Science Fiction: A Historical Anthology (Galaxy Books) [1 ed.] 0195032721, 9780195032727

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SCIENCE FICTION: A Historical Anthology

SCIENCE FICTION A Historical Anthology Edited and with Commentary by

Eric S. Rabkin University of Michigan

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS Oxford New York

Oxford University Press Oxford London Glasgow New York Toronto Melbourne Auckland Delhi Bombay Calcutta Madras Karachi Kuala Lumpur Singapore Hong Kong Tokyo Nairobi Dar es Salaam Cape Town and associate companies in Beirut

Berlin

Ibadan

Mexico City

Nicosia

Copyright © 1983 by Oxford University Press, Inc. First published by Oxford University Press, New York, 1983 First issued as an Oxford University Press paperback, 1983

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Main entry under title: Science fiction. 1. Science fiction. I. Rabkin, Eric S. PN6120.95.S33S35 1983 808.83'876 ISBN 0-19-503271-3 ISBN-13 978-0-19-503272-7 (pbk.) ISBN 0-19-503272-1 (pbk.)

Printed in the United States of America

82-14363

For Rachel

-

Preface

This anthology is intended to make available a full spectrum of science fiction materials and to place them in both a literary and a cultural context. Science fiction is the artistic twin of modern science, born with it after the Renaissance, growing with it through the Industrial Revolution, and finally—in our own daybecoming part of the fabric of our civilization. It is a literature that speaks of both the fears and the hopes of its times and of the times it sees emerging. A popular literature with mass appeal, science fiction has come in recent years to be seen too as a signifi¬ cant literature in its own right. With selections beginning when science fiction begins and others drawn from all the times down to our own, through brief critical and historical essays and through prefatory notes intended to create contexts for individual stories, this collection tries to convey a sense of the current variety and vigor of our most characteristic and wonderful literary form. Ann Arbor, Michigan October 17,1982

E.S.R.

VII

'

1

1

Contents

Introduction

y

Part 1: The Emergence of Modern Science Cyrano de Bergerac Jonathan Swift

From Other Worlds (1657)

From Gulliver’s Travels (1726)

Frangois Marie Arouet (Voltaire)

Micromegas (1752)

Part 2: Nineteenth Century E. T. A. Hoffmann

A Descent into the Maelstrom (1841)

The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar (1845) Nathaniel Hawthorne Edward Bellamy

Rappaccini’s Daughter (1844)

A Curious Fragment (1908)

Part 3: Early Twentieth Century H. G. Wells

The Star (1899)

Hugo Gernsback

33 30

73

112 134 131 161

From Looking Backward

“2000-1887” (1888) Jack London

13

From Frankenstein,

or The Modern Prometheus (1818) Edgar Allan Poe

9

71

The Sand-Man (1816)

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

3

From Ralph 124C 41+ (1911)

193 208

219 222 233

Contents

X

Abraham Merritt

The Last Poet and the

Robots (1934) John W. Campbell Olaf Stapledon

Twilight (1934)

From Star Maker (1937)

Part 4: The Golden Years (1940-1965)

Isaac Asimov

Reason (1941)

Clifford D. Simak Ray Bradbury Jack Finney

Desertion (1944)

The City (1950) The Third Level (1952)

Arthur C. Clarke Daniel Keyes

The Star (1955)

Flowers for Algernon (1959)

Robert A. Heinlein Frederick Pohl

All You Zombies— (1960)

Earth Eighteen (1966)

Part 5: The Modern Period

Roger Zelazny

For a Breath I Tarry (1966)

Harlan Ellison

I Have No Mouth and I Must

Scream (1967) Robert Sheckley

264 286

315 318 338 351 359 364 371 402 415

427 428

467

Can You Feel Anything When I

Do This? (1969) Ursula K. Le Guin Slow (1971)

Index

249

483

Vaster Than Empires and More 494

527

SCIENCE FICTION: A Historical Anthology

'

Introduction

/

Welcome to the world of science fiction 1 The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door. . . .

What had happened? Had there been a nuclear holocaust? An interplanetary war? A terrible man-made plague? What would happen? Would there enter the first of a race of horrible mu¬ tants? A conquering Martian? The last woman? Perhaps a for¬ lorn wind is merely swinging a torn tree limb against the door. This tiny story, usually attributed to Frederic Brown, exempli¬ fies much of what characterizes science fiction. The story con¬ cerns alienation, whether through the presence of an alien or the simple isolation of the human: humanity made strange in the world or the world made strange for humanity. The story is fantastic, reversing rules to gain attention: the last man on Earth should, at first thought, be in a situation that prohibits a knock on the door—but the knock comes nonetheless. The story calls up a background of science, quite different from the tone one would hear in a story that concerned simply “the last man ... in a room” and quite full of inventive possibilities. And the story functions in extremes to indulge what Sam Moskowitz calls “a sense of wonder”: this is not the next-to-last man in a life raft but the last representative of our race. Science fic¬ tion is a world of exaggerated drama. On our Earth, overloaded by change and inundated by vio¬ lence, drama often needs to be exaggerated to be felt at all. On 3

4

INTRODUCTION

a spinning globe smoldering with ambiguous conflicts between countries we once ignored, the clear good-and-evil battle for possession of a galaxy has made Star Wars the most financially successful film of all times. In cities terrorized by crime we see foreshadowings of A Clockwork Orange. At night, troubled by visions of biotechnology and industrialization gone beyond our comprehension, we grow fears that are given shape as The An¬ dromeda Strain and long for the good green safety of Silent Running. With so many machines let loose around us, even if no real monsters rise from Tokyo Bay, our “brave new world” seems ever more fearful, and the ancient wish for a Garden of Eden innocence becomes a poignant nostalgia for a time before we knew so much. Science fiction is sometimes exuberant about the young strength of new knowledge—the flash of light sabers delights us—but it is also fearful of the way the human mind has apparently set the world out of control. We want a simpler world. Light sabers, after all, are still sabers, the understandable weapons of lusty Vikings and handsome princes; the fairy tale needs to go on. Science fiction is everywhere in our dangerous world. All forms of art have their science fiction branches: motorized stat¬ uary, light show rock-and-roll, the impossible drawings of M. C. Escher. The alienation we all too often feel takes shape as the misunderstood monster (Frankenstein) or the outcast genius (Al¬ tered States) while the hopes we yet cherish continue to promise a transformation of humanity into something better than itself (Close Encounters). While once we prayed for miracles to save us from disasters, now we pray for “miracle cures” to save us from industrial cancers. We live at the very edge of a gleaming new future, but the year is 1984. The literature of all this ferment is vast and diverse, associ¬ ating in one section of the bookstore gloriously self-indulgent mass gratifications with thoughtful and difficult social commen¬ taries, vigorous tales of adventure with quiet ruminations on the difficulties of defining oneself in the world. The names of the subspecies include Sword-and-Sorcery, alternate time streams, utopian and dystopian literature, speculative fiction, lyric ro¬ mance, and doomsday fiction. The novels and short stories offer power fantasies, mystic experience, intellectual challenge, and

Introduction

5

always excitement. This wealth seems almost beyond definition. The easy—and perhaps appropriate—way to define science fiction is to approach it through sociology. Science fiction is what sells under the name of science fiction, and the needs it serves are those of its audience, a group for a time composed of almost all broadly literate readers. When Poe and Hawthorne wrote works we would now call science fiction, they spoke to widely sensed fears as do Pynchon and Calvino today. A more narrowly defined market study would force us to attend espe¬ cially to the enormously successful Verne and Wells and then to mass culture giants such as Edgar Ricfe Burroughs and “Doc” Smith. The reintegration of the mass culture with the elite cul¬ ture is a phenomenon of our times, dominated as they are by art produced through expensive technology but made afford¬ able by inexpensive duplication (films, records, comic books). Science fiction is now gathered in one place in the bookstore, but may also be scattered through the sections for general fic¬ tion, children’s literature, poetry, reference, and even religion and self-help. It turns up on calendars and T-shirts and in¬ structions for programming your home computer to run “Space Invaders.” Perhaps no single definition could do justice to this extraor¬ dinary wealth of production. Speaking primarily of its literary branches, different critics have attempted nonetheless to trace some order in this universe. Brian Aldiss has written of science fiction as a variety of Gothic romance; this definition is useful if we wish to emphasize the literary heritage and typical moods of much of science fiction. Darko Suvin calls science fiction the literature of “cognitive estrangement”; this definition is useful if we wish to emphasize the intellectual devices of much of sci¬ ence fiction. My definition of science fiction as the branch of fantastic literature that takes scientific knowledge as its back¬ ground is useful if we wish to emphasize the literary techniques and reader responses associated with much science fiction. While no single definition seems to have been fully satisfactory for all discussions, all definitions rely on the recognition that the worlds of science fiction are, often aggressively, not our world and yet, often quite subtly, the worlds of our inner doubts and wishes. A purist definition that once seemed appealing held that the

6

INTRODUCTION

ideal work of science fiction made one and only one assumption, preferably based on an unlikely but not absolutely impossible scientific notion, and “extrapolated” a narrative world from that, keeping all other rules of our world otherwise unchanged. Although no extended work ever fulfilled that definition, Wells’s novels came close. The Time Machine (1895) postulates the ve¬ hicle of its title, but the projected futures it reveals are based on ideas about human nature and society widely held at the time of writing. Yet even in a classic short story like "The Star,” Wells himself not only postulated a radical new astronomical event but, in the last paragraph, adds the postulation of a non-human race. As the progress of science has itself demonstrated, once one decides to start inventing, it is very difficult—if not impossible— to stop. Sometimes the unlikely assumption that characterizes sci¬ ence fiction, then, may be of the “Star Trek” kind: assuming a spaceship that can go absolutely anywhere, you can always de¬ cree a new planet that has anything you can think of. So much for careful extrapolation. The assumptions made by science fiction are usually those that do induce "wonder,” or at least supply us with drama so exaggerated that the symbolic power of the tales is assured: Frankenstein’s demon walks through our culture and Superman flies above it. Because the symbols of science fiction are so pal¬ pable they sometimes seem unsubtle; delicacy of characterization does sometimes fade in this strong light. Science fiction has often been criticized as a literature more concerned about “ideas” than about “characters”—as if that were an obvious faultl Sci¬ ence fiction is often about ideas, just as science is about knowing and the quest for knowing. The quest for knowing is the theme of much of our literature, a fundamental aspect of the tale of the Fall, of the myth of Prometheus, of the versions of Faust, and of all narratives of initiation and coming of age. Who would complain that the character of Prometheus is not drawn in the manner of the psychological realist or that we have no hints of Faust’s toilet training? In fact, many science fictions do deal with subtly defined characters, but the special hallmark of the field is that the characters live in dramas that speak to our whole culture or to whole aspects of the human condition, rather than to the particularities of a brief cultural moment in-

Introduction

7

tersecting a person at a fleeting stage of life. While so-called mainstream fiction is set in its own here-and-now, science fiction is removed into the there-and-then, the distant land or planet or galaxy, the future or past or sidewhen. Because such removal in¬ evitably affords contrast, exaggerated contrast, with our own world, science fiction becomes a literature not only of wonder, but. of commentary, not perhaps of character analysis, but of serious inquiry. What does it mean to suppose a government overwhelmingly more powerful than the citizenry? How can the act of invention change a person? Does the world look the same through the eyes of another? Science fictions may help readers explore their world, their society, their life, their vocation— these are among the highest uses of art. Just as no single definition can satisfactorily confine and de¬ scribe science fiction in the abstract, no modest anthology could exemplify science fiction in its fullness. Nonetheless, it is possi¬ ble to present some of the best of science fiction, some of its enormous variety, and suggest some of the ways in which the field has developed. Especially with that last aim in mind, this collection is organized historically. In Part 1, we see science fiction emerging as a vehicle for sat¬ ire, a literature constructed to highlight by contrast the foibles of the world of its readers and writers. Science fiction is particu¬ larly well suited to such contrasts because it simply postulates the most dramatic alternative worlds one might wish, and be¬ ginning in the seventeenth century science itself made such pos¬ tulation seem worth considering. By the nineteenth century, as we see in Part 2, the workings of science were already becoming problematic, calling human nature into question and suggesting how it might be improved or, more frequently, revealed as be¬ yond redemption. In the beginning of the twentieth century, well into the Industrial Revolution, science was remaking the world in surprising, sometimes hopeful, but often frightening, ways. The stories in Part 3 show fiction concerned with these de¬ velopments, aiming to help us outgrow our past selves and warn¬ ing against our insignificance and pride. Despite the technologi¬ cal successes coincident with and growing from the effort of World War II, the wide reading public became more scared by the bomb than delighted by penicillin. Besides, fiction need not

8

INTRODUCTION

help us learn to live with penicillin; something was clearly needed to help us live with the bomb. In Part 4, we see some vi¬ sions of science trying, and usually failing, to create a better world. In the expansive post-World War II period, such pes¬ simism was a minority view in mass literature and science fic¬ tion was a ghetto literature read by a small group of fans who often shared qualities of hope and timidity and alienation. This readership had grown out of the pulp readership of the earlier part of the century but was more literate and not nearly so mas¬ sive as had been the audience for Burroughs or as was the audi¬ ence for detective stories or Westerns, and certainly not so rep¬ resentative of the society at large as had been the audience of Wells or as would be the audience of Vonnegut. But by the modern period, when the world itself had in some sense become the world of science fiction, the literature of science fiction be¬ gan again to speak to everyone. In Part 5, we see stories that clearly grow out of the traditions of science fiction but that are readable by all. Science fiction can be connected to fanciful satire and uto¬ pian literature going all the way back to the ancients, but as a separately definable sort of literature it truly emerges in the sev¬ enteenth century, when science begins to take hold. The first ut¬ terly science fictional novel is perhaps Frankenstein (1818), a work that haunts our culture to this day. But our culture has come around to science, become defined by science, and what in the nineteenth century had developed as a separate thread in the fabric of literary history has been woven back into the whole cloth. Science fiction—its techniques and concerns and at¬ titudes—is now the common stock of all writers. How science fic¬ tion began, grew, and finally joined the society of letters is a historical question. This collection presents some of the materi¬ als from which to construct an answer.

PART 1

The Emergence of Modern Science y

Science today is typically seen as a tool, as a threat, and as a mysterious source of power, a fascinating constellation of at¬ tributes quite sufficient to prompt our hopes and fears and hence motivate our art, including our fiction. This constellation emerged over time; we can see some of that emergence in the works of this section: the excerpt from Cyrano’s Other Worlds is a satiric tool for philosophical speculation; the excerpt from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels is a recognition and ridiculing rejec¬ tion of the power of applying scientific speculation; and the short novel by Voltaire employs science, among other things, to speculate on the nature of the mystery of human life. In delin¬ eating these artistic possibilities, such early works of speculative fiction paved the way for the emergence of modern science fiction. Science fiction emerged, quite properly, when science did. The process took about half of recorded history. In the fourth century before Jesus, Aristotle lived and taught, producing, among other texts. To Organon (The Tool), an essay explaining how careful observation, what we now call empiricism, could lead to a much fuller and more powerful understanding of the world than could mere cogitation. Aristotle’s writings were a source of philosophic thought for centuries, serving as authority, benchmark, and spur for some of the most gifted minds of the following millennia. While Western civilization elaborated this “natural philosophy” of classification and observation, the socalled “mechanic arts” and what we might call trades and crafts 9

10

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

proceeded on their own, slowly developing the techniques that made possible human agriculture, manufacture, art, and econ¬ omy. In 1620, Francis Bacon published the Novum Organum (The New Tool) in which he urged the joining of these two areas, careful observation and theory, for the advancement of all human activities. Modern science was provided with a manifesto, and the evolution of science and technology became a revolution. The world after the Renaissance was, quite simply, different from the world before the Renaissance. Differences in worlds, whether created by history or by pur¬ poseful artists, automatically provide the occasion for com¬ mentary. Bertolt Brecht wanted theaters to produce committed social dramas, works of art that would provoke audiences to judge their societies. Brecht called for an art based on “aliena¬ tion.” When the alien walks among us, his very strangeness makes us reexamine our familiar lives; when we walk among aliens, we suddenly recognize what we usually and unconsciously take for granted. The potency of alienation in highlighting the too familiar is apparent even by the presence of so common an alien as a child. The toddler among the legs of adults makes us aware of our language, our rituals, our aims; an adult suddenly set down in a school yard feels how strange the world may be, even a world he once inhabited. How much greater is the effect of alienation when the visitor is a giant from a planet circling Sirius or when a person such as ourselves walks on the moon. Beginning with the seventeenth century, it became quite clear that science could change the world. It became reasonable then to produce science fictional worlds of art that were alien to our own, contrasting realities that commented upon our own reality. Nowadays, many people confuse the reality of which science speaks with reality in its entirety, as if the knowledge of quarks and behavioral psychology were enough to define the world. Maybe, just maybe, this will ultimately prove to be accurate; but, judging in terms of what our current science accepts, it is clear that early science was not a mere map of reality. Or, to put it in Renaissance terms, the maps of reality showed sea dragons on the boundaries with as much clarity as they did the capitals of Europe. What we see as fantasy today was often

The Emergence of Modem Science

11

granted in those days the same authority granted the science of those times. We all learn in school that Copernicus (1473-1543) revolu¬ tionized humanity’s view of its place in the universe by asserting that the Earth circled the sun and not the other way around. What we have learned is false. Copernicus revolutionized prac¬ tically nothing, but some scholars did read De revolutionibus and one of them, Galileo Galilei (1564-1642), made observations that confirmed the Copernican position, argued the implications of his observations, and got in trouble with the Roman Church. Only then, seventy years after Copdrnicus’s death, did the “revolution” become news. Before then, the Copernican and Catholic views simply coexisted. Another figure who was quite impressed by Copernicus was Johannes Kepler (1571-1630). Today he is best known for per¬ forming careful observations and making complex calculations that led to a crucial refinement of Copernicus’s position: the paths of the planets were not circles but ellipses. In his own day, however, Kepler was not known for this correction so much as he was known for discovering an astonishing “fact” about the solar system that confirmed God’s plan. In geometry, a regular solid is one the faces of which are formed by polygons of equal sides and which meet at equal angles. There are only five such: the four-sided tetrahedron, the faces of which are equilateral triangles; the six-sided cube, the faces of which are squares; the eight-sided octahedron, the faces of which are equilateral tri¬ angles; the twelve-sided dodecahedron, the faces of which are pentagons; and the twenty-sided icosahedron, the faces of which are equilateral triangles. Kepler assumed that the universe fol¬ lowed a divine plan, and he “knew” that there were only five planets, so he inscribed the regular solids one inside the other, computed the ratios of their radii and—miracle of miracles— the ratios matched exactly the ratios of the radii of the planets in the Copernican system! What hath God wrought? We now “know,” of course, that there are at least nine planets, that Kepler’s success was an artifact of insufficiently precise observa¬ tions, and that luck had much to do with it all. Or did it? Astronomers had a hard time making a living in seventeenth

12

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

century Poland, but Kepler, whose mother had been tried as a witch, earned his daily bread as a court astrologer. The nice clear line we might like to imagine between reality and fantasy is not always clear at all. In 1610, Galileo published initial observations made with his own hand-ground telescope, a remarkable device for its day made after a Dutch design. Among his reports was the first mention of the four moons of Jupiter. Now we think Jupiter has perhaps twenty moons and even faint rings besides, but we still call the four largest moons the Galilean moons. When Kepler heard of this discovery, he immediately realized that Mars must have two moons. Why? Well, Venus had none. Earth clearly had one, and now Jupiter was known to have four. In a geometric progression, obviously a favorite of Kepler, the planet between Jupiter and the Earth should have two. Both Swift and Voltaire refer to Mars’s two moons. A modern reader might well not realize that these moons, at those times, were fictions: the first actual observations of the moons of Mars did not occur until 1877. It is often difficult to tell, when dabbling in science, what is to be believed and what is not. With the advent of modern science, we began to learn that the most far-fetched ideas might turn out to be true. The true facts we discover, of course, may be true for reasons utterly different from those we imagine. The emergence of modern science threw human understanding into question, and the fiction that responded to these new uncer¬ tainties and certainties, both true and false, addressed a world in which the nature of things required discussion. The extreme contrasts of scale that astronomical distances encourage led to the most dramatic commentaries, philosophical humor, satire. From its birth then, science fiction has responded to science— and to the questions science raises—with speculation, adventure, invention, and satire.

de Bergerac/From Other Worlds

13

From Other Worlds (1657) Cyrano de Bergerac (7679-7655)

“The States and Empires of the Moon” and “The States and Empires of the Sun” now often known together as Other Worlds, were published shortly after the death of their author, Cyrano de Bergerac. He was a courtier, soldier, poet, essayist, and accomplished gentleman of parts quite different from the recollection many carry of the tragicomic protagonist of Edmond Rostand’s play, loosely based on the life of Cyrano. This excerpt from the voyage to the moon is remarkable for a number of reasons. First, the science in it is prescient, including even an anticipation of Newton’s first law of motion in the discussion of the inertia of billiard balls. Second, the spirit of modern science imbues the text, especially in the Baconian assertion that the ultimate explanations of all things could be derived from a knowledge of the infinitesimal atoms of which matter is com¬ posed and of their motions and interactions. Third, and of greatest artistic value, this section is notable as satire. The human protagonist is removed to a “topsy-turvy world” which by implication stands our world on its head. Cyrano’s society, odd by seventeenth-century standards, is one in which youth has high value and repression low value. The initial effect of this technique of inversion is to shock us into rejection, but this satire, like all good and lasting satire and like all successful speculative fiction, causes us to stop, ponder, and ultimately open our minds to unfamiliar positions toward which, perhaps, the familiar ought to be induced to move. This early science fiction is in part a call for philosophical reform.

