golden king's tent, cried, God\nsave you, sir!  Now none but his new queen could relieve him; so she\nbravely came and exposed herself to the utmost extremity to deliver him out\nof it.  Then the silvered warden with his queen reduced the golden king to\nsuch a stress that, to save himself, he was forced to lose his queen; but\nthe golden king took him at last.  However, the rest of the golden party\nwere soon taken; and that king being left alone, the silvered party made\nhim a low bow, crying, Good morrow, sir! which denoted that the silvered\nking had got the day.\n\nThis being heard, the music of both parties loudly proclaimed the victory.\nAnd thus the first battle ended to the unspeakable joy of all the\nspectators.\n\nAfter this the two brigades took their former stations, and began to tilt a\nsecond time, much as they had done before, only the music played somewhat\nfaster than at the first battle, and the motions were altogether different.\nI saw the golden queen sally out one of the first, with an archer and a\nknight, as it were angry at the former defeat, and she had like to have\nfallen upon the silvered king in his tent among his officers; but having\nbeen baulked in her attempt, she skirmished briskly, and overthrew so many\nsilvered nymphs and officers that it was a most amazing sight.  You would\nhave sworn she had been another Penthesilea; for she behaved herself with\nas much bravery as that Amazonian queen did at Troy.\n\nBut this havoc did not last long; for the silvered party, exasperated by\ntheir loss, resolved to perish or stop her progress; and having posted an\narcher in ambuscado on a distant angle, together with a knight-errant, her\nhighness fell into their hands and was carried out of the field.  The rest\nwere soon routed after the taking of their queen, who, without doubt, from\nthat time resolved to be more wary and keep near her king, without\nventuring so far amidst her enemies unless with more force to defend her.\nThus the silvered brigade once more got the victory.\n\nThis did not dishearten or deject the golden party; far from it.  They soon\nappeared again in the field to face their enemies; and being posted as\nbefore, both the armies seemed more resolute and cheerful than ever.  Now\nthe martial concert began, and the music was above a hemiole the quicker,\naccording to the warlike Phrygian mode, such as was invented by Marsyas.\n\nThen our combatants began to wheel about, and charge with such a swiftness\nthat in an instant they made four moves, besides the usual salutations.  So\nthat they were continually in action, flying, hovering, jumping, vaulting,\ncurvetting, with petauristical turns and motions, and often intermingled.\n\nSeeing them then turn about on one foot after they had made their honours,\nwe compared them to your tops or gigs, such as boys use to whip about,\nmaking them turn round so swiftly that they sleep, as they call it, and\nmotion cannot be perceived, but resembles rest, its contrary; so that if\nyou make a point or mark on some part of one of those gigs, 'twill be\nperceived not as a point, but a continual line, in a most divine manner, as\nCusanus has wisely observed.\n\nWhile they were thus warmly engaged, we heard continually the claps and\nepisemapsies which those of the two bands reiterated at the taking of their\nenemies; and this, joined to the variety of their motions and music, would\nhave forced smiles out of the most severe Cato, the never-laughing Crassus,\nthe Athenian man-hater, Timon; nay, even whining Heraclitus, though he\nabhorred laughing, the action that is most peculiar to man.  For who could\nhave forborne? seeing those young warriors, with their nymphs and queens,\nso briskly and gracefully advance, retire, jump, leap, skip, spring, fly,\nvault, caper, move to the right, to the left, every way still in time, so\nswiftly, and yet so dexterously, that they never touched one another but\nmethodically.\n\nAs the number of the combatants lessened, the pleasure of the spectators\nincreased; for the stratagems and motions of the remaining forces were more\nsingular.  I shall only add that this pleasing entertainment charmed us to\nsuch a degree that our minds were ravished with admiration and delight, and\nthe martial harmony moved our souls so powerfully that we easily believed\nwhat is said of Ismenias's having excited Alexander to rise from table and\nrun to his arms, with such a warlike melody.  At last the golden king\nremained master of the field; and while we were minding those dances, Queen\nWhims vanished, so that we saw her no more from that day to this.\n\nThen Geber's michelots conducted us, and we were set down among her\nabstractors, as her queenship had commanded.  After that we returned to the\nport of Mateotechny, and thence straight aboard our ships; for the wind was\nfair, and had we not hoisted out of hand, we could hardly have got off in\nthree quarters of a moon in the wane.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHow we came to the island of Odes, where the ways go up and down.\n\nWe sailed before the wind, between a pair of courses, and in two days made\nthe island of Odes, at which place we saw a very strange thing.  The ways\nthere are animals; so true is Aristotle's saying, that all self-moving\nthings are animals.  Now the ways walk there.  Ergo, they are then animals.\nSome of them are strange unknown ways, like those of the planets; others\nare highways, crossways, and byways.  I perceived that the travellers and\ninhabitants of that country asked, Whither does this way go?  Whither does\nthat way go?  Some answered, Between Midy and Fevrolles, to the parish\nchurch, to the city, to the river, and so forth.  Being thus in their right\nway, they used to reach their journey's end without any further trouble,\njust like those who go by water from Lyons to Avignon or Arles.\n\nNow, as you know that nothing is perfect here below, we heard there was a\nsort of people whom they called highwaymen, waybeaters, and makers of\ninroads in roads; and that the poor ways were sadly afraid of them, and\nshunned them as you do robbers.  For these used to waylay them, as people\nlay trains for wolves, and set gins for woodcocks.  I saw one who was taken\nup with a lord chief justice's warrant for having unjustly, and in spite of\nPallas, taken the schoolway, which is the longest.  Another boasted that he\nhad fairly taken his shortest, and that doing so he first compassed his\ndesign.  Thus, Carpalin, meeting once Epistemon looking upon a wall with\nhis fiddle-diddle, or live urinal, in his hand, to make a little maid's\nwater, cried that he did not wonder now how the other came to be still the\nfirst at Pantagruel's levee, since he held his shortest and least used.\n\nI found Bourges highway among these.  It went with the deliberation of an\nabbot, but was made to scamper at the approach of some waggoners, who\nthreatened to have it trampled under their horses' feet, and make their\nwaggons run over it, as Tullia's chariot did over her father's body.\n\nI also espied there the old way between Peronne and St. Quentin, which\nseemed to me a very good, honest, plain way, as smooth as a carpet, and as\ngood as ever was trod upon by shoe of leather.\n\nAmong the rocks I knew again the good old way to La Ferrare, mounted on a\nhuge bear.  This at a distance would have put me in mind of St. Jerome's\npicture, had but the bear been a lion; for the poor way was all mortified,\nand wore a long hoary beard uncombed and entangled, which looked like the\npicture of winter, or at least like a white-frosted bush.\n\nOn that way were store of beads or rosaries, coarsely made of wild\npine-tree; and it seemed kneeling, not standing, nor lying flat; but its\nsides and middle were beaten with huge stones, insomuch that it proved to us\nat once an object of fear and pity.\n\nWhile we were examining it, a runner, bachelor of the place, took us aside,\nand showing us a white smooth way, somewhat filled with straw, said,\nHenceforth, gentlemen, do not reject the opi