14

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

Dinner with Two Philosophers: Youth, Age, and Vegetables The two professors we were expecting entered almost at once and we went to sit down at the table which was laid, where we found the young man he had mentioned, already eating. They greeted him with great salutations and treated him with a respect as profound as a slave’s for his master. I asked my demon the reason for this and he replied that it was on account of his age, since the old in that world showed every kind of respect and deference to the young. Moreover, fathers obeyed their children as soon as they had reached what the Senate of Philos¬ ophers considered to be the age of discretion. “You may be surprised,’’ he went on, “at a custom so con¬ trary to that of your own country, but it is in no way repugnant to common sense. For tell me, in all conscience, is not a hot young man, who still has the power to imagine, judge, and act, more capable of ruling a family than an infirm sixty-yearold—a poor dullard, his imagination chilled by the snows of sixty winters, guided only by what you call his experience of successful achievements (which were in fact the simple effects of chance, contrary to all the rules governing human prudence)? “As for judgement, he has little enough of it, although the common herd in your world make it an attribute of old age. But if they want the truth, they should realize that what is called ‘prudence’ in an old man is no more than a panic apprehension, a wild fear which obsesses him of undertaking anything at all. So when he refuses to take a risk, in a situation where a young man comes to grief, it is not that he has fore¬ seen the young man’s fate, but merely that he lacked sufficient fire to spark off those noble impulses which make us dare to act. The young man’s boldness, on the other hand, was like a pledge for the success of his enterprise, because it was the Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press from Other Worlds by Cyrano de Bergerac, translated by Geoffrey Strachan. Copyright © Oxford University Press, 1965.

c/e Bergerac/From Other Worlds

15

ardour which makes for speed and facility in performance that prompted him to undertake it. As for the matter of action, I should be insulting your in¬ telligence if I offered proofs to convince you. You know that youth alone is suited to deeds. But even if you are not wholly persuaded of this, tell me, I pray you, when you respect a courageous man, if it is not because he can take revenge on your enemies or your oppressors? And is it from any other consideration than pure habit that you have regard for him, once a battalion of seventy Januaries has chilled his blood and frozen to death all that noble enthusiasm for justice which fires young people? When you defer to a man stronger than yourself, are you not making him indebted to you for a victory which you could not contest? Why then submit to him, when idleness has softened his muscles, enfeebled his arteries, evaporated his spirits and sucked out the marrow from his bones? If you wor¬ ship a woman, is it not on account of her beauty? Then why continue your genuflections after age has made her a spectre which threatens the living with death? When, lastly, you have loved a clever man, it was surely because his lively genius could fathom and unravel a confused matter; his brilliant talk held the attention of assemblies of the highest alloy; he could digest whole sciences in a single thought. And yet you continue to honour him, when his worn-out organs render his head foolish, ponderous, and importunate in company and when he bears more resemblance to the figure of a household god than to that of a reasonable man. “You may fairly conclude from all this, my son, that it is better for young people to be entrusted with the government of families than old men. All the more because, according to your maxims, Hercules, Achilles, Epaminondas, Alexander, and Caesar, who almost all died this side of forty, would not have merited any honours, being, by your reckoning, too young. Yet their youth alone was the sole cause of their fine actions, which a more advanced age would have rendered ineffective. They would then have lacked the fire and agility, to which they owed their great successes. “ ‘But,’ you will say, ‘all the laws of our world are careful to resound with the respect due to old men.' True, but then

16

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

the lawgivers were old men, who were afraid the young would rightly dispossess them of their extorted authority and so, like the legislators of false religions, they have made a mystery of what they could not prove. “ ‘Yes,’ you will say to me, ‘but this old man is my father, and heaven promises me a long life if I honour him.’ If your father,' O my son, orders you nothing contrary to the inspira¬ tions of the Almighty, I grant you this. Otherwise, walk upon the belly of the father that begot you! Trample upon the breast of the mother that conceived you! For as to your imagining that this cowardly respect which vicious parents have wrung from your weakness is so pleasing to the heavens that they will pro¬ long your lease of life for it, I see little likelihood of this. What! Does doffing your hat to flatter and nourish the arrogance of your father lance the abscess in your side or correct your bodily moisture? Does it cure you of a stoccado through your stomach? Does it break up the stone in your bladder? If these things are so, then your doctors are all wrong. Instead of the infernal po¬ tions with which they plague the lives of men, why do they not prescribe for the smallpox three curtsies on an empty stomach, four thank you very kindlys after dinner, and twelve goodnight father and mothers before going to sleep? “You will reply to me that but for your father you would not exist. That is true, but neither would he have ever existed without your grandfather, nor your grandfather without your great-grandfather; and without you your father could not have a grandson. When nature brought him into the world it was on the condition that he pay back what she lent him. So when he begot you he gave you nothing, he was merely paying off a debt! And besides, I should very much like to know if your parents were thinking of you when they made you. Alas, not at all! And yet you think yourself obliged to them, all the same, for a gift they granted you without thinking about it. How’s this! Just because your father was so lustful that he could not resist the charms of some fair creature and signed a contract for her, to gratify his passion, and you were the edifice that arose from them pawing one another, you reverence this voluptuary as one of the seven sages of Greece! What! Because another man, a miser, purchases his wife’s riches by means of a child, may this

de Bergerac/From Other Worlds

17

child only speak to him on bended knees? On yes, your father did well to be a lecher and the other man to be avaricious, for otherwise neither you nor this child would ever have existed. But I should very much like to know whether, even if he had known for sure that his pistol would beget a rat, he would not still have fired his shot. Just God! I wish the people of your world could be made to see it! “All you have from your mortal architect is your body: your soul comes from the heavens. It is only by chance that your father was not your son, as you are his. How do you know that he did not even prevent you inheritirig a coronet? Your soul mdy have left heaven, destined to animate the King of the Romans in the belly of the Empress and only chanced to meet your embryo on the way and stayed there in order to cut its journey short. No, no, even if your father had died as a little boy, God would not have struck you off his plans for mankind. But who knows if today you might not have been the handiwork of some valiant captain, who would have shared his glory with you as well as his property. So perhaps you are no more in your father’s debt for the life he has bestowed on you, than you would be in a pirate’s, who put you in chains because he wanted to keep you as his slave. “And even supposing he had engendered you a prince or a king, a gift nevertheless loses its value when the one who re¬ ceives it has no choice. Death was given to Caesar: it was also given to Cassius. Cassius was indebted to the slave at whose hand he received it, yet Caesar was not to his murderers, because they forced it upon him. Did your father consider your wishes when he took your mother in his arms? Did he ask you if you would like to see this century or if you would rather wait for another one? Whether you would be content to be the son of a fool or if you would long to spring from a brave man’s loins? Alas! you, whom the matter alone concerned, were the only one not to be consulted. Perhaps if you had been, and instead of being in the matrix of nature’s ideas, you had actually been shut up some¬ where with an option on your birth, you would have said to the Fate: ‘My dear lady, take up another man’s spindle. I have been in the void for a very long time and I should much prefer to remain non-existent for another hundred years, rather than

18

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

come into being today, only to repent of it tomorrow.’ Never¬ theless you were forced to make the transition. In vain you howled to return to the long, dark house whence they snatched you: they pretended to think you were asking for suck. “These O my son, are more or less the reasons for the respect which fathers have for their children. I am well aware that I have been more biased on the side of the children than justice required, and that in favouring them I have gone a little against my conscience. But I wanted to correct the arrogance with which some fathers defy the weakness of their little ones, and I was compelled to act like those who, in order to straighten out a lopsided tree, pull at it from the other side, so that between opposing tensions it grows straight and even. In making fathers restore the deference which they had tyrannically usurped, I have robbed them of much that was theirs, so that next time they might be content with their due. I know for certain that I will have shocked all old men with this apology. But let them remember that they were children before they were fathers and a good deal of what I have said must also have been in their favour, since they were not found under heads of cabbages themselves. Whatever happens in the end, even if my adversaries were to make war on my friends, I should be bound to win, for I have served the whole of mankind well and only done dis¬ service to half of them.” With these words he fell silent and our host’s soon took up the conversation as follows: “Permit me,” he said to my demon, “since, thanks to the trouble you have taken, I am acquainted with the origin, history, customs, and philosophy of the world of this little man, to add something to what you have said and to show that children are in no way indebted to their fathers for their birth, because their fathers were obliged by their con¬ sciences to beget them. “The very narrowest philosophy in their world admits that it is better to die—since in order to die one must have lived—than never to exist at all. Therefore since, if I do not give substance to this nonentity, I put it into a state worse than death; in not bringing it into the world I am committing a worse crime than killing it. Now if you had cut your son’s throat, O my little man, you would consider yourself guilty of unforgivable par-

c/e Bergerac/From Other Worlds

19

ricide. It would indeed be monstrous, but it is even more execrable not to give any existence at all to someone who could have received it. For this child, whom you thus permanently deprive of the light of day, would at least have had the satisfac¬ tion of enjoying it for a space of time. Of course we know that he is only deprived of it for a few centuries, but then if you maliciously prevent these poor little nothings (out of which you might have made your King forty good soldiers) from coming into the world and leave them corrupting in your loins, you run the risk of an apoplexy which will choke you. “Let no man answer by singing thd praises of virginity; this honour is just so much empty vapour. For despite all the veneration with which it is idolized by the mob, it is still no more than a recommendation, even among your own people. But not to kill and not to make one’s son (by not making him at all) more wretched than a dead man—these are command¬ ments. For this reason I am greatly astonished, seeing that in the world you come from continence is held to be preferable to carnal intercourse, that God has not arranged for you to be born from the dew in the month of May like mushrooms, or at least, like crocodiles, from the greasy slime of the earth in the heat of the sun. None the less He only sends eunuchs among you by accident. He does not snatch away the genitals from your monks, your priests, nor your cardinals. You will tell me that they were given them by nature. Yes, but He is the Lord of nature, and if He had regarded this part as dangerous to their salvation He would have commanded it to be cut off, just as He commanded the Jews to do with their foreskins in the ancient law. “But such fancies are too ridiculous! I ask you, is there any place upon your body more sacred or more accursed than any other? Why do I commit a sin when I touch myself on the part in the middle and not when I touch my ear or my heel? Is it because of the titillation I feel? Then I should not relieve myself at the privy either, for that cannot be done without a certain kind of pleasure. Nor should the devout lift themselves up to the contemplation of God, for their imagination enjoys great delight in this. Indeed, when I see how much the religion of your country is against nature and jealous of all the gratifica-

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

20

tions of men, I am astonished that your priests have not made it a crime for you to scratch yourselves, on account of the agree¬ able pain you feel in doing it. “For all that, I have noticed that far-sighted Nature has given all great men, the valiant and the clever, an inclination towards the delights of love, as witness Samson, David, Her¬ cules, Caesar, Hannibal, Charlemagne. Was it in order that they might reap the organ of this pleasure from themselves with a blow of a bill-hook? Alas, she even found a way under a wash tub and debauched Diogenes, thin, ugly, and lousy as he was, and constrained him to heave sighs, reeking of carrots, for Lais. Doubtless nature treated him in this way because she feared there was a shortage of honest men in the world. “Let us conclude from all this that your father was com¬ pelled by his conscience to allow you to see the light of day, and though he might think he had greatly obliged you by making you, while gratifying himself, he has in essence given you no more than an ordinary bull gives the cows ten times a day for his own pleasure.” “You are wrong,” my demon then broke in, “to want to regu¬ late the wisdom of God. It is true that He has forbidden us the excess of this pleasure, but how do you know He did not want it this way, so that the difficulties we encounter in fighting this passion might make us worthy of the glory He has in store for us? Or how do you know His purpose was not to whet our appetities? How do you know He did not foresee that if the young were abandoned to the impulses of the flesh, overfrequent coition would weaken their seed and bring the world to an end with the great-great-nephews of the first man? How do you know He was not seeking to prevent the earth’s fertility being ex¬ hausted by the needs of so many hungry mouths? How do you know, lastly, if He did not wish to make it appear quite unrea¬ sonable in order to reward just those who had faith in His Word contrary to all semblance of reason?” This reply did not satisfy the young host, so far as I could judge, for he wagged his head at it three or four times. But our common mentor fell silent because the meal was impatient to take flight. We stretched ourselves out upon very soft mattresses covered

c/e Bergerac/From Other Worlds

21

with vast carpets. A young serving man took the elder of our philosophers and led him into a separate little room. My demon called out to him that he must come back and join us as soon as he had eaten. This whim of eating apart made me curious to ask the reason for it. “He has no taste for the odour of meat,” he told me, “or even that of vegetables, unless they have died a natural death, because he believes them capable of feeling pain.” “I am not so surprised,” I replied, “at his abstaining from flesh and all things that have once been sentient beings, for in our world the Pythagoreans and even s6me anchorite saints have adopted this regimen. But not to dare to cut a cabbage, for example, for fear of hurting it, seems to me totally ridiculous.” "And I,” replied by demon, “find his opinion very plausible. “For tell me, is not this cabbage you mentioned just as much one of God’s creatures as you? Are not God and necessity equally father and mother to both of you? Has not God throughout all eternity had His mind taken up with the question of its birth just as much as with yours? He would even appear to have pro¬ vided more surely for that of the vegetable than for that of the reasoner, since he has entrusted the generation of a man to the caprices of his father, who can beget him or not as he likes—a hazard to which He did not, however, wish to subject the cab¬ bage. Far from leaving the fertilization of sons to the discretion of their father, He seems to have feared the extinction of the race of cabbages more than that of the human race. He makes them give birth to one another willy nilly, unlike men, who only beget offspring when the fancy takes them and cannot produce more than a score at the most, while cabbages can produce four hundred thousand per head. “To say that none the less God loves mankind more than cabbages is simply tickling ourselves to make ourselves laugh. Being incapable of passion. He can neither hate nor love any¬ one, and if He were capable of love He would have more tenderness for this cabbage you have in your hand, which cannot offend Him, than for this man, whose offences against Him He can already foresee and who would destroy Him if he could. Furthermore, a man cannot be born without crime, for he is a part of the first criminal: but we know very well that

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

22

the first cabbage did not offend its Creator in the earthly para¬ dise. It may be said that we are made in the image of the Sovereign Being whereas the cabbage is not. But even if this is true, in tarnishing our souls, which are what we resemble Him by, we have destroyed the likeness, since there is nothing more contrary to God than sin. And if our souls are no longer portraits of Him, we do not resemble Him any more with our feet, our hands, our mouths, our foreheads, and our eyes than the cabbage does with its leaves, its flowers, its stalks, its stem, and its head. “Truly if this poor plant could speak, do you not think it would say when it is being cut: ‘Man, my dear brother, what have I done to you to deserve death? I only grow in your gardens. You will never find me growing wild in places where I could live in safety. I scorn to be the work of other hands than yours. Hardly am I sown in your garden when to show you my goodwill, I flourish, I stretch out my arms to you, I offer you my children in seed and yet as a reward for my courtesy you have my head cut off!’ “That is the speech this cabbage would make if it could express itself. But what happens? Because it cannot complain, does that mean we have the right to do it all the harm it can¬ not prevent? If I find a wretch in bonds, may I kill him without committing a crime just because he cannot defend himself? On the contrary, his impotence would make my cruelty worse, for, however poor and deprived of all our advantages this wretched creature may be, it does not deserve death. What! Of all the blessings of existence the only one it enjoys is that of vegetating and we deprive it of this! The sin of massacring a man is not so great—for one day he will live again—as that of cutting a cabbage and taking its life, since it cannot hope for any other. You are destroying the soul of a cabbage when you make it die, whereas by killing a man you merely make his soul change its abode. “I will go further: since God, the common Father of all things, cherishes all His works equally, it would surely be rea¬ sonable for Him to have shared His benefits equally between us and the plants, so it is only just to consider them as our equals. It is true that we were born first, but in God’s family there is

c/e Bergerac/From Other Worlds

23

no right of seniority. Therefore if cabbages were given no share in the fief of immortality along with us, they were doubtless endowed with some other gift which made up for its transience by its greatness. This may be a universal intellect, a perfect understanding of the causes of all things; and it may well be why

the wise

Mechanic did not

fashion

them organs

like

ours—which only produce mere reasoning, feeble and often mis¬ leading—but others, more ingeniously formed, more powerful and numerous, which serve them in conducting their speculative conversations. Now you may ask me what they have ever com¬ municated to us of these great thoughts. But then what, pray, have the angels ever taught you, any more than these? Just as there is no correspondence, connexion, nor harmony between the imbecile faculties of man and the ones of those divine beings, so any attempt on the part of these intellectual cabbages to make us grasp the occult causes of all the wonders of the world would also be vain: we lack the senses capable of such lofty perception. “Moses, the greatest of all philosophers, who drew his under¬ standing of nature from the source of nature itself, pointed out this truth when he spoke of the Tree of Knowledge. He doubt¬ less wanted to teach us, by means of this enigma, that plants are in possession of the perfect philosophy, to the exclusion of ourselves. Remember then, O most arrogant of all animals! that although the cabbage you cut may not utter a word, it is think¬ ing just the same. The unfortunate vegetable has no organs suited to yelling like you; it has none for writhing, nor for weeping. But it has them, none the less, for lamenting the wrong you do to it, and for bringing down the vengeance of heaven upon you. “And if, in conclusion, you insist on asking me how I know that cabbages have these fine thoughts, I ask you how you know that they do not. How do you know that when one of them closes in the evening it does not say, in imitation of yourself: ‘I am, Sir Curly Cabbage’?”

Kale, your most humble servant,

Garden

24

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

Dinner with Two Philosophers: Bodies Great and Small He had come to this point in his speech, when the young lad who had taken our philosopher out brought him back again. “What’s this; finished dinner already?” my demon called to him. He replied that he had, or almost, because the physiog¬ nomist had given him permission to have a taste of ours. Our young host did not wait for me to ask him to explain the mystery. “I can easily see,” he said, “that this way of life surprises you. But you should know that although you are more negligent with your health in your world, our regimen here is not to be despised. “In every house there is a physiognomist, supported at the public expense, who is more or less what would be called a doctor, where you come from, apart from the fact that he only looks after healthy people and only judges the various ways in which we must be treated from the proportion, shape, and sym¬ metry of our limbs, the lineaments of our faces, the colouring of our flesh, the delicacy of our skin, the agility of our bodies, the sound of our voices, and the shade, strength, and hardness of our hair. Did you notice quite a short little man studying you just now? He is our physiognomist here. You may be certain that he varied the odours of your dinner in accordance with his diagnosis of your complexion. Look how far the mattress you were given to lie on is from our beds. Doubtless he judged you to be of a temperament far removed from ours, since he was afraid that the odour which arises from these little taps under our noses might spread across to you, or that yours might waft over to us. This evening you will see him choosing the flowers for your bed with the same circumspection.” Throughout this discourse I was signalling to my young host for him to try and make the philosophers turn to some chapter of the science which they professed. He was too good a friend not to create the opportunity at once. In view of this, I will not recount to you the speeches and prayers which

$

de Bergerac / From Other Worlds

25

solicited the following treatise, since the nuance between parody and seriousness was too subtle for it to be possible to imitate it. At all events, reader, the most recently arrived of these learned doctors, after dealing with various matters, continued in this way: . . It remains for me to prove that there are infinite worlds within an infinite world. Picture the universe, therefore, as a vast organism. Within this vast organism the stars, which are worlds, are like a further series of vast organisms, each serving inversely as the worlds of lesser populations such as our¬ selves, our horses, etc. We, in our turn,, are also worlds from the point of view of certain organisms incomparably smaller than ourselves, like certain worms, lice, and mites. They are the earths of others, yet more imperceptible. So, just as each single one of us seems to this tiny people to be a great world, perhaps our flesh, our blood, and our minds are nothing but a tissue of little animals, nourishing themselves, lending us their move¬ ment, allowing themselves to be driven blindly by our will (which acts as their coachman), carrying us about, and all together producing that activity which we call life. “For do you find it hard to believe that a louse should take your body for a world, or that, when one of them travels from one of your ears to the other, his friends should say that he has voyaged to the ends of the earth, or that he has journeyed from pole to pole? Why, doubtless this tiny people take your hair for the forests of their country, your pores full of sweat for springs, your pimples for lakes and ponds, your abscesses for seas, your streaming nose for a flood; and when you comb your hair backwards and forwards they think this is the ebb and flow of the ocean tides. “Does not the itch prove my point? The mite which pro¬ duces it is surely none other than one of these little animals, which has broken away from civil society and set itself up as a tyrant in its own country. If you ask me how such creatures come to be larger than the rest of their imperceptible fellows, I will ask you why elephants are bigger than us and Irishmen bigger than Spaniards. As for your blister and your scab, whose origins are unknown to you, they must either result from the rotting carcasses of enemies slaughtered by these little giants.

26

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

or else a plague (caused by the lack of foodstuffs upon which the rebels have gorged themselves) has left behind heaps of corpses, or else the tyrant has driven away all his neighbours, whose bodies stopped up the pores in our own, thus making a passage for the phlegm, which then escapes from the bloodstream and becomes corrupted. “It may be asked why one mite produces so many others. But this is not difficult to conceive, for just as one revolt produces another, so these little peoples are roused by the bad example of their seditious companions and each aspires to take command, enflaming war, massacre, and famine all around. “ ‘But,’ you will tell me, ‘some people are much less subject to the itch than others, although all of them are equally filled with these little animals, since it is they—you say—who make up life.’ This is true, but let us also observe that phlegmatic people are less a prey to scratching than choleric people, for the reason that, in accordance with the climate they inhabit, the peoples in a cold body are more lethargic than those heated by the temperature of a homeland which crackles, shifts, and cannot remain in one place. Thus the choleric man is much more deli¬ cate than the phlegmatic, because he is animated in many more parts of his body, and as his being is made up of the action of these little beasts he is sensitive in all the places where their herds are stirring. On the other hand the phlegmatic man is not hot enough to make this mobile population active, save in a few places, and is therefore only sensitive in a few places. “As further proof of this universal mite-system, you need only consider how when you are wounded the blood runs to the wound. Your doctors say that it is guided by nature seeking to help the weakened parts, but that is just a pretty fantasy, for in that case there would have to be a third intellectual sub¬ stance in us, apart from mind and soul, with separate functions and separate organs. That is why I find it much more plausible to say that these little animals, finding themselves attacked, send word to their neighbours to ask for help. When they are gath¬ ered together from all sides, the country is unable to support so many and they either die of hunger or are suffocated in the throng. These deaths occur when the abscess is ripe and the fact that the rotten flesh goes numb proves that these creatures are

de Bergerac/From Other Worlds

27

stifled then. If the bleeding, which is prescribed to divert the flow, does very often take effect, this is because the little animals have already lost many of their number through the opening they were trying to block and now refuse to assist their allies, having barely the strength to defend themselves, each on their own ground.” . He had concluded in this way when the second philosopher found all our eyes focused upon his, exhorting him to speak in his turn. “Men,” he said, "seeing that you are interested in teaching this little animal, our fellow creature,/ something of the science which we profess, I shall be very pleased to supply him with a treatise which I am now dictating, on account of the illuminat¬ ing light it sheds on our physics: it is an explanation of the eternal origin of the world. But I am in a hurry to start my bellows working, as the town is leaving tomorrow without delay, so I hope you will excuse me for the moment, with the promise, however, that as soon as it arrives at its destination, I will satisfy you.” At these words the host’s son called his father to know what time it was, but when the latter replied that eight o’clock had struck, he flew into a rage and asked him why he had not notified them when it was seven, as he had commanded him to do: he knew very well that the houses were leaving next day and the town walls had done so already. “My son,” replied the good man, “an express prohibition has been published while you were at table, forbidding anyone to leave until the day after tomorrow.” “That makes no difference,” retorted the young man. “You should obey me blindly, without trying to understand my orders, and only remember what I have commanded. Quickly now, go and fetch your effigy!” When it was brought he seized it by the arm and whipped it for a good quarter of an hour. “Now, sir, you good-fornothing,” he went on, “as a punishment for your disobedience I will make a laughing-stock of you today, for all to see, and to this end I command you to walk upon two legs only for the rest of the day.” The poor old man went out in floods of tears and his son

28

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

continued: “Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse the knaveries of this hot-headed fellow. I had hopes of making something of him, but he has abused my indulgence. For my part, I believe the rascal will be the death of me. To tell you the truth, I have been on the verge of cutting him off with my curse ten times already.” I found it very difficult, although I bit my lips, to keep myself from laughing at this topsy-turvy world. So, in order to have done with his burlesque of discipline, which would doubt¬ less have ended by making me guffaw, I begged him to tell me what he meant by this journey of the town’s he had mentioned just now, and whether the houses and walls actually travelled. He replied to me: “Among our towns, dear stranger, there are both mobile and sedentary ones. The mobile ones, like the one we are in now, for example, are made in the following manner. The architect constructs each mansion of a very light wood, as you can see; underneath it he installs four wheels; in the thickness of one of the walls he sets ten large pairs of bellows, whose nozzles lie in a horizontal line across the top storey from gable to gable, so that when we want to drive the towns some¬ where else (for they have a change of air for each of the seasons) everyone unfurls a quantity of large sails on one of the sides of his house in front of the bellows. Then when a mechanism has been wound up to make them work, in less than a week their houses can be transported over a hundred leagues, if it is desired, by the constant blasts vomited from these wind-monsters. “As for those which we call ‘sedentary,’ the dwellings there are very like your towers, except that they are made of wood and have a huge and powerful screw running through the centre of them from cellar to roof, so that they can be raised and lowered at discretion. A hollow is dug out of the earth, as deep as the building is high, and the whole is constructed in this way so that, as soon as the frosts begin to chill the heavens, they can lower their houses into the earth, where they remain in shelter from the inclemencies of the air. But immediately the gentle breezes of spring arrive to soften it, they come up into the light by means of the great screw I have told you of.” I begged him, since he had already shown me so much kindness and the town was only leaving on the following day.

» c/e Bergerac/From Other Worlds

29

to tell me something of that eternal origin of the world, which he had mentioned to me some time before. “And I promise you,” I said to him, “that in recompense, as soon as I return to the moon from whence my tutor (I indicated my demon) will bear witness to you that I have come, I will spread your repu¬ tation there, by recounting the fine things which you have told me. .It is easy to see that this promise makes you laugh, because you do not believe that the moon I speak of is a world or that I am an inhabitant of it; but I can also assure you that the peoples of that world, who take this one for a mere moon, will make fun of me when I say that your moon is a world with landscapes and inhabitants.” To this he merely replied with a smile and then spoke these words: “Since, when we want to come at the origin of this great Whole, we are bound to run up against three or four absurdi¬ ties, it is reasonable enough to take the road which makes us stumble the least. I say, then, that the first obstacle standing in our way is the eternity of the universe. Since men’s minds were not powerful enough to conceive of this and were not capable, moreover, of imagining how this great cosmos, so beautiful and so well ordered, could have made itself, they have had recourse to the idea of Creation. But like the man who plunges into a river for fear of being soaked by the rain, they escape from the clutches of a dwarf only to find themselves at the mercy of a giant. Besides they do not escape: this eternity of which they rob the universe, because they fail to understand it, they then give to God—as if He needed the gift, and as if it were easier to con¬ ceive of in the one than in the other! So this absurdity, or this giant I spoke of, is their Creation. For tell me truly, has anyone even been able to imagine how something could be made from nothing? Alas! there is such an infinite difference between noth¬ ing and a single atom that the sharpest brain could not fathom it. In order to escape this inexplicable labyrinth, you have to admit the eternity of matter as well as God, and then it is no longer necessary to admit a God because the universe could have existed without Him. “ ‘But,’ you will say, ‘supposing I grant you the eternity of matter, how did this chaos order itself on its own?’ Aha! I will explain to you.

30

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE “One must, O my little animal, first mentally divide every

tiny visible body into an infinity of tiny invisible bodies and think of the universe as being composed of nothing but these infinite atoms, which are quite solid, quite incorruptible and quite simple and some of which are cubic, some parallelogrammade, some angular, some round, some pointed, some pyramidal, some hexagonal, some oval—all behaving diversely, each accord¬ ing to its shape. Now if you take a round ivory ball and place it upon a very flat surface, at the slightest touch you give it, it will roll for seven minutes without stopping: and let me add that if it were as perfectly round as some of these atoms I am speaking of, and the surface on which it was placed were completely flat, it would never stop. If art, therefore, is capable of making a body inclined to perpetual motion, why should we not believe that nature can do it? It is the same with the other shapes: ones like the square seek a state of perpetual repose, others a side¬ ways motion, others quiver in a partial movement: and when one of the round ones, whose essence is to move, comes into conjunction with one of the pyramidal ones, it may well be that they produce what we call “fire,” because fire not only moves restlessly, it also pierces and penetrates easily. Apart from this, the flame behaves differently, according to the type and size of the angles made between the pyramid and the sphere: so the flame produced by pepper, for example, is quite a different thing from a sugar flame: sugar produces a different one from cinnamon, cinnamon from cloves, and this last differs from the flame of a burning faggot. “It is fire, the builder and designer of both the parts and the whole of the universe, which has drawn together and assembled in this oak tree the quantity of shapes needed to compose it. ‘But,’ you will say to me, ‘how can all the elements needed to produce this oak tree be gathered together in one place by chance?’ My reply to you is that it is no marvel for the matter thus arranged to have formed an oak tree, although it would have been a great marvel if the matter were arranged thus and an oak tree had not been produced. A few less of some shapes and it would have been an elm, a poplar or a willow. A few less of certain others and it would have been a mimosa pudica, an oyster in its shell, a worm, a fly, a frog, a sparrow, an ape, a

de Bergerac/From Other Worlds

31

man. When you throw three dices upon a table and a triple two comes up, or three, four, and five, or two sixes and a one, you will say: ‘Oh, what a miracle! The same number has come up on all the dice, although so many numbers could have done!’ ‘Oh, what a miracle! three consecutive numbers have come up!’ ‘Oh, what a miracle! Just two sixes have come up and the opposite side of the other six!’ “But no, I am sure that being a man of intelligence, you will never make such exclamations, since the numbers on the dice are limited and it is impossible for one of them not to come up. Yet you are still astonished at the way this matter, mixed up pell-mell at the whim of chance, could have produced a man, seeing how many things were necessary for the construction of his person. Are you not aware that this matter has stopped a million times on its way towards the formation of a man, some¬ times to make a stone, sometimes a lump of lead, sometimes coral, sometimes a flower, sometimes a comet? All this happened because there were more or less of certain shapes, which were necessary, or certain shapes, which were superfluous to the design of man. Hence it is no marvel that they should have come together, from among an infinity of substances which are shifting and changing incessantly, to make the few animals, vegetables, and minerals which we see, any more than it is a marvel for a triple number to come up in a hundred throws of the dice, since it is impossible for this movement not to produce something. And a fool will always marvel at this thing, not knowing how near it came to not being made. “If the great river of

" — _ jjg= turns a mill and drives the

mechanisms of a clock, while the little stream of does nothing but flow along, sometimes hiding underground, you would not say that the river has great intelligence, because you know that it simply meets in its path the devices put there to produce all these masterpieces of artifice. Were the mill not situated on its course, it would not grind any wheat. Had it never encountered the clock, it would not tell the time. And if the little stream I mentioned had had the same encounters, it would have performed the same miracles. It is just the same

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

32

with this fire, which moves by itself. Where it has met organs suited to the kind of vibration necessary for reasoning, it has reasoned. Where it has found those suited only to feeling, it has felt. Where it has found them suited for vegetating, it has vegetated. Moreover, if one puts out this man’s eyes, which the fire of his soul causes to see, he will no longer see, just as our great clock will cease to mark the hours if you break the mecha¬ nism. “Lastly, these primary and indivisible atoms offer us a wheel on which the most problematical difficulties of physics will run smoothly. There is nothing, not even the operation of the senses, which I cannot easily explain by means of these little bodies. Let us begin with sight, which, as the most mysterious of them, is worthy of our first attempts. “To my way of thinking, this occurs when the outer coats of the eye, which have openings in them similar to those in glass, send out the fire dust known as sight-rays and it is stopped by some opaque matter which makes it rebound back to its home. On its way this dust meets the image of the object that repulsed it, which consists of nothing but an infinite number of tiny bodies continually and evenly given off by the subject observed, and it drives them back to our eye. You are sure to object to me that glass is an opaque body and very compact, yet nevertheless, instead of repulsing the first little bodies, it allows itself to be penetrated by them. But my answer to you is that the pores in glass are the same shape as the atoms of fire which pass through it: just as a wheat sieve is no good for sifting oats, nor an oats sieve for sifting wheat. Similarly a deal box, although it is thin and lets sounds through, is not penetrable to sight; whereas a piece of crystal is transparent and penetrable to sight, but one cannot touch things through it.” I could not help interrupting him here. “A great poet and philosopher of our world,” I told him, “following Epicurus, who followed Democritus, has spoken of these little bodies almost in the way you have, so your discourse does not surprise me at all. Please tell me, when you continue, how you can ex¬ plain by these principles the way one’s image is reflected in a mirror.” “That is quite easy,” he replied. “You must picture these

«

de Bergerac / From Other Worlds

33

fires from your eye passing through the glass, encountering be¬ hind

it a

non-diaphanous

body, which repulses

them,

and

returning the way they came. Meeting more of these little bodies travelling evenly towards the mirror, they call them back to our eyes, from whence our imagination, being warmer than the other faculties of our soul, draws the most subtle of them and from them makes itself a portrait in miniature. “The operation of hearing is not more difficult to conceive and for the sake of brevity let us simply consider the case of the notes of a lute touched by the hands of a virtuoso. You will ask me how I can possibly perceive something so far away from me and which I cannot see at all. Does a sponge come out of my ears and soak up this music in order to bring it to me? Or does the musician beget another little musician inside my head with a little lute and instructions to sing the same tunes to me like an echo? No; the miracle is due to the fact that the plucked string strikes the air which is composed of little bodies and drives it into my brain, gently piercing it with these little bodily nothings. If the string is taut the note is high, because it drives the atoms more vigorously and once the organ is thus penetrated it furnishes my imagination with sufficient of them from which to make its picture. If it is not so taut, it happens that when our memory has not yet completed its image, we are obliged to repeat the same sound to it; so that, for example, from the materials furnished by the measures of a saraband, it takes enough to complete the portrait of this saraband. “But this operation is by no means as wonderful as those by which we are moved now to joy, now to anger with the aid of the same organ. This occurs when in the course of their move¬ ment the little bodies meet others inside us which are moving in the same manner, or whose own shape makes them suscep¬ tible to the same type of vibration. The new arrivals excite their hosts to imitate their motion and in this way when a violent tune encounters the fire of our blood, it makes it take up the same dance and excites it to thrust itself outwards, and that is what we call ‘the ardour of courage.’ If the sound is sweeter and has only the strength to raise a lesser, more quaver¬ ing flame,

by causing

this

to

travel

along the

nerves and

membranes and through the apertures in our flesh, it excites

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

34

that tickling sensation which we call ‘joy.’ The other passions are aroused in the same way, according to the greater or lesser violence with which these little bodies are hurled at us, accord¬ ing to the motion resulting from their contact with other im¬ pulses and according to the mobility they find in us. So much then for hearing. “The demonstration of the sense of touch is now no more difficult, if one imagines that there is a perpetual emission of little bodies from all palpable matter and that when we touch it, still more of them evaporate off it because they are squeezed out of the object—just like water from a sponge when we press it. The hard ones come to the organ of touch to make a report of their solidity, the supple ones of their softness, the rough ones, etc. Moreover, when our hands are worn with work they are no longer so sensitive to touch, for the thick callosity, being neither porous nor animated itself, only transmits these vapours of matter with great difficulty. “Does someone desire to learn where the sense of touch has its seat? For my part I think it is spread over all the surfaces of the body, seeing that this can feel with all its parts. I do believe, however, that the closer the organ we feel with is to our heads, the quicker we can make things out. This can be tested by closing our eyes and feeling something with our hands, for we can guess what it is more easily than if we felt it with our foot instead, when we should have some difficulty in recog¬ nizing it. This is due to the fact that, our skin being riddled all over with little holes, our nerves, whose substance is no more compact, lose many of these little atoms on the way, through the tiny gaps in their fabric, before they have reached the brain which is their destination. It remains for me to speak of smell and taste. “Tell me now, when I taste a fruit, is it not the heat of my mouth that makes it melt? Admit to me that, since there are salts in a pear which split up, when they dissolve, into little bodies of a different shape from those which make up the taste of an apple, they are bound to pierce our palate in a very different fashion. In the same way the wound made by the blade of a pike going through me is not like the blow from a

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

35

pistol bullet, just as the pain from a pistol bullet is different from the one imprinted by a lozenge of steel. Of smell I have nothing to say, since your philosophers themselves confess it to be produced by a continual emission of little bodies. “On this principle I am now going to explain to you the Creation, the harmony and influences of the celestial globes, and the immutable variety of the meteors.”

From Gulliver's Travels (1726) Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

This excerpt comes from the third book of the travels of Lemuel Gulliver, erstwhile ship’s surgeon. While the first two books re¬ porting Gulliver’s sojourn among the tiny Lilliputians and among the giant Brobdingnagians are well known, the other two books also deserve attention, including this passage in which our nar¬ rator visits the aerial island inhabited by the rulers of an ocean island realm. From the first image of the Flappers who rouse thinkers to attention to the real world to the parody of the trans¬ actions of the Royal Society in which the aerial island’s motions are discussed, the whole is a consistent satire against the substitu¬ tion of abstract thinking for attention to both common sense and ethics. Lest we miss the relevance of Gulliver’s journey in a land removed from our own, Swift virtually invites us to think for ourselves: he elaborately asserts his inability to trace the ety¬ mology of Laputa, as if he did not know that la puta is the whore in Spanish, an apt name for a land of people without ethics and with disdain for their own bodies. This fantasy is in¬ tended to speak to our reality; conditions in all places are “much more uniform than can be easily imagined.”

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

36

Chapter 2 The Humours and Dispositions of the Laputians de¬ scribed. An Account of their Learning. Of the King and his Court. The Author’s Reception there. The Inhabit¬ ants subject to Fears and Disquietudes. An Account of the Women.

At my alighting I was surrounded by a Crowd of People, but those who stood nearest seemed to be of better Quality. They beheld me with all the Marks and Circumstances of Wonder; neither indeed was I much in their Debt; having never till then seen a Race of Mortals so singular in their Shapes, Habits, and Countenances. Their Heads were all reclined to the Right, or the Left; one of their Eyes turned inward, and the other directly up to the Zenith. Their outward Garments were adorned with the Figures of Suns, Moons, and Stars, interwoven with those of Fiddles, Flutes, Harps, Trumpets, Harpsicords, and many more Instruments of Musick, unknown to us in Europe. I observed here and there many in the Habit of Servants, with a blown Bladder fastned like a Flail to the End of a short Stick, which they carried in their Hands. In each Bladder was a small Quan¬ tity of dried Pease, or little Pebbles, (as I was afterwards in¬ formed). With these Bladders they now and then flapped the Mouths and Ears of those who stood near them, of which Prac¬ tice I could not then conceive the Meaning. It seems, the Minds of these People are so taken up with intense Speculations, that they neither can speak, or attend to the Discourses of others, without being rouzed by some external Taction upon the Or¬ gans of Speech and Hearing; for which Reason, those Persons who are able to afford it, always keep a Flapper, (the Original is Climenole) in their Family, as one of their Domesticks; nor ever walk abroad or make Visits without him. And the Business of this Officer is, when two or more Persons are in Company, gently to strike with his Bladder the Mouth of him who is to speak, and

r

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

37

the Right Ear of him or them to whom the Speaker addresseth himself. This Flapper is likewise employed diligently to attend his Master in his Walks, and upon Occasion to give him a soft Flap on his Eyes; because he is always so wrapped up in Cogita¬ tion, that he is in manifest Danger of falling down every Preci¬ pice, and bouncing his Head against every Post; and in the Streets, of jostling others, or being jostled himself into the Kennel. It was necessary to give the Reader this Information, without which he would be at the same Loss with me, to understand the Proceedings of these People, as they coilducted me up the Stairs to the Top of the Island, and from thence to the Royal Palace. While we were ascending, they forgot several Times what they were about, and left me to my self, till their Memories were again rouzed by their Flappers; for they appeared altogether un¬ moved by the Sight of my foreign Habit and Countenance, and by the Shouts of the Vulgar, whose Thoughts and Minds were more disengaged. At last we entered the Palace, and proceeded into the Cham¬ ber of Presence; where I saw the King seated on his Throne, at¬ tended on each Side by Persons of prime Quality. Before the Throne, was a large Table filled with Globes and Spheres, and Mathematical Instruments of all Kinds. His Majesty took not the least Notice of us, although our Entrance were not without suffi¬ cient Noise, by the Concourse of all Persons belonging to the Court. But, he was then deep in a Problem, and we attended at least an Hour, before he could solve it. There stood by him on each Side, a young Page, with Flaps in their Hands; and when they saw he was at Leisure, one of them gently struck his Mouth, and the other his Right Ear; at which he started like one awaked on the sudden, and looking towards me, and the Company I was in, recollected the Occasion of our coming, whereof he had been informed before. He spoke some Words; whereupon immediately a young Man with a Flap came up to my Side, and flapt me gently on the Right Ear; but I made Signs as well as I could, that I had no Occasion for such an Instrument; which as I afterwards found, gave his Majesty and the whole Court a very mean Opin¬ ion of my Understanding. The King, as far as I could conjecture, asked me several Questions, and I addressed my self to him in all

38

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

the Languages I had. When it was found, that I could neither understand nor be understood, I was conducted by his Order to an Apartment in his Palace, (this Prince being distinguished above all his Predecessors for his Hospitality to Strangers,) where two Servants were appointed to attend me. My Dinner was brought, and four Persons of Quality, whom I remembered to have seen very near the King’s Person, did me the Honour to dine with me. We had two Courses, of three Dishes each. In the first Course, there was a shoulder of Mutton, cut into an ^Equilat¬ eral Triangle; a Piece of Beef into a Rhomboides; and a Pud¬ ding into a Cycloid. The second Course was two Ducks, trussed up into the Form of Fiddles; Sausages and Puddings resembling Flutes and Haut-boys, and a Breast of Veal in the Shape of a Harp. The Servants cut our Bread into Cones, Cylinders, Paral¬ lelograms, and several other Mathematical Figures. While we were at Dinner, I made bold to ask the Names of several Things in their Language; and those noble Persons, by the Assistance of their Flappers, delighted to give me Answers, hoping to raise my Admiration of their great Abilities, if I could be brought to converse with them. I was soon able to call for Bread, and Drink, or whatever else I wanted. After Dinner my Company withdrew, and a Person was sent to me by the King’s Order, attended by a Flapper. He brought with him Pen, Ink, and Paper, and three or four Books; giving me to understand by Signs, that he was sent to teach me the Language. We sat together four Hours, in which Time I wrote down a great Number of Words in Columns, with the Transla¬ tions over against them. I likewise made a Shift to learn several short Sentences. For my Tutor would order one of my Servants to fetch something, to turn about, to make a Bow, to sit, or stand, or walk, and the like. Then I took down the Sentence in Writing. He shewed me also in one of his Books, the Figures of the Sun, Moon, and Stars, the Zodiack, the Tropics and Polar Circles, together with the Denominations of many Figures of Planes and Solids. He gave me the Names and Descriptions of all the Musical Instruments, and the general Terms of Art in playing on each of them. After he had left me, I placed all my Words with their Interpretations in alphabetical Order. And

1

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

39

thus in a few Days, by the Help of a very faithful Memory, I got some Insight into their Language. The Word, which I interpret the Flying or Floating Island, is in the Original Laputa; whereof I could never learn the true Etymology. Lap in the old obsolete Language signifieth High, and Untuh a Governor; from which they say by Corruption was derived Laputa from Lapuntuh. But I do not approve of this Derivation, which seems to be a little strained. I ventured to offer to the Learned among them a Conjecture of my own, that Laputa was quasi Lap outed; Lap signifying properly the danc¬ ing of the Sun Beams in the Sea; and outed a Wing, which how¬ ever I shall not obtrude, but submit to the judicious Reader. Those to whom the King had entrusted me, observing how ill I was clad, ordered a Taylor to come next Morning, and take my Measure for a Suit of Cloths. This Operator did his Office after a different Manner from those of his Trade in Europe. He first took my Altitude by a Quadrant, and then with Rule and Compasses, described the Dimensions and Out-Lines of my whole Body; all which he entred upon Paper, and in six Days brought my Cloths very ill made, and quite out of Shape, by happening to mistake a Figure in the Calculation. But my Comfort was, that I observed such Accidents very frequent, and little regarded. During my Confinement for want of Cloaths, and by an In¬ disposition that held me some Days longer, I much enlarged my Dictionary; and when I went next to Court, was able to under¬ stand many Things the King spoke, and to return him some Kind of Answers. His Majesty had given Orders, that the Island should move North-East and by East, to the vertical Point over Lagado, the Metropolis of the whole Kingdom, below upon the firm Earth. It was about Ninety Leagues distant, and our Voyage lasted four Days and an Half. I was not in the least sensible of the progressive Motion made in the Air by the Island. On the second Morning, about Eleven o’Clock, the King himself in Per¬ son, attended by his Nobility, Courtiers, and Officers, having prepared all their Musical Instruments, played on them for three Hours without Intermission; so that I was quite stunned with the Noise; neither could I possibly guess the Meaning, till my Tutor informed me. He said, that the People of their Island had

40

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

their Ears adapted to hear the Musick of the Spheres, which al¬ ways played at certain Periods; and the Court was now prepared to bear their Part in whatever Instrument they most excelled. In our Journey towards Lagado the Capital City, his Majesty ordered that the Island should stop over certain Towns and Vil¬ lages, from whence he might receive the Petitions of his Subjects. And to this Purpose, several Packthreads were let down with small Weights at the Bottom. On these Packthreads the People strung their Petitions, which mounted up directly like the Scraps of Paper fastned by School-boys at the End of the String that holds their Kite. Sometimes we received Wine and Victuals from below, which were drawn up by Pullies. The Knowledge I had in Mathematicks gave me great Assis¬ tance in acquiring their Phraseology, which depended much upon that Science and Musick; and in the latter I was not un¬ skilled. Their ideas are perpetually conversant in Lines and Fig¬ ures. If they would, for Example, praise the Beauty of a Woman, or any other Animal, they describe it by Rhombs, Circles, Paral¬ lelograms, Ellipses, and other Geometrical Terms; or else by Words of Art drawn from Musick, needless here to repeat. I ob¬ served in the King’s Kitchen all Sorts of Mathematical and Musi¬ cal Instruments, after the Figures of which they cut up the Joynts that were served to his Majesty’s Table. Their Houses are very ill built, the Walls bevil, without one right Angle in any Apartment; and this Defect ariseth from the Contempt they bear for practical Geometry, which they despise as vulgar and mechanick, those Instructions they give being too refined for the Intellectuals of their Workmen; which occasions perpetual Mistakes. And although they are dextrous enough upon a Piece of Paper, in the Management of the Rule, the Pencil, and the Divider, yet in the common Actions and Be¬ haviour of Life, I have not seen a more clumsy, awkward, and unhandy People, nor so slow and perplexed in their Conceptions upon all other Subjects, except those of Mathematicks and Mu¬ sick. They are very bad Reasoners, and vehemently given to Op¬ position, unless when they happen to be of the right Opinion, which is seldom their Case. Imagination, Fancy, and Invention, they are wholly Strangers to, nor have any Words in their Lan¬ guage by which those Ideas can be expressed; the whole Com-

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

41

pass of their Thoughts and Mind, being shut up within the two forementioned Sciences. Most of them, and especially those who deal in the Astro¬ nomical Part, have great Faith in judicial Astrology, although they are ashamed to own it publickly. But, what I chiefly ad¬ mired, and thought altogether unaccountable, was the strong Disposition I observed in them towards News and Politicks; perpetually enquiring into publick Affairs, giving their Judg¬ ments in Matters of State; and passionately disputing every Inch of a Party Opinion. I have indeed observed the same Disposition among most of the Mathematicians I have known in Europe; al¬ though I could never discover the least Analogy between the two Sciences; unless those People suppose, that because the smallest Circle hath as many Degrees as the largest, therefore the Regula¬ tion and Management of the World require no more Abilities than the handling and turning of a Globe. But, I rather take this Quality to spring from a very common Infirmity of human Nature, inclining us to be more curious and conceited in Mat¬ ters where we have least Concern, and for which we are least adapted either by Study or Nature. These People are under continual Disquietudes, never enjoy¬ ing a Minute’s Peace of Mind; and their Disturbances proceed from Causes which very little affect the rest of Mortals. Their Apprehensions arise from several Changes they dread in the Ce¬ lestial Bodies. For instance; that the Earth by the continual Approaches of the Sun towards it, must in Course of Time be absorbed or swallowed up. That the Face of the Sun will by De¬ grees be encrusted with its own Effluvia, and give no more Light to the World. That, the Earth very narrowly escaped a Brush from the Tail of the last Comet, which would have infallibly re¬ duced it to Ashes; and that the next, which they have calculated for One and Thirty Years hence, will probably destroy us. For, if in its Perihelion it should approach within a certain Degree of the Sun, (as by their Calculations they have Reason to dread) it will conceive a Degree of Heat ten Thousand Times more in¬ tense than that of red hot glowing Iron; and in its Absence from the Sun, carry a blazing Tail Ten Hundred Thousand and Four¬ teen Miles long; through which if the Earth should pass at the Distance of one Hundred Thousand Miles from the Nucleus, or

42

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

main Body of the Comet, it must in its Passage be set on Fire, and reduced to Ashes. That the Sun daily spending its Rays without any Nutriment to supply them, will at last be wholly consumed and annihilated; which must be attended with the Destruction of this Earth, and of all the Planets that receive their Light from it. They are so perpetually alarmed with the Apprehensions of these and the like impending Dangers, that they can neither sleep quietly in their Beds, nor have any Relish for the com¬ mon Pleasures or Amusements of Life. When they meet an Acquaintance in the Morning, the first Question is about the Sun’s Health; how he looked at his Setting and Rising, and what Hopes they have to avoid the Stroak of the approaching Comet. This Conversation they are apt to run into with the same Temper that Boys discover, in delighting to hear terrible Stories of Sprites and Hobgoblins, which they greedily listen to, and dare not go to Bed for fear. The Women of the Island have Abundance of Vivacity; they contemn their Husbands, and are exceedingly fond of Strangers, whereof there is always a considerable Number from the Con¬ tinent below, attending at Court, either upon Affairs of the several Towns and Corporations, or their own particular Occa¬ sions; but are much despised, because they want the same En¬ dowments. Among these the Ladies chuse their Gallants: But the Vexation is, that they act with too much Ease and Security; for the Husband is always so rapt in Speculation, that the Mistress and Lover may proceed to the greatest Familiarities before his Face, if he be but provided with Paper and Imple¬ ments, and without his Flapper at his Side. The Wives and Daughters lament their Confinement to the Island, although I think it the most delicious Spot of Ground in the World; and although they live here in the greatest Plenty and Magnificence, and are allowed to do whatever they please; They long to see the World, and take the Diversions of the Metropolis, which they are not allowed to do without a particu¬ lar Licence from the King; and this is not easy to be obtained, because the People of Quality have found by frequent Experi¬ ence, how hard it is to persuade their Women to return from below. I was told, that a great Court Lady, who had several

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

43

Children, is married to the prime Minister, the richest Subject in the Kingdom, a very graceful Person, extremely fond of her, and lives in the finest Palace of the Island; went down to Lagado, on the Pretence of Health, there hid her self for several Months, till the King sent a Warrant to search for her; and she was found in an obscure Eating-House all in Rags, having pawned her Cloths to maintain an old deformed Footman, who beat her every Day, and in whose Company she was taken much against her Will. And although her Husband received her with all possible Kindness, and without the least Reproach; she soon after contrived to steal down again wijth all her Jewels, to the same Gallant, and hath not been heard of since. This may perhaps pass with the Reader rather for an Euro¬ pean or English Story, than for one of a Country so remote. But he may please to consider, that the Caprices of Womankind are not limited by any Climate or Nation; and that they are much more uniform than can be easily imagined. In about a Month’s Time I had made a tolerable Proficiency in their Language, and was able to answer most of the King’s Questions, when I had the Honour to attend him. His Majesty discovered not the least Curiosity to enquire into the Laws, Government, History, Religion, or Manners of the Counties where I had been; but confined his Questions to the State of Mathematicks, and received the Account I gave him, with great Contempt and Indifference, though often rouzed by his Flapper on each Side.

Chapter 3 A Phenomenon solved by modern Philosophy and As¬ tronomy.

The

Laputians great

Improvements

in

the

latter. The King’s Method of suppressing Insurrections.

I desired Leave of this Prince to see the Curiosities of the Island; which he was graciously pleased to grant, and ordered my

44

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

Tutor to attend me. I chiefly wanted to know to what Cause in Art or in Nature, it owed its several Motions; whereof I will now give a philosophical Account to the Reader. The flying or floating Island is exactly circular; its Diameter 7837 Yards, or about four Miles and an Half, and consequently contains ten Thousand Acres. It is three Hundred Yards thick. The Bottom, or under Surface, which appears to those who view it from below, is one even regular Plate of Adamant, shooting up to the Height of about two Hundred Yards. Above it lye the several Minerals in their usual Order; and over all is a Coat of rich Mould ten or twelve Foot deep. The Declivity of the upper Surface, from the Circumference to the Center, is the natural Cause why all the Dews and Rains which fall upon the Island, are conveyed in small Rivulets towards the Middle, where they are emptyed into four large Basons, each of about Half a Mile in Circuit, and two Hundred Yards distant from the Center. From these Basons the Water is continually exhaled by the Sun in the Day-time, which effectually prevents their overflow¬ ing. Besides, as it is in the Power of the Monarch to raise the Island above the Region of Clouds and Vapours, he can prevent the falling of Dews and Rains whenever he pleases. For the highest Clouds cannot rise above two

Miles, as Naturalists

agree, at least they were never known to do so in that Country. At the Center of the Island, there is a Chasm about fifty Yards in Diameter, from whence the Astronomers descend into a large Dome, which is therefore called Flandona Gagnole, or the As¬ tronomers Cave; situated at the Depth of an Hundred Yards beneath the upper Surface of the Adamant. In this Cave are Twenty Lamps continually burning, which from the Reflection of the Adamant cast a strong Light into every Part. The Place is stored with great Variety of Sextants, Quadrants, Telescopes, Astrolabes, and other Astronomical Instruments. But the great¬ est Curiosity, upon which the Fate of the Island depends, is a Load-stone of a prodigious Size, in Shape resembling a Weaver’s Shuttle. It is in Length six Yards, and in the thickest Part at least three Yards over. This Magnet is sustained by a very strong Axle of Adamant, passing through its Middle, upon which it plays, and is poized so exactly that the weakest Hand can turn

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

45

it. It is hooped round with an hollow Cylinder of Adamant, four Foot deep, as many thick, and twelve Yards in Diameter, placed horizontally, and supported by Eight Adamantine Feet, each Six Yards high. In the Middle of the Concave Side there is a Groove Twelve Inches deep, in which the Extremities of the Axle are lodged, and turned round as there is Occasion. .This Stone cannot be moved from its Place by any Force, because the Hoop and its Feet are one continued Piece with that Body of Adamant which constitutes the Bottom of the Island. By means of his Load-stone, the Island is made to rise and fall, and move from one Place to another. For, with respect to that Part of the Earth over which the Monarch presides, the Stone is endued at one of its Sides with an attractive Power, and at the other with a repulsive. Upon placing the Magnet erect with its attracting End towards the Earth, the Island descends; but when the repelling Extremity points downwards, the Island mounts directly upwards. When the Position of the Stone is oblique, the Motion of the Island is so too. For in this Magnet the Forces always act in Lines parallel to its Direction. By this oblique Motion the Island is conveyed to different Parts of the Monarch’s Dominions. To explain the Manner of its Progress, let A B represent a Line drawn cross the Dominions of Balnibarbi; let the Line c d represent the Load-stone, of which let d be the repelling End, and c the attracting End, the Island being over C; let the Stone be placed in the Position c d with its repelling End downwards;

then the Island will be

driven upwards obliquely towards D. When it is arrived at D, let the Stone be turned upon its Axle till its attracting End points towards E, and then the Island will be carried obliquely towards E; where if the Stone be again turned upon its Axle till it stands in the Position E F, with its repelling Point downwards, the Island will rise obliquely towards F, where by directing the attracting End towards G, the Island may be carried to G, and from G to H, by turning the Stone, so as to make its repelling Extremity point directly downwards. And thus by changing the Situation of the Stone as often as there is Occasion, the Island is made to rise and fall by Turns in an oblique Direction; and

46

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

by those alternate Risings and Fallings (the Obliquity being not considerable) is conveyed from one Part of the Dominions to the other. But it must be observed, that this Island cannot move beyond the Extent of the Dominions below; nor can it rise above the Height of four Miles. For which the Astronomers (who have written large Systems concerning the Stone) assign the following Reason: That the Magnetick Virtue does not extend beyond the Distance of four Miles, and that the Mineral which arts upon the Stone in the Bowels of the Earth, and in the Sea about six Leagues distant from the Shoar, is not diffused through the whole Globe, but terminated with the Limits of the King’s Dominions: And it was easy from the great Advantage of such a superior Situation, for a Prince to bring under his Obedience whatever Country lay within the Attraction of that Magnet. When the Stone is put parallel to the Plane of the Horizon, the Island standeth still; for in that Case, the Extremities of it being at equal Distance from the Earth, act with equal Force, the one in drawing downwards, the other in pushing upwards; and consequently no Motion can ensue. This Load-stone is under the Care of certain Astronomers, who from Time to Time give it such Positions as the Monarch directs. They spend the greatest Part of their Lives in observing the celestial Bodies, which they do by the Assistance of Glasses, far excelling ours in Goodness. For, although their largest Tele¬ scopes do not exceed three Feet, they magnify much more than those of a Hundred with us, and shew the Stars with greater Clearness. This Advantage hath enabled them to extend their Discoveries much

farther

than our Astronomers

in

Europe.

They have made a Catalogue of ten Thousand fixed Stars, whereas the largest of ours do not contain above one third Part of that Number. They have likewise discovered two lesser Stars, or Satellites, which revolve about Mars; whereof the innermost is distant from the Center of the primary Planet exactly three of his Diameters, and the outermost five; the former revolves in the Space of ten Hours, and the latter in Twenty-one and an Half; so that the Squares of their periodical Times, are very near in the same Proportion with the Cubes of their Distance from the Center of Mars; which evidently shews them to be

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

47

governed by the same Law of Gravitation, that influences the other heavenly Bodies. They have observed Ninety-three different Comets, and set¬ tled their Periods with great Exactness. If this be true, (and they affirm it with great Confidence) it is much to be wished that their Observations were made publick; whereby the Theory of Comets, which at present is very lame and defective, might be brought to the same Perfection with other Parts of Astronomy. The King would be the most absolute Prince in the Universe, if he could but prevail on a Ministry to join with him; but these having their Estates below on the Continent, and considering that the Office of a Favourite hath a very uncertain Tenure, would never consent to the enslaving their Country. If any Town should engage in Rebellion or Mutiny, fall into violent Factions, or refuse to pay the usual Tribute; the King hath two Methods of reducing them to Obedience. The first and the mildest Course is by keeping the Island hovering over such a Town, and the Lands about it; whereby he can deprive them of the Benefit of the Sun and the Rain, and consequently afflict the Inhabitants with Dearth and Diseases. And if the Crime deserve it, they are at the same time pelted from above with great Stones, against which they have no Defence, but by creeping into Cellars or Caves, while the Roofs of their Houses are beaten to Pieces. But if they still continue obstinate, or offer to raise In¬ surrections; he proceeds to the last Remedy, by letting the Island drop directly upon their Heads, which makes a universal De¬ struction both of Houses and Men. However, this is an Extrem¬ ity to which the Prince is seldom driven, neither indeed is he willing to put it in Execution; nor dare his Ministers advise him to an Action, which as it would render them odious to the People, so it would be a great Damage to their own Estates that lie all below; for the Island is the King’s Demesn. But there is still indeed a more weighty Reason, why the Kings of this Country have been always averse from executing so terrible an Action, unless upon the utmost Necessity. For if the Town intended to be destroyed should have in it any tall Rocks, as it generally falls out in the larger Cities; a Situation probably chosen at first with a View to prevent such a Catas¬ trophe: Or if it abound in high Spires or Pillars of Stone, a

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

48

sudden Fall might endanger the Bottom or under Surface of the Island, which although it consist as I have said, of one entire Adamant two hundred Yards thick, might happen to crack by too great a Choque, or burst by approaching too near the Fires from the Houses below; as the Backs both of Iron and Stone will often do in our Chimneys. Of all this the People are well apprized, and understand how far to carry their Obstinacy, where their Liberty or Property is concerned. And the King, when he is highest provoked, and most determined to press a City to Rubbish, orders the Island to descend with great Gentle¬ ness, out of a Pretence of Tenderness to his People, but indeed for fear of breaking the Adamantine Bottom; in which Case it is the Opinion of all their Philosophers, that the Load-stone could no longer hold it up, and the whole Mass would fall to the Ground. About three Years before my Arrival among them, while the King was in his Progress over his Dominions there happened an extraordinary Accident which had like to have put a Period to the Fate of that Monarchy, at least as it is now instituted. Lindalino the second City in the Kingdom was the first his Majesty visited in his Progress. Three Days after his Departure, the Inhabitants who had often complained of great Oppressions, shut the Town Gates, seized on the Governor, and with incredible Speed and Labour erected four large Towers, one at every Corner of the City (which is an exact Square) equal in Height to a strong pointed Rock that stands directly in the Center of the City. Upon the Top of each Tower, as well as upon the Rock, they fixed a great Loadstone, and in case their Design should fail, they had provided a vast Quantity of the most combustible Fewel, hoping to burst therewith the adamantine Bottom of the Island, if the Loadstone Project should miscarry. It was eight Months before the King had perfect Notice that the Lindalinians were in Rebellion. He then commanded that the Island should be wafted over the City. The People were unanimous, and had laid in Store of Provisions, and a great River runs through the middle of the Town. The King hovered over them several Days to deprive them of the Sun and the Rain. He ordered many Packthreads to be let down, yet not a Person offered to send up a Petition, but instead thereof, very

Swift/From Gulliver's Travels

49

bold Demands, the Redress of all their Grievances, great Immunitys, the Choice of their own Governor, and other the like Exorbitances.

Upon

which

his

Majesty commanded all

the

Inhabitants of the Island to cast great Stones from the lower gallery into the Town; but the Citizens had provided against this Mischief by conveying their Persons and Effects into the four Towers, and other strong Buildings, and Vaults under Ground. The King being now determined to reduce this proud Peo¬ ple, ordered that the Island should descend gently within fourty Yards of the Top of the Towers and Rock. This was accordingly done; but the Officers employed in that Work found the Descent much speedier than usual, and by turning the Loadstone could not without great Difficulty keep it in a firm position, but found the Island inclining to fall. They sent the King immediate Intelligence of this astonishing Event and begged his Majesty’s Permission to raise the Island higher; the King consented, a general Council was called, and the Officers of the Loadstone ordered to attend. One of the oldest and expertest among them obtained leave to try an Experiment. He took a strong Line of an Hundred Yards, and the Island being raised over the Town above the attracting Power they had felt, He fastened a Piece of Adamant to the End of his Line which had in it a Mixture of Iron mineral, of the same Nature with that whereof the Bottom or lower Surface of the Island is composed, and from the lower Gallery let it down slowly towards the Top of the Towers. The Adamant was not descended four Yards, before the Officer felt it drawn so strongly downwards, that he could hardly pull it back. He then threw down several small Pieces of Ada¬ mant, and observed that they were all violently attracted by the Top of the Tower. The same Experiment was made on the other three Towers, and on the Rock with the same Effect. This Incident broke entirely the King’s Measures and (to dwell no longer on other Circumstances) he was forced to give the Town their own Conditions. I was assured by a great Minister, that if the Island had descended so near the Town, as not to be able to raise it self, the Citizens were determined to fix it for ever, to kill the King and all his Servants, and entirely change the Government.

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

50

By a fundamental Law of this Realm, neither the King nor either of his two elder Sons, are permitted to leave the Island; nor the Queen till she is past Child-bearing.

Micromegas (1752) Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire (1694-1778)

In the next selection, Voltaire’s giant visitor to Earth creates the alienation necessary for satiric commentary. Our own small¬ ness is made dramatically clear in a fashion that uses science to make its fiction, but that hearkens back to Rabelais’s famous giants,

Gargantua and Pantagruel.

The references

to

Swift,

among others, and to the supposed two moons of Mars support Voltaire’s reputation as the most educated individual of his age.

The secondary criticisms here are not of science, as in

Swift; instead, science is used as a tool to ridicule the church and other human institutions and failings. Finally, the giant leaves us a book in which he has promised to write “the pur¬ pose of existence,” but the pages are blank. “ ‘This is just what I expected,’ ” we are told, but what does that mean? If we read Voltaire pessimistically, it means that science, by its power to reduce everything to rationality, suggests that there is no pur¬ pose to existence. But if we read Voltaire optimistically, catch¬ ing his satiric exuberance, the blank book implies that if human existence is to have a purpose, human beings must write it.

Voltaire / Micromegas

Chapter 1.

51

A Voyage to the Planet Saturn by a Native of Sirius

In one of the planets that revolve round the star known by the name of Sirius was a certain young gentleman of promising parts, whom I had the honor to be acquainted with in his last voyage to this our little ant-hill. His name was Micromegas, an appellation suited to all great men, and his stature amounted to eight leagues in height, that is, twenty-four thousand geometri¬ cal paces of five feet each. Some of your mathematicians, a set of people always useful to the public, will perhaps instantly seize the pen and calculate that Mr. Micromegas, inhabitant of the country of Sirius, being from head to foot four and twenty thousand paces in length, making one hundred and twenty thousand royal feet, that we, denizens of this earth, being at a medium little more than five feet high, and our globe nine thousand leagues in circumference; these things being premised, they will then conclude that the periphery of the globe which produced him must be exactly one and twenty millions six hundred thousand times greater than that of this, our tiny ball. Nothing in nature is more simple and common. The dominions of some sovereigns of Germany or Italy, which may be compassed in half an hour, when compared with the Ottoman, Russian, or Chinese em¬ pires, are no other than faint instances of the prodigious differ¬ ence that nature has made in the scale of beings. The stature of his excellency being of these extraordinary dimensions, all our artists will agree that

the measure around his body might

amount to fifty thousand royal feet, a very agreeable and just proportion. His nose being equal in length to one-third of his face, and his jolly countenance engrossing one-seventh part of his height, it must be owned that the nose of this Sirian was six thousand three hundred and thirty-three royal feet, to a hair, which was to be demonstrated. With regard to his understanding, it is one of the best cultivated I have known. He is perfectly well ac-

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

52

quainted with abundance of things, some of which are of his own invention; for, when his age did not exceed two hundred and fifty years, he studied according to the custom of the country, at the most celebrated university of the whole planet, and by the force of his genius discovered upwards of fifty propo¬ sitions of Euclid, having the advantage by more than eighteen of Blaise Pascal, who (as we are told by his own sister), demon¬ strated two and thirty for his amusement and then left off, choosing rather to be an indifferent philosopher than a great mathematician. About the four hundred and fiftieth year of his age, or latter end of his childhood, he dissected a great number of small insects not more than one hundred feet in diameter, which are not perceivable by ordinary microscopes, on which he composed a very curious treatise, which involved him in some trouble. The mufti of the nation, though very old and very ignorant, made shift to discover in his book certain lemmas that were sus¬ picious, unseemly, rash, heretic, and unsound, and prosecuted him with great animosity; for the subject of the author’s inquiry was whether, in the world of Sirius, there was any difference between the substantial forms of a flea and a snail. Micromegas defended his philosophy with such spirit as made all the female sex his proselytes; and the process lasted two hundred and twenty years; at the end of which time, in consequence of the mufti’s interest, the book was condemned by judges who had never read it, and the author expelled from court for the term of eight hundred years. Not much affected at his banishment from a court that teemed with nothing but turmoils and trifles, he made a very humorous song upon the mufti, who gave himself no trouble about the matter, and set out on his travels from planet to planet in order (as the saying is) to improve his mind and finish his education. Those who never travel but in a post-chaise or berlin, will doubtless be astonished at the equipages used above, for we that strut upon this little mole-hill are at a loss to con¬ ceive anything that surpasses our own customs. But our traveller was a wonderful adept in the laws of gravitation, together with the whole force of attraction and repulsion, and made such seasonable use of his knowledge that sometimes by the help of a

4

Voltaire / Micromegas

53

sunbeam, and sometimes by the convenience of a comet, he and his retinue glided from sphere to sphere, as the bird hops from one bough to another. He in a very little time posted through the milky way, and I am obliged to own he saw not a twinkle of those stars supposed to adorn that fair empyrean which the illus¬ trious Dr. Derham brags to have observed through his telescope. Not -that I pretend to say the doctor was mistaken. God forbid! But Micromegas was upon the spot, an exceeding good observer, and I have no mind to contradict any man. Be that as it may, after many windings and turnings, he arrived at the planet Saturn, and, accustomed as he was to the sight of novelties, he could not for his life repress a supercilious and conceited smile, which often escapes the wisest philosopher, when he perceived the smallness of that globe and the diminutive size of its in¬ habitants; for really Saturn is but about nine hundred times larger than this our earth, and the people of that country mere dwarfs, about a thousand fathoms high. In short, he at first derided those poor pygmies, just as an Indian fiddler laughs at the music of Lully, at his first arrival in Paris; but as this Sirian was a person of good sense, he soon perceived that a thinking being may not be altogether ridiculous, even though he is not quite six thousand feet high; and therefore he became familiar with them, after they had ceased to wonder at his extraordinary appearance. In particular, he contracted an intimate friendship with the secretary of the Academy of Saturn, a man of good understanding, who, though in truth he had invented nothing of his own, gave a very good account of the inventions of others, and enjoyed in peace the reputation of a little poet and great calculator. And here, for the edification of the reader, I will re¬ peat a very singular conversation that one day passed between Mr. Secretary and Micromegas.

Chapter 2.

The Conversation between Micromegas and the Inhabitant of Saturn

His excellency having laid himself down, and the secretary approached his nose:

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

54

"It must be confessed,” said Micromegas, "that nature is full of variety,” “Yes,” replied the Saturnian, "nature is like a parterre, whose flowers—” "Pshaw!” cried the other, "a truce with your parterres.” “It is,” resumed the secretary, "like an assembly of fair and brown women, whose dresses—” “What a plague have I to do with your brunettes?” said our traveller. “Then it is like a gallery of pictures, the strokes of which—” "Not at all,” answered Micromegas, “I tell you, once for all, nature is like nature, and comparisons are odious.” “Well, to please you,” said the secretary— “I won’t be pleased,” replied the Sirian, “I want to be in¬ structed; begin, therefore, without further preamble, and tell me how many senses the people of this world enjoy.” “We have seventy and two,” said the academician, "but we are daily complaining of the small number, as our imagination transcends our wants, for, with the seventy-two senses, our five moons and ring, we find ourselves very much restricted; and notwithstanding our curiosity, and the no small number of those passions that result from these few senses, we have still time enough to be tired of idleness.” “I sincerely believe what you say,” cried Micromegas, for, though we Sirians have near a thousand different senses, there still

remains a

certain

vague

desire,

an

unaccountable

in¬

quietude incessantly admonishing us of our own unimportance, and giving us to understand that there are other beings who are much our superiors in point of perfection. I have travelled a little, and seen mortals both above and below myself in the scale of being, but I have met with none who had not more desire than necessity, and more want than gratification. Per¬ haps I shall one day arrive in some country where naught is wanting, but hitherto I have had no certain information of such a happy land.” The Saturnian and his guest exhausted themselves in con¬ jectures upon this subject, and after abundance of argumenta¬ tion equally ingenious and uncertain, were fain to return to matter of fact.

Voltaire / Micromegas

55

“To what age do you commonly live?” said the Sirian. ‘ Lackadayl a mere trifle,” replied the little gentleman. “It is the very same case with us,” resumed the other, the shortness of life is our daily complaint, so that this must be a universal law in nature.” “AlasI” cried the Saturnian, “few, very few on this globe outlive five hundred great revolutions of the sun (these, accord¬ ing to our way of reckoning, amount to about fifteen thousand years). So, you see, we in a manner begin to die the very moment we are born; our existence is no more than a point, our dura¬ tion an instant, and our globe an atom/ Scarce do we begin to learn a little, when death intervenes before we can profit by experience. For my own part, I am deterred from laying schemes when I consider myself as a single drop in the midst of an immense ocean. I am particularly ashamed, in your presence, of the ridiculous figure I make among my fellow-creatures.” To this declaration Micromegas replied: "If you were not a philosopher, I should be afraid of mortify¬ ing your pride by telling you that the term of our lives is seven hundred times longer than the length of your existence; but you are very sensible that when the texture of the body is re¬ solved, in order to reanimate nature in another form, which is the consequence of what we call death—when that moment of change arrives, there is not the least difference betwixt having lived a whole eternity or a single day. I have been in some coun¬ tries where the people live a thousand times longer than with us, and yet they murmured at the shortness of their time. But one will find everywhere some few persons of good sense, who know how to make the best of their portion and thank the author of nature for his bounty. There is a profusion of variety scattered through the universe, and yet there is an admirable vein of uniformity that runs through the whole; for example, all thinking beings are different among themselves, though at bottom they resemble one another in the powers and passions of the soul. Matter, though interminable, hath different prop¬ erties in every sphere. How many principal attributes do you reckon in the matter of this world?” "If you mean those properties,” said the Saturnian, “with¬ out which we believe this our globe could not subsist, we reckon

56

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

in all three hundred, such as extent, impenetrability, motion, gravitation, divisibility, et caetera.” “That small number,” replied the traveller, “probably answers the views of the Creator on this your narrow sphere. I adore His Wisdom in all His works. I see infinite variety, but everywhere proportion. Your globe is small, so are the inhabi¬ tants. You have few sensations, because your matter is endued with few properties. These are the works of unerring providence. Of what color does your sun appear when accurately examined?” “Of a yellowish white,” answered the Saturnian, “and in separating one of his rays we find it contains seven colors.” “Our sun,” said the Sirian, “is of a reddish hue, and we have no less than thirty-nine original colors. Among all the suns I have seen there is no sort of resemblance, and in this sphere of yours there is not one face like another.” After divers questions of this nature he asked how many substances, essentially different, they counted in the world of Saturn, and understood that they numbered but thirty, such as God, space, matter, beings endowed with sense and extension, beings that have extension, sense, and reflection; thinking be¬ ings who have no extension; those that are penetrable; those that are impenetrable, and also all others. But this Saturnian philosopher was prodigiously astonished when the Sirian told him they had no less than three hundred, and that he himself had discovered three thousand more in the course of his travels. In short, after having communicated to each other what they knew, and even what they did not know, and argued during a complete revolution of the sun, they resolved to set out together on a small philosophical tour.

Chapter 3.

The Voyage of these Inhabitants of Other Worlds

Our two philosophers were just ready to embark for the atmo¬ sphere of Saturn, with a large provision of mathematical instru-

Voltaire/ Micromegas

57

menu, when the Saturnian’s mistress, having got an inkling of their design, came all in tears to make her protests. She was a handsome brunette, though not above six hundred and three¬ score fathoms high; but her agreeable attractions made amends for the smallness of her suture. Ah! cruel man,” cried she, “after a couruhip of fifteen hundred years, when at length I surrendered and became your wife, and scarce have passed two hundred more in thy em¬ braces, to leave me thus, before the honeymoon is over, and go a-rambling with a giant of another world! Go, go, thou art a mere virtuoso, devoid of tenderness and love! If thou wert a true Saturnian, thou wouldst be faithful and invariable. Ah! whither art thou going/' what is thy design? Our five moons are not so inconsunt, nor our ring so changeable as thee! But uke this along with thee, henceforth I ne’er shall love another man.” The little gentleman embraced and wept over her, not¬ withstanding his philosophy; and the lady, after having swooned with great decency, went to console herself with more agreeable company. Meanwhile our two virtuosi set out, and at one jump leaped upon the ring, which they found pretty flat, according to the ingenious guess of an illustrious inhabitant of this our little earth. From thence they easily slipped from moon to moon; and a comet chancing to pass, they sprang upon it with all their servants and apparatus. Thus carried about one hundred and fifty millions of leagues, they met with the satellites of Jupiter, and arrived upon the body of the planet itself, where they con¬ tinued a whole year; during which they learned some very curious secrets, which would actually be sent to the press, were it not for fear of the gentlemen inquisitors, who have found among them some corollaries very hard of digestion. Neverthe¬ less, I have read the manuscript in the library of the illustrious archbishop of -, who, with that generosity and goodness which should ever be commended, has granted me permission to peruse his books; wherefore I promise he shall have a long article in the next edition of Mor£ri, and I shall not forget the young gentlemen, his sons, who give us such pleasing hopes of seeing perpetuated the race of their illustrious father. But to

58

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

return to our travellers. When they took leave of Jupiter, they traversed a space of about one hundred millions of leagues, and coasting along the planet Mars, which is well known to be five times smaller than our little earth, they descried two moons subservient to that orb which have escaped the observation of all our astronomers. I know Father Castel will write, and that pleasantly enough, against the existence of these two moons; but I entirely refer myself to those who reason by analogy. Those worthy philosophers are very sensible that Mars, which is at such a distance from the sun, must be in a very uncomfortable situation, without the benefit of a couple of moons. Be that as it may, our gentlemen found the planet so small that they were afraid they should not find room to take a little repose, so that they pursued their journey like two travellers who despise the paltry accommodation of a village and push forward to the next market town. But the Sirian and his companion soon repented of their delicacy, for they journeyed a long time without finding a resting-place, till at length they discerned a small speck, which was the Earth. Coming from Jupiter, they could not but be moved with compassion at the sight of this miserable spot, upon which, however, they resolved to land, lest they should be a second time disappointed. They accordingly moved toward the tail of the comet, where, finding an aurora borealis ready to set sail, they embarked, and arrived on the northern coast of the Baltic on the fifth day of July, new style, in the year 1737.

Chapter 4.

What Befell Them Upon this Our Globe

Having taken some repose, and being desirous of reconnoitring the narrow field in which they were, they traversed it at once from north to south. Every step of the Sirian and his attendants measured about thirty thousand royal feet, whereas the dwarf of Saturn, whose stature did not exceed a thousand fathoms, followed at a distance quite out of breath; because, for every single stride of his companion, he was obliged to make twelve good steps at least. The reader may figure to himself (if we are

Voltaire/ Micromegas

59

allowed to make such comparisons) a very little rough spaniel dodging after a captain of the Prussian grenadiers. As those strangers walked at a good pace, they compassed the globe in six and thirty hours; the sun, it is true, or rather the earth, describes the same space in the course of one day; but it must be observed that it is much easier to turn upon an axis than to walk afoot. Behold them then returned to the spot from whence they had set out, after having discovered that almost imperceptible sea, which is called the Mediterranean, and the other narrow pond that surrounds this mole-hill, under the denomination of the great ocean, in yvading through which the dwarf had never wet his mid-leg, while the other scarce moistened his heel. In going and coming through both hemi¬ spheres, they did all that lay in their power to discover whether or not the globe was inhabited. They stooped, they lay down, they groped in every corner; but their eyes and hands were not at all proportioned to the small beings that crawl upon this earth, and, therefore, they could not find the smallest reason to suspect that we and our fellow-citizens of this globe had the honor to exist. The dwarf, who sometimes judged too hastily, concluded at once that there were no living creatures upon earth, and his chief reason was that he had seen nobody. But Micromegas, in a polite manner, made him sensible of the unjust conclusion: "For,” said he, "with your diminutive eyes you cannot see certain stars of the fiftieth magnitude, which I easily perceive; and do you take it for granted that no such stars exist?” "But I have groped with great care,” replied the dwarf. "Then your sense of feeling must be bad,” said the other. "But this globe,” said the dwarf, “is ill contrived, and so irregular in its form as to be quite ridiculous. The whole to¬ gether looks like a chaos. Do but observe these little rivulets; not one of them runs in a straight line; and these ponds which are neither round, square, nor oval, nor indeed of any regular figure; together with these little sharp pebbles (meaning the mountains) that roughen the whole surface of the globe, and have torn all the skin from my feet. Besides, pray take notice of the shape of the whole, how it flattens at the poles, and turns round the sun in an awkward oblique manner, so that the polar

60

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

circles cannot possibly be cultivated. Truly, what makes me believe there is no inhabitant on this sphere is a full persuasion that no sensible being would live in such a disagreeable place.” “What then?” said Micromegas; “perhaps the beings that inhabit it come not under that denomination; but, to all ap¬ pearance, it was not made for nothing. Everything here seems to you irregular, because you fetch all your comparisons from Jupiter or Saturn. Perhaps this is the very reason of the seeming confusion which you condemn; have I not told you that in the course of my travels I have always met with variety?” The Saturnian replied to all these arguments, and perhaps the dispute would have known no end, if Micromegas, in the heat of the contest, had not luckily broken the string of his diamond necklace, so that the jewels fell to the ground; they consisted of pretty small unequal stones, the largest of which weighed four hundred pounds, and the smallest fifty. The dwarf, in helping to pick them up, perceived, as they ap¬ proached his eye, that every single diamond was cut in such a manner as to answer the purpose of an excellent microscope. He therefore took up a small one, about one hundred and sixty feet in diameter, and applied it to his eye, while Micromegas chose another of two thousand five hundred feet. Though they were of excellent powers, the observers could perceive nothing by their assistance, so they were altered and adjusted. At length, the inhabitant of Saturn discerned something almost imper¬ ceptible moving between two waves in the Baltic. This was no other than a whale, which, in a dextrous manner, he caught with his little finger, and, placing it on the nail of his thumb, showed it to the Sirian, who laughed heartily at the excessive smallness peculiar to the inhabitants of this our globe. The Saturnian, by this time convinced that our world was inhabited, began to imagine we had no other animals than whales; and being a mighty debater, he forthwith set about investigating the origin and motion of this small atom, curious to know whether or not it was furnished with ideas, judgment, and free will. Micro¬ megas was very much perplexed upon this subject. He examined the animal with the most patient attention, and the result of his inquiry was that he could see no reason to believe a soul was lodged in such a body. The two travellers were actually inclined

Voltaire / Micromegas

61

to think there was no such thing as mind in this our habitation, when, by the help of their microscope, they perceived something as large as a whale floating upon the surface of the sea. It is well known that at this period a flock of philosophers were upon their return from the polar circle, where they had been making observations, for which nobody has hitherto been the wiser. The gazettes record that their vessel ran ashore on the coast of Bothnia and that they with great difficulty saved their lives; but in this world one can never dive to the bottom of things. For my own part, I will ingeniously recount the transaction just as it happened, without any addition of my own; and this is no small effort in a modern historian.

Chapter 5.

The Travellers Capture a Vessel

Micromegas stretched out his hand gently toward the place where the object appeared, and advanced two fingers, which he instantly pulled back, for fear of being disappointed; then open¬ ing softly and shutting them all at once, he very dextrously seized the ship that contained those gentlemen, and placed it on his nail, avoiding too much pressure, which might have crushed the whole in pieces. “This,” said Saturnian dwarf, "is a creature very different from the former.” Upon which the Sirian, placing the supposed animal in the hollow of his hand, the passengers and crew, who believed them¬ selves thrown by a hurricane upon some rock, began to put themselves in motion. The sailors having hoisted out some casks of wine, jumped after them into the hand of Micromegas; the mathematicians having secured their quadrants, sectors, and Lapland servants, went overboard at a different place, and made such a bustle in their descent that the Sirian at length felt his fingers tickled by something that seemed to move. An iron bar chanced to penetrate about a foot deep into his forefinger; and from this prick he concluded that something had issued from the little animal he held in his hand; but at first he suspected

62

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

nothing more, for the microscope, that scarce rendered a whale and a ship visible, had no effect upon an object so imperceptible as man. I do not intend to shock the vanity of any person whatever; but here I am obliged to request people of importance to con¬ sider that, supposing the stature of a man to be about five feet, we mortals make just such a figure upon the earth as an animal the sixty thousandth part of a foot in height would exhibit upon a bowl ten feet in circumference. When you reflect upon a being who could hold this whole earth in the palm of his hand, and is provided with organs proportioned to those we possess, you will easily conceive that there must be a great vari¬ ety of created substances—and pray, what must such beings think of those battles by which a conqueror gains a small village, to lose it again in the sequel? I do not at all doubt but if some captain of grenadiers should chance to read this work, he would add two large feet at least to the caps of his company; but I assure him his labor will be in vain, for, do what he will, he and his soldiers will never be other than infinitely diminutive and inconsiderable. What wonderful address must have been inherent in our Sirian philosopher that enabled him to perceive these atoms of which we have been speaking. When Leuwenhoek and Hartsoeker observed the first rudiments of which we are formed, they did not make such an astonishing discovery. What pleasure, therefore, was the portion of Micromegas in observing the mo¬ tion of those little machines, in examining all their pranks, and following them in all their operations! With what joy did he put his microscope into his companion’s hand; and with what transport did they both at once exclaim: “I see them distinctly—don’t you see them carrying burdens, lying down and rising up again?” So saying, their hands shook with eagerness to see and apprehension to lose such uncommon objects. The Saturnian, making a sudden transition from the most cautious distrust to the most excessive credulity, imagined he saw them engaged in their devotions, and cried aloud in astonishment. Nevertheless, he was deceived by appearances; a case too common, whether we do or do not make use of microscopes.

Voltaire/ Micromegas

Chapter 6.

63

What Happened in their Intercourse with Men

Micromegas being a much better observer than the dwarf, per¬ ceived distinctly that those atoms spoke; and made the remark to his companion, who was so much ashamed of being mistaken in his first suggestion that he would not believe such a puny species could possibly communicate their ideas, for, though he had the gift of tongues, as well as his companion, he could not hear those particles speak, and, therefore, supposed they had no language. "Besides, how should such imperceptible beings have the organs of speech? and what in the name of Jove can they say to one another? In order to speak, they must have something like thought, and if they think, they must surely have something equivalent to a soul. Now, to attribute anything like a soul to such an insect species appears a mere absurdity.” "But just now,” replied the Sirian, “you believed they were engaged in devotional exercises; and do you think this could be done without thinking, without using some sort of language, or at least some way of making themselves understood? Or do you suppose it is more difficult to advance an argument than to engage in physical exercise? For my own part, I look upon all faculties as alike mysterious.” “I will no longer venture to believe or deny,” answered the dwarf, “in short, I have no opinion at all. Let us endeavor to examine these insects, and we will reason upon them afterward.” “With all my heart,” said Micromegas, who, taking out a pair of scissors which he kept for paring his nails, cut off a par¬ ing from his thumb nail, of which he immediately formed a large kind of speaking trumpet, like a vast tunnel, and clapped the pipe to his ear; as the circumference of this machine in¬ cluded the ship and all the crew, the most feeble voice was con¬ veyed along the circular fibres of the nail; so that, thanks to his industry, the philosopher could distinctly hear the buzzing of our insects that were below. In a few hours he distinguished

64

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

articulate sounds, and at last plainly understood the French language. The dwarf heard the same, though with more dif¬ ficulty. The astonishment of our travellers increased every instant. They heard a nest of mites talk in a very sensible strain: and that lusus naturce seemed to them inexplicable. You need not doubt but the Sirian and his dwarf glowed with impatience to enter into conversation with such atoms.

Micromegas being

afraid that his voice, like thunder, would deafen and confound the mites, without being understood by them, saw the necessity of diminishing the sound; each, therefore, put into his mouth a sort of small toothpick, the slender end of which reached to the vessel. The Sirian setting the dwarf upon his knees, and the ship and crew upon his nail, held down his head and spoke softly. In fine, having taken these and a great many more pre¬ cautions, he addressed himself to them in these words: ‘‘O ye invisible insects, whom the hand of the Creator hath designed to produce in the abyss of infinite littleness! I give praise to His goodness, in that He hath been pleased to disclose unto me those secrets that seemed to be impenetrable.” If ever there was such a thing as astonishment, it seized upon the people who heard this address, and who could not conceive from whence it proceeded. The chaplain of the ship repeated exorcisms, the sailors swore, and the philosophers formed a system; but, notwithstanding all their systems, they could not divine who the person was that spoke to them. Then the dwarf of Saturn, whose voice was softer than that of Micromegas, gave them briefly to understand what species of beings they had to do with. He related the particulars of their voyage from Saturn, made them acquainted with the rank and quality of Monsieur Micromegas, and, after having pitied their smallness, asked if they had always been in that miserable state so near akin to annihilation; and what their business was upon that globe which seemed to be the property of whales. He also desired to know if they were happy in their situation? if they were inspired with souls? and put a hundred questions of the like nature. A certain mathematician on board, braver than the rest, and shocked to hear his soul called in question, planted his quad¬ rant, and having taken two observations of this interlocutor,

*

Voltaire / Micromegas

65

said: “You believe then, Mr. what’s your name, that because you measure from head to foot a thousand fathoms-” “A thousand fathoms!’’ cried the dwarf, “good heavens! How should he know the height of my stature? A thousand fathoms! My very dimensions to a hair. What, measured by a mite! This atom, forsooth, is a geometrician, and knows exactly how tall I am; while I, who can scarce perceive him through a microscope, am utterly ignorant of his extent!” “Yes, I have taken your measure,” answered the philosopher, “and I will now do the same by your tall companion.” The proposal was embraced; his excellency reclined upon his side, for, had he stood upright, his head would have reached too far above the clouds. Our mathematicians planted a tall tree near him, and then, by a series of triangles joined together, they discovered that the object of their observation was a strapping youth, exactly one hundred and twenty thousand royal feet in length. In consequence of this calculation, Micromegas uttered these words: “I am now more than ever convinced that we ought to judge of nothing by its external magnitude. O God! who hast bestowed understanding upon such seemingly contemptible substances. Thou canst with equal ease produce that which is infinitely small, as that which is incredibly great; and if it be possible that among thy works there are beings still more diminutive than these, they may, nevertheless, be endued with understanding su¬ perior to the intelligence of those stupendous animals I have seen in heaven, a single foot of whom is larger than this whole globe on which I have alighted.” One of the philosophers assured him that there were intelli¬ gent beings much smaller than men, and recounted not only Virgil’s whole fable of the bees, but also described all that Swam¬ merdam hath discovered and Reaumur dissected. In a word, he informed him that there are animals which bear the same pro¬ portion to bees that bees bear to man, the same as the Sirian himself compared to those vast beings whom he had mentioned, and as those huge animals are to other substances, before whom they would appear like so many particles of dust. Here the con¬ versation became very interesting, and Micromegas proceeded in these words:

66

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

“O ye intelligent atoms, in whom the Supreme Being hath been pleased to manifest his omniscience and power, without all doubt your joys on this earth must be pure and exquisite; for, being unincumbered with matter, and, to all appearance, little else than soul, you must spend your lives in the delights of plea¬ sure and reflection, which are the true enjoyments of a perfect spirit. True happiness I have nowhere found; but certainly here it dwells.” At this harangue all the philosophers shook their heads, and one among them, more candid than his brethren, frankly owned that, excepting a very small number of inhabitants who were very little esteemed by their fellows, all the rest were a parcel of knaves, fools, and miserable wretches. “We have matter enough,” said he, “to do abundance of mis¬ chief, if mischief comes from matter; and too much understand¬ ing, if evil flows from understanding. You must know, for ex¬ ample, that at this very moment, while I am speaking, there are one hundred thousand animals of our own species, covered with hats, slaying an equal number of their fellow-creatures who wear turbans; at least they are either slaying or being slain; and this hath usually been the case all over the earth from time im¬ memorial.” The Sirian, shuddering at this information, begged to know the cause of those horrible quarrels among such a puny race, and was given to understand that the subject of the dispute was a piti¬ ful mole-hill (called Palestine), no larger than his heel. Not that any one of those millions who cut one another’s throats pretends to have the least claim to the smallest particle of that clod. The question is, whether it shall belong to a certain person who is known by the name of Sultan, or to another whom (for what rea¬ son I know not) they dignify with the appellation of Pope. Nei¬ ther the one nor the other has seen or ever will see the pitiful corner in question; and probably none of these wretches, who so madly destroy each other, ever beheld the ruler on whose ac¬ count they are so mercilessly sacrificed! “Ah, miscreants!” cried the indignant Sirian, “such excess of desperate rage is beyond conception. I have a good mind to take two or three steps, and trample the whole nest of such ridiculous assassins under my feet.”

Voltaire/ Micromegas

67

“Don’t give yourself the trouble,” replied the philosopher; “they are industrious enough in procuring their own destruction. At the end of ten years the hundredth part of those wretches will not survive; for you must know that, though they should not draw a sword in the cause they have espoused, famine, fatigue, and intemperance would sweep almost all of them from the face of the earth. Besides, the punishment should not be inflicted upon them, but upon those sedentary and slothful barbarians, who, from their palaces, give orders for murdering a million of men and then solemnly thank God for their success.” Our traveller was moved with compassion for the entire hu¬ man race, in which he discovered such astonishing contrasts. “Since you are of the small number of the wise,” said he, “and in all likelihood do not engage yourselves in the trade of mur¬ der for hire, be so good as to tell me your occupation.” “We anatomize flies,” replied the philosopher, “we measure lines, we make calculations, we agree upon two or three points which we understand, and dispute upon two or three thousand that are beyond our comprehension.” “How far,” said the Sirian, “do you reckon the distance be¬ tween the great star of the constellation Gemini and that called Canicula?” To this question all of them answered with one voice: “Thirty-two degrees and a half.” "And what is the distance from thence to the moon?” “Sixty semi-diameters of the earth.” He then thought to puzzle them by asking the weight of the air; but they answered distinctly that common air is about nine hundred times specifically lighter than an equal column of the lightest water, and nineteen hundred times lighter than current gold. The little dwarf of Saturn, astonished at their answers, was now tempted to believe those people sorcerers who, but a quarter of an hour before, he would not allow were inspired with souls. “Well,” said Micromegas, “since you know so well what is without you, doubtless you are still more perfectly acquainted with that which is within. Tell me what is the soul, and how do your ideas orginate?” Here the philosophers spoke altogether as before; but each

68

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

was of a different opinion. The eldest quoted Aristotle, another pronounced the name of Descartes, a third mentioned Malebranche, a fourth Leibnitz, and a fifth Locke. An old peripatetic, lifting up his voice, exclaimed with an air of confidence: “The soul is perfection and reason, having power to be such as it is, as Aristotle expressly declares, page 633, of the Louvre edition: "EyreXf^eca ns earl, Kal Xoyos tov bvvafuv tyovros roiovSi ti rai.

“I am not very well versed in Greek,” said the giant. "Nor I, either,” replied the philosophical mite. “Why, then, do you quote that same Aristotle in Greek,” re¬ sumed the Sirian. “Because,” answered the other, “it is but reasonable we should quote what we do not comprehend in a language we do not understand.” Here the Cartesian interposing: “The soul,” said he, “is a pure spirit or intelligence, which hath received before birth all the metaphysical ideas; but after that event it is obliged to go to school and learn anew the knowledge which it hath lost.” “So it is necessary,” replied the animal of eight leagues, "that thy soul should be learned before birth, in order to be so igno¬ rant when thou hast got a beard upon thy chin. But what dost thou understand by spirit?” "I have no idea of it,” said the philosopher; “indeed, it is supposed to be immaterial.” “At least, thou knowest what matter is?” resumed the Sirian. "Perfectly well,” answered the other. “For example: that stone is gray, is of a certain figure, has three dimensions, specific weight, and divisibility.” “I want to know,” said the giant, “what that object is, which, according to thy observation, hath a gray color, weight, and di¬ visibility. Thou seest a few qualities, but dost thou know the nature of the thing itself?” “Not I, truly,” answered the Cartesian. Upon which the Sirian admitted that he also was ignorant in regard to this subject. Then addressing himself to another sage, who stood upon his thumb, he asked: "What is the soul? and what are its functions?” “Nothing at all,” replied this disciple of Malebranche; “God hath made everything for my convenience. In Him I see every-

4

Voltaire/ Micromegas

69

thing, by Him I act; He is the universal agent, and I never med¬ dle in His work.” ‘‘That is being a nonentity indeed,” said the Sirian sage; and then, turning to a follower of Leibnitz, he exclaimed: “Hark ye, friend, what is thy opinion of the soul?” “In my opinion,” answered this metaphysician, “the soul is the hand that points at the hour, while my body does the office of the clock; or, if you please, the soul is the clock, and the body is the pointer; or again, my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body the frame. All this is clear and uncontrovertible.” A little partisan of Locke, who chapced to be present, being asked his opinion on the same subject, said: “I do not know by what power I think; but well I know that I should never have thought without the assistance of my senses. That there are im¬ material and intelligent substances I do not at all doubt; but that it is impossible for God to communicate the faculty of thinking to matter, I doubt very much. I revere the Eternal Power, to which it would ill become me to prescribe bounds. I affirm nothing, and am contented to believe that many more things are possible than are usually thought so.” The Sirian smiled at this declaration, and did not look upon the author as the least sagacious of the company; and as for the dwarf of Saturn, he would have embraced this adherent of Locke, had it not been for the extreme disproportion in their respective sizes. But unluckily there was another animalcule in a square cap, who, taking the word from all his philosophical brethren, affirmed that he knew the whole secret, which was contained in the abridgment of St. Thomas. He surveyed the two celestial strangers from top to toe, and maintained to their faces that their persons, their fashions, their suns, and their stars were created solely for the use of man. At this wild assertion our two travellers were seized with a fit of that uncontrollable laughter, which (according to Homer) is the portion of the immortal gods; their bellies quivered, their shoulders rose and fell, and, during these convulsions, the vessel fell from the Sirian’s nail into the Saturnian’s pocket, where these worthy people searched for it a long time with great diligence. At length, having found the ship and set everything to rights again, the Sirian resumed the dis¬ course with those diminutive mites, and promised to compose

70

THE EMERGENCE OF MODERN SCIENCE

for them a choice book of philosophy which would demonstrate the very essence of things. Accordingly, before his departure, he made them a present of the book, which was brought to the Academy of Sciences at Paris, but when the old secretary came to open it he saw nothing but blank paper, upon which— “Ay, ay,” said he, "this is just what I suspected.”

I

PART 2

Nineteenth Century

The nineteenth century was an era of profound and accelerating change. Although it opened in a world of sailing ships and quill pens, it ended quite differently. While the science and tech¬ nology of earlier centuries may have made people dream of the fantastic, the science and technology of the nineteenth century realized the fantastic. Consider just a few changes: the first two decades of the century saw the development of large and reliable steamboats, allowing commercial, military, and personal trans¬ portation to be put on a cheap and scheduled basis free of the accidents of wind; the advent of photography in 1835 drastically diminished the utilitarian role of graphic art, changing the rela¬ tionship of art to skill and in one important function supersed¬ ing human memory; the creation of the magnetic telegraph in 1837 allowed for instantaneous and distant communication, breaking the ground for the global village; the incandescent light bulb patented in 1879 effectively freed human activity from schedules imposed by nature; the development of the mechani¬ cal adding machine in 1885 allowed for the manipulation of in¬ formation in quantities vast enough to permit the development of the modern industrial complex; and the creation of the gaso¬ line-powered automobile in 1887 began to sever the roots that held people to places and stable societies. While each of these new capabilities enthralled people, they also drove forward so¬ cial change, which expressed itself in waves of revolution, na¬ tionalism, colonialism, and a breath-taking industrialization that brought both real economic gain and grave dislocation and 71

72

NINETEENTH CENTURY

doubt. It was in the nineteenth century that people began in earnest to build laboratories for the benefit of all the world, and it was also in the nineteenth century that all the world began to suspect that reclusive seekers after private gain were letting monsters escape from their labs. The science fiction of the nine¬ teenth century reflected all this. The figure of the private seeker for power too great for his own good goes far back in legend and in literature, perhaps to Adam seeking god like knowledge by eating the forbidden apple, certainly to Prometheus stealing fire for the benefit of mankind. Like Adam and Prometheus, the lone, bold scientist is an am¬ biguous figure, expressing by his intellectual struggles one of the most prized aspects of human beings and yet, in the vanity of his striving, demonstrating the pride that goes before the fall. Adam is cast out of the perfect, peaceful world of tamed nature that was Eden by God-the-Father, and Prometheus is chained by the elder god Zeus to a raw Caucasian mountaintop on which rapacious birds pluck daily at his vital organs. All of us in grow¬ ing up seek and acquire knowledge new to us and, gaining the strength and skill we desire, finally need to throw off the restric¬ tions that have been put upon us by our real and symbolic fa¬ thers or by society. Having shared this experience, the whole world can understand the scientist’s dilemma, a powerful ver¬ sion of a universal myth. Robert Plank has argued that the basic story of science fic¬ tion is the story of Oedipus: the competition between father and son for access to the good things of the world symbolized by the sex object, the mother, in the versions of Sophocles and of Freud. This competition is a conflict of power and hence quite reason¬ ably expressed as a struggle for knowledge. According to Plank, an archetypal science fiction is Shakespeare’s The Tempest (1611) in which Prospero the magician (read scientist) has had his rightful throne usurped; however, he has a daughter (but no wife) named Miranda who falls in love with Ferdinand, the would-be son-through-marriage. Prospero makes Ferdinand win his approval, and hence his daughter. Prospero also wins back his social position by the use of his magic. But having done these deeds, he drowns his books, disposing of their unnatural power in order to take up the natural political power to which he was

Nineteenth Century

73

born and which he will pass on to the children of Miranda and Ferdinand. Here is a case of the Oedipus conflict worked out, so¬ cial order restored, unsafe knowledge hidden back away from prying eyes. About ten years earlier Marlowe had written The Tragedy of Dr. Faustus in which the knowledge-seeker, Faust, calls forth by magical incantation a demon named Mephistopheles. Through his control over Mephistopheles, Faust would have all the good things of the world, including a dalliance with a resurrected Helen of Troy; but Mephistopheles manages to talk Faust out of enjoying the fruits of his knowledge. The power that Faust has gained is a false power. At the end, when he must repay Mephistopheles for his twenty-four years’s service by giving the devil his soul, Faust wants to renege and offers to burn his books. Unlike Prospero, Faust turns from study too late; he dies forever without issue. Thus we see already in the Renaissance both out¬ comes of the dramatic conflict which nineteenth-century science fiction will display in scientist after scientist. Mephistopheles, on the one hand, may represent a father figure for Faust, as Prospero does for Ferdinand, but, more im¬ portantly, we can see Faust and Mephistopheles as doubles, two characters living out the conflict that might less obviously be thought to exist in a single individual. Faust himself wants learn¬ ing and worldly success; the part of him that is Mephistopheles is raw power and the quest for it. Finally, the whole man is made slave to that obsessive part of himself, slave of the powers he would command. The figure of power—which might be not only a double but also a father and the incarnation of society— is finally too strong. The nineteenth century, gasping at its own changes, feared that individuals would simply break down too many of the bonds and responsibilities of family and society that make the human world. This fear is typically expressed in a fear of science and of the socially disengaged scientist. Frequently the aliens of science fiction serve as doubles for hu¬ man protagonists. This is clearly the case when the alien is the human’s creation. When the alien shows the blindness of the human, science is implicitly criticized; when the alien shows the goodness of the human, science is implicitly praised. In uto¬ pian literature, a tradition from Plato’s Republic to the present

74

NINETEENTH CENTURY

in which people have speculated about the best organization of society, individuals of one class are often quite alien to individ¬ uals of another. While Plato comfortably founded his elite, per¬ fect city-state on the labor of slaves, the post-Christian world, with its ties to slavery, saw moral difficulties in making some people work so much harder than others. In the nineteenth cen¬ tury, science fiction writers took up the speculations of the uto¬ pian tradition and attempted to solve those moral problems by taking the necessary labor not from people but from machines, often from robots. But as soon as the robots become true dou¬ bles, as soon as they symbolize our own desires for dominion and a return to Edenic perfection, the very act of having created them questions whether or not we have usurped the roles of gods. What rights have men in creating and in organizing so¬ ciety? What, after all, does it mean to be a human being? One of the greatest of the utopian thinkers of the nineteenth century was Karl Marx (1818-1883), a so-called “scientificutopian” who helped put economics on a mathematical base and who argued that the robotic proletariat created by indus¬ trialization were “wage slaves.” Marx argued that the “locomo¬ tive of history” led inevitably to class conflict by which the workers would throw off the yoke of the masters and rule them. The proletariat would seize the means of production and rule dictatorially until human nature, incarnate in the children raised in a classless world, had been redeemed and returned to a basic goodness which others—not Marx—would call Edenic, perfect, innocent of all striving after knowledge or change. This story of conflict and turmoil, of struggle and eventual calm, al¬ most mirrors in its Romantic hope the sexual charge of the stories of Faustian scientists. Like so many other speculations born in the midst of this ever more powerful and disturbing century, and like so many science fictions, the dream of ultimate peace, even peace through science, was a desperate hope with which humanity girded itself as it scrambled toward the global conflicts of the century to come.

Hoffmann /The Sand-Man

75

The Sand-Man (1816) E T. A. Hoffmann (1776-1822) Jf

E. T. A. Hoffmann was an extraordinary man, court legal ad¬ viser, composer (the opera Undine, for example), artist, and writer of fantastic stories. The Tales of Hoffmann, Offenbach’s opera, attests to the power of his fiction, and “The Sand-man” in particular shows the source of that power. In his 1919 essay called “The ‘Uncanny,’ ” Sigmund Freud used this Hoffmann tale as his main example for developing the idea that the un¬ canny, what we might in general call the fantastic, arises when we see the familiar in an unfamiliar setting, as when on vaca¬ tion we bump into a person from our past. This tale uses two of the most important science fictional techniques of the un¬ canny: doubles and concretization. A double of oneself is, after all, meeting the familiar in an unfamiliar setting. The father and Coppelius, Nathanael and Lothair, Olimpia and Clara all double each other here. Concretization occurs when the meta¬ phoric becomes the literal, as when the “far-sighted” alchemist/ scientist becomes the maker of telescopes or when the world of the dream becomes reality. This tale concretizes the metaphor of the mechanical woman in Clara’s double, Olimpia, one of the earliest fictional robots and a dramatic mirror of other people’s perceptions. The imagery of eyes and sight shoots through this tale—based on a children’s fairy story and gaining plausibility through an appeal to science—to anticipate modern depth psy¬ chology.

76

NINETEENTH CENTURY

Nathanael to Lothair I know you are all very uneasy because I have not written for such a long, long time. Mother, to be sure, is angry, and Clara, I dare say, believes I am living here in riot and revelry, and quite forgetting my sweet angel, whose image is so deeply en¬ graved upon my heart and mind. But that is not so; daily and hourly I think of you all, and my lovely Clara’s form comes to gladden me in my dreams, and smiles upon me with her bright eyes, as graciously as she used to do in the days when I used to associate daily with you. Oh! how could I write to you in the distracted state of mind in which I have been, and which, until now, has quite bewil¬ dered me! A terrible thing has happened to me. Dark forebod¬ ings of some awful fate threatening me are spreading themselves out over my head like black clouds, impenetrable to every friendly ray of sunlight. I must now tell you what has taken place; I must, that I see well enough, but only to think of it makes the wild laughter burst from my lips. Oh! my dear, dear Lothair, what shall I say to make you feel, if only in an inade¬ quate way, that what happened to me a few days ago could thus really exercise such a hostile and disturbing influence upon my life? I wish you were here to see for yourself! But now you will, I suppose, take me for a superstitious ghost-seer. In a word, the terrible thing which I have experienced, the fatal effect of which I in vain exert every effort to shake off, is simply that some days ago, namely, on the thirtieth of October, at twelve o’clock at noon, a peddler of weather glasses and thermometers came into my room and wanted to sell me one of his wares. I bought noth¬ ing, and threatened to kick him downstairs, whereupon he went away of his own accord. You will conclude that it can only be very peculiar relations— relations intimately intertwined with my life—that can give sig¬ nificance to this event, and that it must be the peddler himself Reprinted by permission of the publisher from The Best Tales of Hoffmann, edited by E. F. Bleiler, 1967. Copyright © 1967 by Dover Publications, Inc.

Hoffmann/The Sand-Man

77

who had such a very unpleasant effect upon me. And so it really is. I will summon up all my faculties in order to narrate to you calmly and patiently enough about the early days of my youth to put matters before you in such a way that your keen sharp in¬ tellect can grasp everything clearly and distinctly, in bright and living pictures. Just as I am beginning, I hear you laugh and Clara say, “What’s all this childish nonsense about!” Well, laugh at me, laugh heartily at me, pray do. But, good God! my hair is stand¬ ing on end, and I seem to be entreating you to laugh at me in the same sort of frantic despair in which Franz Moor (in Schil¬ ler’s Die R 'duber) entreated Daniel to laugh him to scorn. But to my story. Except at dinner we, i.e., I and my brothers and sisters, saw little of our father all day long. His business no doubt took up most of his time. After our evening meal, which usually was served at seven o’clock, we all went, mother with us, into father’s room, and took our places around a round table. My father smoked his pipe, drinking a large glass of beer at the same time. Often he told us many wonderful stories, and got so excited over them that his pipe would go out; I used then to light it for him with a spill, and this formed my chief amusement. Often, again, he would give us picture books to look at, while he sat silent and motionless in his easy chair, puffing out such dense clouds of smoke that we were all as it were enveloped in mist. On such evenings mother was very sad; and as soon as it struck nine she said, “Come, children! Off to bed! Come! The Sand man is come, I see.” And I always did seem to hear some¬ thing trampling upstairs with slow heavy steps; that must be the Sand-man. Once in particular I was very much frightened at this dull trampling and knocking; as mother was leading us out of the room I asked her, “O mamma! who is this nasty Sand¬ man who always sends us away from papa? What does he look like?” “There is no Sand-man, my dear,” mother answered; “when I say the Sand-man is come, I only mean that you are sleepy and can’t keep your eyes open, as if somebody had put sand in them.” This answer of mother’s did not satisfy me; nay, in my childish mind the thought clearly unfolded itself that mother denied

78

NINETEENTH CENTURY

there was a Sand-man only to prevent us from being afraid,— why, I always heard him come upstairs. Full of curiosity to learn something more about this Sand¬ man and what he had to do with us children, I finally asked the old woman who acted as my youngest sister’s nurse, what sort of man he was—the Sand-man? “Why, ’thanael, darling, don’t you know?” she replied. “Oh! he’s a wicked man, who comes to little children when they won’t go to bed and throws handfuls of sand in their eyes, so that they jump out of their heads all bloody; and he puts them into a bag and takes them to the half-moon as food for his little ones; and they sit there in the nest and have hooked beaks like owls, and they pick naughty little boys’ and girls’ eyes out with them.” After this I formed in my own mind a horrible picture of the cruel Sand-man. When anything came blundering upstairs at night I trembled with fear and dismay; and all that my mother could get out of me were the stammered words “The Sand-man! the Sand-man!” whilst the tears coursed down my cheeks. Then I ran into my bedroom, and the whole night through tormented myself with the terrible apparition of the Sand-man. I was quite old enough to perceive that the old woman’s tale about the Sand¬ man and his little ones’ nest in the half-moon couldn’t be alto¬ gether true; nevertheless the Sand-man continued to be for me a fearful incubus, and I was always seized with terror—my blood always ran cold, not only when I heard anybody come up the stairs, but when I heard anybody noisily open the door to my father’s room and go in. Often the Sand-man stayed away for a long time altogether; then he would come several times in close succession. This went on for years, without my being able to accustom myself to this fearful apparition, without the image of the hor¬ rible Sand-man growing any fainter in my imagination. His in¬ tercourse with my father began to occupy my fancy ever more and more; I was restrained from asking my father about him by an unconquerable shyness; but as the years went on the desire waxed stronger and stronger within me to fathom the mystery myself and to see the fabulous Sand-man. He had been the means of disclosing to me the path of the wonderful and the adven-

Hoffmann/The Sand-Man

79

turous, which so easily find lodgment in the mind of the child. I liked nothing better than to hear or read horrible stories of globins, witches, dwarfs, and so on; but always at the head of them all stood the Sand-man, whose picture I scribbled in the most extraordinary and repulsive forms with both chalk and coal everywhere, on the tables, and cupboard doors, and walls. When I was ten years old my mother removed me from the nursery into a little chamber off the corridor not far from my father’s room. We still had to withdraw hastily whenever, on the stroke of nine, the mysterious unknown was heard in the house. As I lay in my little chamber I could hear him go into father’s room, and soon afterwards I fancied there was a fine and pecu¬ liar smelling steam spreading itself through the house. As my curiosity waxed stronger, my resolve to make the Sand¬ man’s acquaintance somehow or other took deeper root. Often when my mother had gone past, I slipped quickly out of my room into the corridor, but I could never see anything, for al¬ ways before I could reach the place where I could get sight of him, the Sand-man was well inside the door. At last, unable to resist the impulse any longer, I determined to conceal myself in father’s room and wait there for the Sand-man. One evening I perceived from my father’s silence and mother’s sadness that the Sand-man would come; accordingly, pleading that I was excessively tired, I left the room before nine o’clock and concealed myself in a hiding place close beside the door. The street door creaked, and slow, heavy, echoing steps crossed the passage towards the stairs. Mother hurried past me with my brothers and sisters. Softly—softly—I opened the door to father’s room. He sat as usual, silent and motionless, with his back to¬ wards the door; he did not hear me; and in a moment I was in and behind a curtain drawn before my father’s open wardrobe, which stood just inside the room. Nearer and nearer and nearer came the echoing footsteps. There was a strange coughing and shuffling and mumbling outside. My heart beat with expectation and fear. A quick step now close, close beside the door, a noisy rattle of the handle, and the door flies open with a bang. Re¬ covering my courage with an effort, I take a cautious peep out. In the middle of the room in front of my father stands the Sand-

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man, the bright light of the lamp falling full upon his face. The Sand man, the terrible Sand-man, is the old lawyer Coppelius who often comes to dine with us. But the most hideous figure could not have awakened greater trepidation in my heart than this Coppelius did. Picture to your¬ self a large broad-shouldered man, with an immensely big head, a face the colour of yellow ochre, gray bushy eyebrows, from be¬ neath which two piercing, greenish, cat-like eyes glittered, and a prominent Roman nose hanging over his upper lip. His dis¬ torted mouth was often screwed up into a malicious sneer; then two dark-red spots appeared on his cheeks, and a strange hissing noise proceeded from between his tightly clenched teeth. He al¬ ways wore an ash-gray coat of an old-fashioned cut, a waistcoat of the same, and nether extremities to match, but black stock¬ ings and buckles set with stones on his shoes. His little wig scarcely extended beyond the crown of his head, his hair was curled round high up above his big red ears, and plastered to his temples with cosmetic, and a broad closed hair-bag stood out prominently from his neck, so that you could see the silver buckle that fastened his folded neck-cloth. Altogether he was a most disagreeable and horribly ugly figure; but what we chil¬ dren detested most of all was his big coarse hairy hands; we could never fancy anything that he had once touched. This he had noticed; and so, whenever our good mother quietly placed a piece of cake or sweet fruit on our plates, he delighted to touch it under some pretext or other, until the tears stood in our eyes, and from disgust and loathing we lost the enjoyment of the tit-bit that was intended to please us. And he did just the same thing when father gave us a glass of sweet wine on holidays. Then he would quickly pass his hand over it, or even sometimes raise the glass to his blue lips, and he laughed quite sardonically when all we dared do was to express our vexation in stifled sobs. He habitually called us the “little brutes”; and when he was present we might not utter a sound; and we cursed the ugly spiteful man who deliberately and intentionally spoilt all our little pleasures. Mother seemed to dislike this hateful Coppelius as much as we did; for as soon as he appeared, her cheerfulness and bright and natural manner were transformed into sad, gloomy serious-

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ness. Father treated him as if he were a being of some higher race, whose ill manners were to be tolerated, while no efforts ought to be spared to keep him in good humour. Coppelius had only to give a slight hint, and his favourite dishes were cooked for him and rare wine uncorked. As soon as I saw this Coppelius, therefore, the fearful and hideous thought arose in my mind that he, and he alone, must be the Sand-man; but I no longer conceived of the Sand-man as the bugbear in the old nurse’s fable, who fetched children’s eyes and took them to the half-moon as food for his little ones—no! but as an ugly spectre-like fiend bringing trouble and misery and ruin, both temporal and everlasting, everywhere he appeared. I was spellbound on the spot. At the risk of being discovered, and as I well enough knew, of being severely punished, I re¬ mained as I was, with my head thrust through the curtains lis¬ tening. My father received Coppelius in a ceremonious manner. “Come, to work!” cried the latter, in a hoarse snarling voice, throwing off his coat. Gloomily and silently my father took off his dressing gown, and both put on long black smock-frocks. Where they took them from I forgot to notice. Father opened the folding doors of a cupboard in the wall; but I saw that what I had so long taken to be a cupboard was really a dark recess, in which was a little hearth. Coppelius approached it, and a blue flame crackled upwards from it. Round about were all kinds of strange utensils. Good God! as my father bent down over the fire how differ¬ ent he looked! His gentle features seemed to be drawn up by some dreadful convulsive pain into an ugly, repulsive Satanic mask. He looked like Coppelius. Coppelius plied the red-hot tongs and drew bright glowing masses out of the thick smoke and began assiduously to hammer them. I fancied that there were men’s faces visible round about, but without eyes, having ghastly deep black holes where the eyes should have been. “Eyes here! Eyes here!” cried Coppelius, in a hollow sepul¬ chral voice. My blood ran cold with horror; I screamed and tumbled out of my hiding place onto the floor. Coppelius im¬ mediately seized me. “You little brute! You little brute!” he bleated, grinding his teeth. Then, snatching me up, he threw me on the hearth, so that the flames began to singe my hair.

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"Now we’ve got eyes—eyes—a beautiful pair of children’s eyes,” he whispered and, thrusting his hands into the flames he took out some red-hot grains and was about to throw them into my eyes. Then my father clasped his hands and entreated him, saying, “Master, master, let my Nathanael keep his eyes—oh! let him keep them.” Coppelius laughed shrilly and replied, “Well then, the boy may keep his eyes and whine and pule his way through the world; but we will at any rate examine the mechanism of the hand and the foot.” And thereupon he roughly laid hold of me, so that my joints cracked, and twisted my hands and my feet, pulling them now this way, and now that, “That’s not quite right altogether! It’s better as it was!—the old fellow knew what he was about.” Thus lisped and hissed Coppelius; but all around me grew black and dark; a sudden convulsive pain shot through all my nerves and bones; I knew nothing more. I felt a soft warm breath fanning my cheek; I awakened as if out of the sleep of death; my mother was bending over me. “Is the Sand-man still here?” I stammered. “No, my dear child; he’s been gone a long, long time; he’ll not hurt you.” Thus spoke my mother, as she kissed her recovered darling and pressed him to her heart. But why should I tire you, my dear Lothair? why do I dwell at such length on these details, when there’s so much re¬ mains to be said? Enough—I was detected in my eavesdropping, and roughly handled by Coppelius. Fear and terror brought on a violent fever, of which I lay ill several weeks. “Is the Sand-man still there?” these were the first words I uttered on coming to myself again, the first sign of my recovery, of my safety. Thus, you see, I have only to relate to you the most terrible moment of my youth for you to thoroughly understand that it must not be ascribed to the weakness of my eyesight if all that I see is colourless, but to the fact that a mysterious destiny has hung a dark veil of clouds about my life, which I shall perhaps only break through when I die. Coppelius did not show himself again; it was reported he had left the town. It was about a year later when, in our old manner, we sat around the round table in the evening. Father was in very good

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spirits, and was telling us amusing tales about his youthful trav¬ els. As it was striking nine we all at once heard the street door creak on its hinges, and slow ponderous steps echoed across the passage and up the stairs. “That is Coppelius,” said my mother, turning pale. “Yes, it is Coppelius,” replied my father in a faint broken voice. The tears started from my mother’s eyes. “But, father, father,” she cried, “must it be so?” “This is the last time,” he replied; “this is the last time he will come to me, I promise you. Go now, go and take the children. Go, go to bed—good¬ night.” As for me, I left as if I were converted into cold, heavy stone; I could not get my breath. As I stood there immovable, my mother seized me by the arm. “Come, Nathanael! come along!” I suffered myself to be led away; I went into my room. “Be a good boy and keep quiet,” mother called after me; “get into bed and go to sleep.” But, tortured by indescribable fear and uneasi¬ ness, I could not dose my eyes. It seemed that hateful, hideous Coppelius stood before me with his glittering eyes, smiling mali¬ ciously down upon me; in vain did I strive to banish the image. Somewhere about midnight there was a terrific explosion, as if a cannon were being fired off. The whole house shook; some¬ thing went rustling and clattering past my door; the house door was pulled to with a bang. “That is Coppelius,” I cried, terror-stricken, and leaped out of bed. Then I heard a wild heart-rending scream; I rushed into my father’s room; the door stood open, and clouds of suffocating smoke came rolling towards me. The servant maid shouted, “Oh! my master! my master!” On the floor in front of the smok¬ ing hearth lay my father, dead, his face burned black and fear¬ fully distorted, my sisters weeping and moaning around him, and my mother lying near them in a swoon. “Coppelius, you atrocious fiend, you’ve killed my father,” I shouted. My senses left me. Two days later, when my father was placed in his coffin, his features were mild and gentle again as they had been when he was alive. I found great consolation in the thought that his association with the diabolical Coppelius could not have ended in his everlasting ruin. Our neighbours had been awakened by the explosion; the af-

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fair got talked about, and came before the magisterial authori¬ ties, who wished to cite Coppelius to clear himself. But he had disappeared from the place, leaving no traces behind him. Now when I tell you, my dear friend, that the peddler I spoke of was the villain Coppelius, you will not blame me for seeing impending mischief in his inauspicious reappearance. He was differently dressed; but Coppelius’s figure and features are too deeply impressed upon my mind for me to be capable of making a mistake in the matter. Moreover, he has not even changed his name. He proclaims himself here, I learn, to be a Piedmontese mechanician, and styles himself Giuseppe Coppola. I am resolved to enter the lists against him and avenge my father’s death, let the consequences be what they may. Don’t say a word to mother about the reappearance of this odious monster. Give my love to my darling Clara; I will write to her when I am in a somewhat calmer frame of mind. Adieu, 8cc.

Clara to Nathanael You are right, you have not written to me for a very long time, but nevertheless I believe that I still retain a place in your mind and thoughts. It is a proof that you were thinking a good deal about me when you were sending off your last letter to brother Lothair, for instead of directing it to him you directed it to me. With joy I tore open the envelope, and did not perceive the mis¬ take until I read the words, “Oh! my dear, dear Lothair.” Now I know I ought not to have read any more of the letter, but ought to have given it to my brother. But as you have so often in innocent raillery made it a sort of reproach against me that I possessed such a calm and, for a woman, cool-headed tem¬ perament that I should be like the woman we read of—if the house was threatening to tumble down, I should stop before hastily fleeing, to smooth down a crumple in the window cur¬ tains—I need hardly tell you that the beginning of your letter quite upset me. I could scarcely breathe; there was a bright mist before my eyes.

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Oh! my darling Nathanael! what could this terrible thing be that had happened? Separation from you—never to see you again, the thought was like a sharp knife in my heart. I read on and on. Your description of that horrid Coppelius made my flesh creep. I now learned for the first time what a terrible and violent death your good old father died. Brother Lothair, to whom I handed over his property, sought to comfort me, but with little success. That horrid peddler Giuseppe Coppola fol¬ lowed me everywhere; and I am almost ashamed to confess it, but he was able to disturb my sleep, which is usually sound and calm, with all sorts of wonderful dream shapes. But soon—the next day—I saw everything in a different light. Oh! do not be angry with me, my best beloved, if, despite your strange presen¬ timent that Coppelius will do you some mischief, Lothair tells you I am in quite as good spirits, and just the same as ever. I will frankly confess, it seems to me that all the horrors of which you speak, existed only in your own self, and that the real true outer world had but little to do with it. I can quite ad¬ mit that old Coppelius may have been highly obnoxious to you children, but your real detestation of him arose from the fact that he hated children. Naturally enough, the gruesome Sand-man of the old nurse’s story was associated in your childish mind with old Coppelius, who even though you had not believed in the Sand-man, would have been to you a ghostly bugbear, especially dangerous to children. His mysterious labours along with your father at night¬ time were, I daresay, nothing more than secret experiments in alchemy, with which your mother could not be over-well pleased, owing to the large sums of money that most likely were thrown away upon them; and besides, your father, his mind full of the deceptive striving after higher knowledge, may probably have become rather indifferent to his family, as so often happens in the case of such experimentalists. So also it is equally probable that your father brought about his death by his own imprudence, and that Coppelius is not to blame for it. I must tell you that yesterday I asked our experi¬ enced neighbour, the chemist, whether in experiments of this kind an explosion could take place which would have a momen¬ tarily fatal effect. He said, “Oh, certainly!” and described to me

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in his prolix and circumstantial way how it could be occasioned, mentioning at the same time so many strange and funny words that I could not remember them at all. Now I know you will be angry at your Clara, and will say, “Of the Mysterious which often clasps man in its invisible arms there’s not a ray can find its way into her cold heart. She sees only the varied surface of the things of the world and, like the little child, is pleased with the golden glittering fruit, at the kernel of which lies the fatal poison.” Oh! my beloved Nathanael, do you believe then that the in¬ tuitive prescience of a dark power working within us to our own ruin cannot exist also in minds which are cheerful, natural, free from care? But please forgive me that I, a simple girl, presume in any way to indicate to you what I really think of such an in¬ ward strife. After all, I should not find the proper words, and you would only laugh at me, not because my thoughts were stu¬ pid, but because I was so foolish as to attempt to tell them to you. If there is a dark and hostile power which traitorously fixes a thread in our hearts in order that, laying hold of it and draw¬ ing us by means of it along a dangerous road to ruin, which otherwise we should not have trod—if, I say, there is such a power, it must assume within us a form like ourselves, nay, it must be ourselves; for only in that way can we believe in it, and only so understood do we yield to it so far that it is able to ac¬ complish its secret purpose. So long as we have sufficient firm¬ ness, fortified by cheerfulness, always to acknowledge foreign hostile influences for what they really are, while we quietly pur¬ sue the path pointed out to us by both inclination and calling, then this mysterious power perishes in its futile struggles to at¬ tain the form which is to be the reflected image of ourselves. It is also certain, Lothair adds, that if we have once volun¬ tarily given ourselves up to this dark physical power, it often reproduces within us the strange forms which the outer world throws in our way, so that thus it is we ourselves who engender within ourselves the spirit which by some remarkable delusion we imagine to speak in that outer form. It is the phantom of our own self whose intimate relationship with, and whose pow-

*

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erful influence upon our soul either plunges us into hell or ele¬ vates us to heaven. Thus you will see, my beloved Nathanael, that I and brother Lothair have talked over the subject of dark powers and forces well; and now, after I have written down the principal results of our discussion with some difficulty, they seem to me to contain many really profound thoughts. Lothair’s last words, however, I don't quite understand; I only dimly guess what he means; and yet I cannot help thinking it is all very true. I beg you, dear, strive to forget the ugly lawyer Coppelius as well as the peddler Giuseppe Coppola. Try and convince your¬ self that these foreign influences can htive no power over you, that it is only belief in their hostile power which can in reality make them dangerous to you. If every line of your letter did not betray the violent excite¬ ment of your mind, and if I did not sympathize with your con¬ dition from the bottom of my heart, I could in truth jest about the lawyer Sand-man and peddler Coppelius. Pluck up your spirits! Be cheerful! I have resolved to appear to you as your guardian angel if that ugly man Coppola should dare take it into his head to bother you in your dreams, and drive him away with a good hearty laugh. I’m not afraid of him and his nasty hands, not the least little bit; I won’t let him either as lawyer spoil any dainty tit-bit I’ve taken, or as Sand-man rob me of my eyes. My darling, darling Nathanael, Eternally your, &c. 8cc.

Nathanael to Lothair I am very sorry that Clara opened and read my last letter to you; of course the mistake is to be attributed to my own absence of mind. She has written me a very deep philosophical letter, proving conclusively that Coppelius and Coppola only exist in my own mind and are phantoms of my own self, which will at

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once be dissipated, as soon as I look upon them in that light. In very truth one can hardly believe that the mind which so often sparkles in those bright, beautifully smiling, childlike eyes of hers like a sweet lovely dream could draw such subtle and scho¬ lastic distinctions. She also mentions your name. You have been talking about me. I suppose you have been giving her lectures, since she sifts and refines everything so acutely. But enough of this! I must now tell you it is most certain that Giuseppe Cop¬ pola is not Coppelius. I am attending the lectures of our re¬ cently appointed Professor of Physics, who, like the distinguished naturalist, is called Spalanzani, and is of Italian origin. He has known Coppola for many years; and it is also easy to tell from Coppola’s accent that he really is a Piedmontese. Coppelius was a German, though no honest German, I fancy. Nevertheless I am not quite satisfied. You and Clara will per¬ haps take me for a gloomy dreamer, but in no way can I get rid of the impression which Coppelius’s cursed face made upon me. I am glad to learn from Spalanzani that he has left town. This Professor Spalanzani is a very queer fish. He is a little fat man, with prominent cheekbones, thin nose, projecting lips, and small piercing eyes. You cannot get a better picture of him than by turning over one of the Berlin pocket almanacs and looking at Cagliostro’s portrait engraved by Chodowiecki; Spa¬ lanzani looks just like him. Once lately, as I went up the steps to his house, I perceived that beside the curtain which generally covered a glass door there was a small chink. What it was that excited my curiosity I cannot explain; but I looked through. In the room I saw a fe¬ male, tall, very slender, but of perfect proportions, and splen¬ didly dressed, sitting at a little table, on which she had placed both her arms, her hands being folded together. She sat opposite the door, so that I could easily see her angelically beautiful face. She did not appear to notice me, and there was moreover a strangely fixed look about her eyes. I might almost say they ap¬ peared as if they had no power of vision; I thought she was sleeping with her eyes open. I felt quite uncomfortable, and so I slipped away quietly into the Professor’s lecture-room, which was close at hand. Afterwards I learned that the figure which I had seen was

» Hoffmann/The Sand-Man

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Spalanzani’s daughter, Olimpia, whom he keeps locked up in a most wicked and unaccountable way. No man is ever allowed to come near her. Perhaps, however, there is something peculiar about her after all; perhaps she’s an idiot or something of that sort. But why am I telling you all this? I could tell you it all bet¬ ter and in more detail when I see you. For in a fortnight I shall be among you. I must see my dear sweet angel, my Clara, again. Then the little bit of ill-temper which, I must confess, took pos¬ session of me after her fearfully sensible letter, will be blown away. And that is the reason why I am not writing to her as well today. / With all best wishes, 8cc.

Nothing more strange and extraordinary can be imagined, gra¬ cious reader, than what happened to my poor friend, the young student Nathanael, and which I have undertaken to relate to you. Have you ever experienced anything that completely took possession of your heart and mind and thoughts to the utter ex¬ clusion of everything else? All was seething and boiling within you; your blood, heated to fever pitch, leaped through your veins and inflamed your cheeks. Your gaze was so peculiar, as if seeking to grasp in empty space forms not seen by any other eye, and all your words ended in sighs betokening some mystery. Then your friends asked you, “What is the matter with you, my dear friend? What do you see?” And, wishing to describe the inner pictures in all their vivid colours, with their lights and their shades, you struggled in vain to find words with which to express yourself. But you felt as if you must gather up all the events that had happened, wonderful, splendid, terrible, jocose, and awful, in the very first word, so that the whole might be re¬ vealed by a single electric discharge, so to speak. Yet every word and everything that partook of the nature of communication by intelligible sounds seemed to be colourless, cold, and dead. Then you try and try again, and stutter and stammer, while your friends’ prosy questions strike like icy winds upon your heart’s hot fire until they extinguish it. But if, like a bold painter, you had first sketched in a few audacious strokes

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the outline of the picture you had in your soul, you would then easily have been able to deepen and intensify the colours one after the other, until the varied throng of living figures carried your friends away and they, like you, saw themselves in the midst of the scene that had proceeded out of your own soul. Strictly speaking, indulgent reader, I must indeed confess to you, nobody has asked me for the history of young Nathanael; but you are very well aware that I belong to that remarkable class of authors who, when they bear anything about in their minds in the manner I have just described, feel as if everybody who comes near them, and also the whole world to boot, were asking, “Oh! what is it? Oh! do tell us, my good sir?” Hence I was most powerfully impelled to narrate to you Nathanael’s ominous life. I was completely captivated by the elements of marvel and alienness in his life; but, for this very reason, and because it was necessary in the very beginning to dispose you, indulgent reader, to bear with what is fantastic— and that is not a small matter—I racked my brain to find a way of commencing the story in a significant and original manner, calculated to arrest your attention. To begin with “Once upon a time,” the best beginning for a story, seemed to me too tame; with “In the small country town S-lived,” rather better, at any rate allowing plenty of room to work up to the climax; or to plunge at once in medias res, " ‘Go to the devil!’ cried the student Nathanael, his eyes blazing wildly with rage and fear, when the weather-glass peddler Giuseppe Coppola”—well, that is what I really had written, when I thought I detected some¬ thing of the ridiculous in Nathanael’s wild glance; and the his¬ tory is anything but laughable. I could not find any words which seemed fitted to reflect in even the feeblest degree the brightness of the colours of my mental vision. I determined not to begin at all. So I pray you, gracious reader, accept the three letters which my friend Lothair has been so kind as to communicate to me as the outline of the picture, into which I will endeavour to introduce more and more colour as I proceed with my narrative. Perhaps, like a good portrait painter, I may succeed in depicting Nathanael in such a way that you will recognize it as a good likeness without being ac-

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quainted with the original, and will feel as if you had very often seen him with your own bodily eyes. Perhaps, too, you will then believe that nothing is more wonderful, nothing more fantastic than real life, and that all that a writer can do is to present it as “in a glass, darkly.” In order to make the beginning more intelligible, it is neces¬ sary to add to the letters that, soon after the death of Nathanael’s father, Clara and Lothair, the children of a distant relative, who had likewise died, leaving them orphans, were taken by Na¬ thanael’s mother into her own house. Clara and Nathanael con¬ ceived a warm affection for each other, to which there could be no objection. When therefore Nathanael left home to prosecute his studies in G-, they were engaged. It is from G--that his last letter is written, where he is attending the lectures of Spalanzani, the distinguished Professor of Physics. I might now proceed comfortably with my narration, if at this moment Clara’s image did not rise up so vividly before my eyes that I cannot turn them away from it, just as I never could when she looked upon me and smiled so sweetly. Nowhere would she have passed for beautiful; that was the unanimous opinion of everyone who professed to have any technical knowledge of beauty. But while architects praised the pure proportions of her figure and form, painters averred that her neck, shoulders, and bosom were almost too chastely modelled, and yet, on the other hand, one and all were in love with her glorious Magdalene hair, and talked a good deal of nonsense about Battoni-like col¬ ouring. One of them, a veritable romanticist, strangely enough likened her eyes to a lake by Ruisdael, in which is reflected the pure azure of the cloudless sky, the beauty of woods and flowers, and all the bright and varied life of a living landscape. Poets and musicians went still further and said, "What's all this talk about seas and reflections? How can we look upon the girl with¬ out feeling that wonderful heavenly songs and melodies beam upon us from her eyes, penetrating deep down into our hearts, till everything becomes awake and throbbing with emotion? And if we cannot sing anything at all passable then, why, we are not worth much; and this we can also plainly read in the rare smile which flits around her lips when we have the hardi-

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hood to squeak out something in her presence which we pretend to call singing, in spite of the fact that it is nothing more than a few single notes confusedly linked together.” And it really was so. Clara had the powerful fancy of a bright, innocent, unaffected child, a woman’s deep and sympa¬ thetic heart, and an understanding clear, sharp, and discrimi¬ nating. Dreamers and visionaries had a bad time of it with her; for without saying very much—she was not by nature of a talka¬ tive disposition—she plainly asked, by her calm steady look and rare ironical smile, “How can you imagine, my dear friends, that I can take these fleeting shadowy images for true living and breathing forms?” For this reason many found fault with her as being cold, unimaginative, and devoid of feeling; others, how¬ ever, who had reached a clearer and deeper conception of life, were extremely fond of the intelligent, childlike, large-hearted girl. No one else had such an affection for her as Nathanael, who was a zealous and cheerful cultivator of the fields of science and art. Clara clung to her lover with all her heart; the first clouds she encountered in life were when he had to separate from her. With what delight did she fly into his arms when, as he had promised in his last letter to Lothair, he really came back to his native town and entered his mother’s room! And as Nathanael had foreseen, the moment he saw Clara again he no longer thought about either the lawyer Coppelius or her sensible let¬ ter; his ill-humour had quite disappeared. Nevertheless Nathanael was right when he told his friend Lothair that the repulsive vendor of weather glasses, Coppola, had exercised a fatal and disturbing influence upon his life. It was quite patent to all; for even during the first few days he showed that he was completely and entirely changed. He gave himself up to gloomy reveries, and moreover acted so strangely; they had never observed anything at all like it in him before. Everything, even his own life, was to him but dreams and pre¬ sentiments. His constant theme was that every man who delu¬ sively imagined himself to be free was merely the plaything of the cruel sport of mysterious powers, and it was vain for man to resist them; he must humbly submit to whatever destiny had decreed for him. He went so far as to maintain that it was fool-

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ish to believe that a man could do anything in art or science of his own accord; for the inspiration in which alone any true artistic work could be done did not proceed from the spirit within outwards, but was the result of the operation directed inwards of some Higher Principle existing without and beyond ourselves. This mystic extravagance was in the highest degree repug¬ nant to Clara’s clear intelligent mind, but it seemed vain to enter upon any attempt at refutation. Yet when Nathanael went on to prove that Coppelius was the Evil Principle which had entered into him and taken possession of him at the time he was listening behind the curtain, and that this hateful demon would in some terrible way ruin their happiness, then Clara grew grave and said, “Yes, Nathanael. You are right; Coppelius is an Evil Principle; he can do dreadful things, as bad as could a Satanic power which should assume a living physical form, but only—only if you do not banish him from your mind and thoughts. As long as you believe in him he exists and is at work; your belief in him is his only power.” Whereupon Nathanael, quite angry because Clara would only grant the existence of the demon in his own mind, began to dilate at large upon the whole mystic doctrine of devils and awful powers, but Clara abruptly broke off the theme by mak¬ ing, to Nathanael’s very great disgust, some quite commonplace remark. Such deep mysteries are sealed books to cold, unsusceptible characters, he thought, without its being clearly conscious to himself that he counted Clara among these inferior natures, and accordingly he did not remit his efforts to initiate her into these mysteries. In the morning, when she was helping to prepare breakfast, he would take his stand beside her, and read all sorts of mystic books to her, until she begged him—“But, my dear Nathanael, I shall have to scold you as the Evil Principle which exercises a fatal influence upon my coffee. For if I do as you wish, and let things go their own way, and look into your eyes while you read, the coffee will all boil over into the fire, and you will none of you get any breakfast.” Then Nathanael hastily banged the book shut and ran away in great displeasure to his own room.

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Formerly he had possessed a peculiar talent for writing pleasing, sparkling tales, which Clara took the greatest delight in hearing; but now his productions were gloomy, unintelligi¬ ble, and wanting in form, so that, although Clara out of for¬ bearance towards him did not say so, he nevertheless felt how very little interest she took in them. There was nothing that Clara disliked so much as what was tedious; at such times her intellectual sleepiness was not to be overcome; it was betrayed both in her glances and in her words. Nathanael’s effusions were, in truth, exceedingly tedious. His ill-humour at Clara’s cold prosaic temperament con¬ tinued to increase; Clara could not conceal her distaste for his dark, gloomy, wearying mysticism; and thus both began to be more and more estranged from each other without exactly being aware of it themselves. The image of the ugly Coppelius had, as Nathanael was obliged to confess to himself, faded considerably in his fancy, and it often cost him great pains to present him in vivid colours in his literary efforts, in which Coppelius played the part of the ghoul of Destiny. At length it entered into his head to make his dismal pre¬ sentiment that Coppelius would ruin his happiness the subject of a poem. He made himself and Clara, united by true love, the central figures, but represented a black hand as being from time to time thrust into their life, plucking out a joy that had blos¬ somed for them. At length, as they were standing at the altar, the terrible Coppelius appeared and touched Clara’s lovely eyes, which leaped into Nathanael’s own bosom, burning and hissing like bloody sparks. Then Coppelius laid hold of him, and hurled him into a blazing circle of fire, which spun round with the speed of a whirlwind, and storming and blustering, dashed away with him. The fearful noise it made was like a furious hurricane lashing the foaming sea waves until they rise up like black, white-headed giants in the midst of the raging struggle. But through the midst of the savage fury of the tempest he heard Clara’s voice calling “Can you not see me, dear? Coppelius has deceived you; they were not my eyes which burned so in your bosom; they were fiery drops of your own heart’s blood. Look at me, I have got my own eyes still.” Nathanael thought, “Yes, that is Clara, and I am hers forever.” Then this thought laid a

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powerful grasp upon the fiery circle so that it stood still, and the riotous turmoil died away, rumbling down into a dark abyss. Nathanael looked into Clara’s eyes; but it was death whose gaze rested so kindly upon him. While Nathanael was writing this work he was very quiet and sober-minded; he filed and polished every line, and as he had chosen to submit himself to the limitations of meter, he did not rest until all was pure and musical. When, however, he had at length finished it and read it aloud to himself he was seized with horror and awful dread, and he screamed, “Whose hideous voice is this?” But he soon came to see in it again nothing beyond a very successful poem, and he confidently believed it would enkindle Clara’s cold temperament, though to what end she should be thus aroused was not quite clear to his own mind, nor yet what would be the real purpose served by tormenting her with these dreadful pictures, which prophesied a terrible and ruinous end to her affection. Nathanael and Clara sat in his mother’s little garden. Clara was bright and cheerful, since for three entire days her lover, who had been busy writing his poem, had not teased her with his dreams or forebodings. Nathanael, too, spoke in a gay and vivacious way of things of merry import, as he formerly used to do, so that Clara said, “Ah! now I have you again. We have driven away that ugly Coppelius, you see.” Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had got the poem in his pocket which he wished to read to her. He at once took out the manuscript and began to read. Clara, anticipating something tedious as usual, prepared to submit to the infliction, and calmly resumed her knitting. But as the sombre clouds rose up darker and darker she let her knitting fall on her lap and sat with her eyes fixed in a set stare upon Nathanael’s face. He was quite carried away by his own work, the fire of enthusiasm coloured his cheeks a deep red, and tears started from his eyes. At length he concluded, groaning and showing great lassitude; grasping Clara’s hand, he sighed as if he were being utterly melted in inconsolable grief, “Oh! Clara! Clara!” She drew him softly to her heart and said in a low but very grave and impressive tone, “Nathanael, my darling Na¬ thanael, throw that foolish, senseless, stupid thing into the fire.”

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Then Nathanael leaped indignantly to his feet, crying, as he pushed Clara from him, “You damned lifeless automaton!” and rushed away. Clara was cut to the heart, and wept bitterly. "Oh! he has never loved me, for he does not understand me,” she sobbed. Lothair entered the arbour. Clara was obliged to tell him all that had taken place. He was passionately fond of his sister; and every word of her complaint fell like a spark upon his heart, so that the displeasure which he had long entertained against his dreamy friend Nathanael was kindled into furious anger. He hastened to find Nathanael, and upbraided him in harsh words for his irrational behaviour towards his beloved sister. The fiery Nathanael answered him in the same style. “A fantastic, crack-brained fool,” was retaliated with, “A miserable, common, everyday sort of fellow.” A meeting was the inevitable consequence. They agreed to meet on the following morning behind the garden wall, and fight, according to the custom of the students of the place, with sharp rapiers. They went about silent and gloomy; Clara had both heard and seen the violent quarrel, and also observed the fencing master bring the rapiers in the dusk of the evening. She had a presentiment of what was to happen. They both appeared at the appointed place wrapped up in the same gloomy silence, and threw off their coats. Their eyes flaming with the bloodthirsty light of pugnacity, they were about to begin their contest when Clara burst through the garden door. Sobbing, she screamed, "You savage, terrible men! Cut me down before you attack each other; for how can I live when my lover has slain my brother, or my brother slain my lover?” Lothair let his weapon fall and gazed silently at the ground, while Nathanael’s heart was rent with sorrow, and all the affec¬ tion which he had felt for his lovely Clara in the happiest days of her golden youth was reawakened within him. His murderous weapon, too, fell from his hand; he threw himself at Clara’s feet. “Oh! can you ever forgive me, my only, my dearly loved Clara? Can you, my dear brother Lothair, also forgive me?” Lothair was touched by his friend’s great distress; the three young people embraced each other amid endless tears, and swore never again to break their bond of love and fidelity.

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Nathanael felt as if a heavy burden that had been weighing him down to the earth was now rolled from off him, nay, as if by offering resistance to the dark power which had possessed him, he had rescued his own self from the ruin which had threatened him. Three happy days he now spent amidst the loved ones, and then returned to G-, where he had still a year to stay before settling down in his native town for life. Everything having reference to Coppelius had been concealed from Nathanael’s mother, for they knew she could not think of Coppelius without horror, since she as well as Nathanael be¬ lieved him to be guilty of causing her husband’s death.

When Nathanael came to the house where he lived in G-, he was greatly astonished to find it burned down to the ground, so that nothing but the bare outer walls were left standing amid a heap of ruins. Although the fire had broken out in the labora¬ tory of the chemist who lived on the ground floor, and had therefore spread upwards, some of Nathanael’s bold, active friends had succeeded in time in forcing a way into his room in the upper story and saving his books and manuscripts and instruments. They had carried them all uninjured into another house, where they engaged a room for him; this he now at once took possession of. That he lived opposite Professor Spalanzani did not strike him particularly, nor did it occur to him as anything more singular that he could, as he observed, by looking out of his window, see straight into the room where Olimpia often sat alone. Her figure he could plainly distinguish, although her features were uncertain and confused. It did at length occur to him, however, that she remained for hours together in the same position in which he had first discovered her through the glass door, sitting at a little table without any occupation whatever, and it was evident that she was constantly gazing across in his direction. He could not but confess to himself that he had never seen a finer figure. However, with Clara mistress of his heart, he remained perfectly unaffected by Olimpia’s stiffness and apathy; and it was only occasionally that he sent a fugitive glance over his compendium across to her—that was all.

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He was writing to Clara; a light tap came at the door. At his summons to “Come in,” Coppola’s repulsive face appeared peeping in. Nathanael felt his heart beat with trepidation; but, recollecting what Spalanzani had told him about his fellow countryman Coppola, and what he himself had so faithfully promised his beloved in respect to the Sand-man Coppelius, he was ashamed at himself for this childish fear of specters. Ac¬ cordingly, he controlled himself with an effort, and said, as quietly and as calmly as he possibly could, “I don’t want to buy any weather glasses, my good friend; you had better go else¬ where.” Then Coppola came right into the room, and said in a hoarse voice, screwing up his wide mouth into a hideous smile, while his little eyes flashed keenly from beneath his long gray eyelashes, “Eh! No want weather glass? No weather glass? I got eyes-a too. Fine eyes-a.” In some fright, Nathanael cried, “You idiot, how can you have eyes?—eyes—eyes?” But Coppola, laying aside his barometers, thrust his hands into his big coat pockets and brought out several spy-glasses and spectacles, and put them on the table. “Looka! Looka! Spettacles for nose. Spettacles. Those my eyes-a.” And he continued to produce more and more spectacles from his pockets until the table began to gleam and flash all over. Thousands of eyes were looking and blinking convulsively and staring up at Nathanael; he could not avert his gaze from the table. Coppola went on heaping up his spec¬ tacles, while wilder and ever wilder burning flashes crossed through and through each other and darted their blood-red rays into Nathanael’s breast. Quite overcome and frantic with terror, he shouted, “Stop! stop! you fiend!” and he seized Coppola by the arm, which Coppola had again thrust into his pocket in order to bring out still more spectacles, although the whole table was covered all over with them. With a harsh disagreeable laugh Coppola gently freed himself; and with the words “So! want none! Well, here fine glass!” he swept all his spectacles together, and put them back into his coat pockets, while from a breast pocket he pro¬ duced a great number of larger and smaller perspectives. As soon as the spectacles were gone Nathanael recovered his equanimity again; and, bending his thoughts upon Clara, he clearly dis-

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cerned that the gruesome incubus had proceeded only from himself, and that Coppola was an honest mechanician and optician, and far from being Coppelius’s dreaded double and ghost. And then, besides, none of the glasses which Coppola now placed on the table had anything at all singular about them, at least nothing so weird as the spectacles; so, in order to square accounts with himself Nathanael now really determined to buy something of the man. He took up a small, very beauti¬ fully cut pocket perspective, and by way of proving it looked through the window. Never before in his life had he had p glass in his hands that brought out things so clearly and sharply and distinctly. Invol¬ untarily he directed the glass upon Spalanzani’s room; Olimpia sat at the little table as usual, her arms laid upon it and her hands folded. Now he saw for the first time the regular and exquisite beauty of her features. The eyes, however, seemed to him to have a singular look of fixity and lifelessness. But as he continued to look closer and more carefully through the glass he fancied a light like humid moonbeams came into them. It seemed as if their power of vision was now being enkindled; their glances shone with ever-increasing vivacity. Nathanael remained standing at the window as if glued to the spot by a wizard’s spell, his gaze riveted unchangeably upon the divinely beautiful Olimpia. A coughing and shuffling of the feet awakened him out of his enchaining dream, as it were. Coppola stood behind him, “Tre zechini” (three ducats). Nathanael had completely forgotten the optician; he hastily paid the sum demanded. “Ain’t ’t? Fine-a glass? Fine-a glass?” asked Coppola in his harsh unpleasant voice, smiling sar¬ donically. “Yes, yes, yes,” rejoined Nathanael impatiently; “adieu, my good friend.” But Coppola did not leave the room without casting many peculiar side glances upon Nathanael; and the young student heard him laughing loudly on the stairs. “Ah well!” thought he, “he’s laughing at me because I’ve paid him too much for this little perspective—because I’ve given him too much money—that’s it.” As he softly murmured these words he fancied he detected a gasping sigh as of a dying man stealing awfully through the room; his heart stopped beating with fear. But to be sure he

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had heaved a deep sigh himself; it was quite plain. “Clara is quite right,” said he to himself, “in holding me to be an in¬ curable ghost-seer; and yet it’s very ridiculous—more ridiculous, that the stupid thought of having paid Coppola too much for his glass should cause me this strange anxiety; I can’t see any reason for it.” Now he sat down to finish his letter to Clara; but a glance through the window showed him Olimpia still in her former posture. Urged by an irresistible impulse he jumped up and seized Coppola’s perspective; nor could he tear himself away from the fascinating Olimpia until his friend Siegmund called for him to go to Professor Spalanzani’s lecture. The curtains before the door of the all-important room were closely drawn, so that he could not see Olimpia. Nor could he even see her from his own room during the two following days, notwithstand¬ ing that he scarcely ever left his window, and maintained a scarce interrupted watch through Coppola’s perspective upon her room. On the third day curtains were drawn across the window. Plunged into the depths of despair,—goaded by longing and ardent desire, he hurried outside the walls of the town. Olim¬ pia’s image hovered about his path in the air and stepped forth out of the bushes, and peeped up at him with large and lustrous eyes from the bright surface of the brook. Clara’s image was completely faded from his mind; he had no thoughts except for Olimpia. He uttered his love plaints aloud and in a lachrymose tone, “Oh! my glorious, noble star of love, have you only risen to vanish again, and leave me in the darkness and hopelessness of night?” Returning home, he became aware that there was a good deal of noisy bustle going on in Spalanzani’s house. All the doors stood wide open; men were taking in all kinds of gear and furniture; the windows of the first floor were all lifted off their hinges; busy maidservants with immense hair-brooms were driving backwards and forwards dusting and sweeping, while from inside could be heard the knocking and hammering of carpenters and upholsterers. Utterly astonished, Nathanael stood still in the street; then Siegmund joined him, laughing, and said, “Well, what do you say to our old Spalanzani?” Nathanael as-

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sured him that he could not say anything, since he did not know what it all meant. To his great astonishment, he could hear, however, that they were turning the quiet gloomy house almost inside out with their dusting and cleaning and alterations. Then he learned from Siegmund that Spalanzani intended giving a great concert and ball on the following day, and that half the university was invited. It was generally reported that Spalanzani was going to let his daughter Olimpia, whom he had so long so jealously guarded from every eye, make her first appearance. Nathanael received an invitation. At the appointed hour, when the carriages were rolling up and the lights were gleaming brightly in the decorated halls, he went across to the Professor’s, his heart beating high with expectation. The company was both numerous and brilliant. Olimpia was richly and tastefully dressed. One could not but admire her figure and the regular beauty of her features. Yet the striking inward curve of her back, as well as the wasplike smallness of her waist, appeared to be the result of too-tight lacing, and there was something stiff and measured in her gait and bearing that made an unfavourable impression upon many. It was ascribed to the constraint imposed upon her by the com¬ pany. The concert began. Olimpia played on the piano with great skill; and sang as skillfully an aria di bravura, in a voice which was, if anything, almost too brilliant, but clear as glass bells. Nathanael was transported with delight; he stood in the back¬ ground farthest from her, and owing to the blinding lights could not quite distinguish her features. So, without being observed, he took Coppola’s glass out of his pocket, and directed it upon the beautiful Olimpia. Oh! then he perceived how her yearning eyes sought him, how every note only reached its full purity in the loving glance which penetrated to and inflamed his heart. Her roulades seemed to him to be the exultant cry towards heaven of the soul refined by love; and when at last, after the cadenza, the long trill rang loudly through the hall, he felt as if he were suddenly grasped by burning arms and could no longer control himself—he could not help shouting aloud in his mingled pain and delight, “Olimpia!” All eyes were turned upon him; many people laughed.

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The concert came to an end, and the ball began. Oh! to dance with her—with her—that was now the aim of all Na¬ thanael’s wishes, of all his desires. But how should he have courage to request her, the queen of the ball, to grant him the honour of a dance? And yet he couldn’t tell how it came about, just as the dance began, he found himself standing close beside her, nobody having as yet asked her to be his partner. So, with some difficulty stammering out a few words, he grasped her hand. It was cold as ice; he shook with an awful, frosty shiver. But, fixing his eyes upon her face, he saw that her glance was beaming upon him with love and longing, and at the same moment he thought that the pulse began to beat in her cold hand, and the warm life-blood to course through her veins. And passion burned more intensely in his own heart also; he threw his arm round her beautiful waist and whirled her round the hall. He had always thought that he kept good and accurate time in dancing, but from the perfectly rhythmical evenness with which Olimpia danced, and which frequently put him quite out, he perceived how very faulty his own time really was. Notwithstanding, he would not dance with any other lady; and everybody else who approached Olimpia to call upon her for a dance, he would have liked to kill on the spot. This, however, only happened twice; to his astonishment Olimpia remained after this without a partner, and he did not fail on each occa¬ sion to take her out again. If Nathanael had been able to see anything else except the beautiful Olimpia, there would inevitably have been a good deal of unpleasant quarrelling and strife; for it was evident that Olimpia was the object of the smothered laughter suppressed only with difficulty, which was heard in various corners amongst the young people; and they followed her with very curious looks. Nathanael, excited by dancing and the plentiful supply of wine he had consumed, had laid aside the shyness which at other times characterized him. He sat beside Olimpia, her hand in his own, and declared his love enthusiastically and passionately in words which neither of them understood, neither he nor Olim¬ pia. And yet perhaps she did, for she sat with her eyes fixed unchangeably upon his, sighing repeatedly, “Ah! Ah! Ah!”

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Upon this Nathanael would answer, "Oh, you glorious heavenly lady! You ray from the promised paradise of love! Oh! what a profound soul you have! my whole being is mirrored in it!” and a good deal more in the same strain. But Olimpia only continued to sigh “Ah! Ah!” again and again. Professor Spalanzani passed by the two happy lovers once or twice, and smiled with a look of peculiar satisfaction. All at once it seemed to Nathanael, albeit he was far away in a different world, as if it were growing perceptibly darker down below at Professor Spalanzani’s. He looked about him, and to his very great alarm became aware that there were only two lights left burning in the hall, and they were on the point of going out. The music and dancing had long ago ceased. “We must partpart!” he cried, wildly and despairingly; he kissed Olimpia’s hand; he bent down to her mouth, but ice-cold lips met his burning ones. As he touched her cold hand, he felt his heart thrill with awe; the legend of “The Dead Bride” shot suddenly through his mind. But Olimpia had drawn him closer to her, and the kiss appeared to warm her lips into vitality. Professor Spalanzani strode slowly through the empty apart¬ ment, his footsteps giving a hollow echo; and his figure had, as the flickering shadows played about him, a ghostly, awful appearance. "Do you love me? Do you love me, Olimpia? Only one little word—do you love me?” whispered Nathanael, but she only sighed, “Ah! Ah!” as she rose to her feet. “Yes, you are my lovely, glorious star of love,” said Na¬ thanael, “and will shine for ever, purifying and ennobling my heart.” “Ah! Ah!” replied Olimpia, as she moved along. Na¬ thanael followed her; they stood before the Professor. “You have had an extraordinarily animated conversation with my daughter,” said he, smiling. "Well, well, my dear Mr. Nathanael, if you find pleasure in talking to the stupid girl, I am sure I shall be glad for you to come and do so.” Nathanael took his leave, his heart singing and leaping in a perfect delirium of happiness. During the next few days Spalanzani’s ball was the general topic of conversation. Although the Professor had done every¬ thing to make the thing a splendid success, yet certain gay spirits related more than one thing that had occurred which was quite

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irregular and out of order. They were especially keen in pulling Olimpia to pieces for her taciturnity and rigid stiffness; in spite of her beautiful form they alleged that she was hopelessly stupid, and in this fact they discerned the reason why Spalanzani had so long kept her concealed from publicity. Nathanael heard all this with inward wrath, but nevertheless he held his tongue; for, thought he, would it indeed be worth while to prove to these fellows that it is their own stupidity which prevents them from appreciating Olimpia’s profound and brilliant parts? One day Siegmund said to him, “Pray, brother, have the kindness to tell me how you, a clever fellow, came to lose your head over that Miss Wax-face—that wooden doll across there?” Nathanael was about to fly into a rage, but he recollected him¬ self and replied, “Tell me, Siegmund, how came it that Olim¬ pia’s divine charms could escape your eye, so keenly alive as it always is to beauty, and your acute perception as well? But Heaven be thanked for it, otherwise I should have had you for a rival, and then the blood of one of us would have had to be spilled.” Siegmund, perceiving how matters stood with his friend, skill¬ fully changed his tactics and said, after remarking that all argu¬ ment with one in love about the object of his affections was out of place, “Yet it’s very strange that several of us have formed pretty much the same opinion about Olimpia. We think she is—you won’t take it ill, brother?—that she is singularly statu¬ esque and soulless. Her figure is regular, and so are her features, that can’t be gainsaid; and if her eyes were not so utterly devoid of life, I may say, of the power of vision, she might pass for a beauty. She is strangely measured in her movements, they all seem as if they were dependent upon some wound-up clockwork. Her playing and singing have the disagreeably perfect, but insensitive timing of a singing machine, and her dancing is the same. We felt quite afraid of this Olimpia, and did not like to have anything to do with her; she seemed to us to be only acting like a living creature, and as if there was some secret at the bottom of it all.” Nathanael did not give way to the bitter feelings which threatened to master him at these words of Siegmund’s; he fought down and got the better of his displeasure, and merely

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said, very earnestly, "You cold prosaic fellows may very well be afraid of her. It is only to its like that the poetically organized spirit unfolds itself. Upon me alone did her loving glances fall, and through my mind and thoughts alone did they radiate; and only in her love can I find my own self again. Perhaps, however, she doesn t do quite right not to jabber a lot of nonsense and stupid talk like other shallow people. It is true, she speaks but few words; but the few words she does speak are genuine hiero¬ glyphs of the inner world of Love and of the higher cognition of the intellectual life revealed in the intuition of the Eternal beyond the grave. But you have no understanding for all these things, and I am only wasting words.” “God be with you, brother,” said Siegmund very gently, al¬ most sadly, “but it seems to me that you are in a very bad way. You may rely upon me, if all—No, I can’t say any more.” It all at once dawned upon Nathanael that his cold prosaic friend Sieg¬ mund really and sincerely wished him well, and so he warmly shook his proffered hand. Nathanael had completely forgotten that there was a Clara in the world, whom he had once loved—and his mother and Lothair. They had all vanished from his mind; he lived for Olimpia alone. He sat beside her every day for hours together, rhapsodizing about his love and sympathy enkindled into life, and about psychic elective affinity—all of which Olimpia listened to with great reverence. He fished up from the very bottom of his desk all the things that he had ever written—poems, fancy sketches, visions, ro¬ mances, tales, and the heap was increased daily with all kinds of aimless sonnets, stanzas, canzonets. All these he read to Olimpia hour after hour without growing tired; but then he had never had such an exemplary listener. She neither embroidered, nor knitted; she did not look out of the window, or feed a bird, or play with a little pet dog or a favourite cat, neither did she twist a piece of paper or anything of that kind round her finger; she did not forcibly convert a yawn into a low affected cough—in short, she sat hour after hour with her eyes bent unchangeably upon her lover’s face, without moving or altering her position, and his gaze grew more ardent and more ardent still. And it was only when at last Nathanael rose and kissed her

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lips or her hand that she said, “Ah! Ah!” and then “Goodnight, dear.” Back in his own room, Nathanael would break out with, “Oh! what a brilliant—what a profound mind! Only you—you alone understand me.” And his heart trembled with rapture when he reflected upon the wondrous harmony which daily re¬ vealed itself between his own and his Olimpia’s character; for he fancied that she had expressed in respect to his works and his poetic genius the identical sentiments which he himself cherished deep down in his own heart, and even as if it was his own heart’s voice speaking to him. And it must indeed have been so; for Olimpia never uttered any other words than those already mentioned. And when Nathanael himself in his clear and sober moments, as, for instance, directly after waking in a morning, thought about her utter passivity and taciturnity, he only said, “What are words—but words? The glance of her heavenly eyes says more than any tongue. And anyway, how can a child of heaven accustom herself to the narrow circle which the exigencies of a wretched mundane life demand?” Professor Spalanzani appeared to be greatly pleased at the in¬ timacy that had sprung up between his daughter Olimpia and Nathanael, and showed the young man many unmistakable proofs of his good feeling towards him. When Nathanael ven¬ tured at length to hint very delicately at an alliance with Olim¬ pia, the Professor smiled all over his face at once, and said he should allow his daughter to make a perfectly free choice. Encouraged by these words, and with the fire of desire burn¬ ing in his heart, Nathanael resolved the very next day to implore Olimpia to tell him frankly, in plain words, what he had long read in her sweet loving glances—that she would be his for ever. He looked for the ring which his mother had given him at parting; he would present it to Olimpia as a symbol of his devotion, and of the happy life he was to lead with her from that time onwards. While looking for it he came across his letters from Clara and Lothair; he threw them carelessly aside, found the ring, put it in his pocket, and ran across to Olimpia. While still on the stairs, in the entrance passage, he heard an extraordinary hub-

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bub; the noise seemed to proceed from Spalanzani’s study. There was a stamping—a rattling—pushing—knocking against the door, with curses and oaths intermingled. “Leave hold—leave hold— you monster—you rascal—put your life’s work into it?—Ha! ha! ha! ha!—That was not our wager—I, I made the eyes—I the clock¬ work.—Go to the devil with your clockwork—you damned dog of a watchmaker—be off—Satan—stop—you paltry turner—you in¬ fernal beast—stop—begone—let me go.” The voices which were thus making all this racket and rumpus were those of Spalanzani and the fearsome Coppelius. Nathanael rushed in, impelled by some nameless dread. The Professor was grasping a female figure by the shoulders, the Italian Coppola held her by the feet; and they were pulling and dragging each other backwards and forwards, fighting furiously to get possession of her. Nathanael recoiled with horror on recognizing that the figure was Olimpia. Boiling with rage, he was about to tear his beloved from the grasp of the madmen, when Coppola by an extraor¬ dinary exertion of strength twisted the figure out of the Pro¬ fessor’s hands and gave him such a terrible blow with her, that Spalanzani reeled backwards and fell over the table among the phials and retorts, the bottles and glass cylinders, which covered it: all these things were smashed into a thousand pieces. But Coppola threw the figure across his shoulder, and, laughing shrilly and horribly, ran hastily down the stairs, the figure’s ugly feet hanging down and banging and rattling like wood against the steps. Nathanael was stupefied—he had seen only too distinctly that in Olimpia’s pallid waxed face there were no eyes, merely black holes in their stead: she was an inanimate puppet. Spalanzani was rolling on the floor; the pieces of glass had cut his head and breast and arm; the blood was escaping from him in streams. But he gathered his strength together by an effort. “After him—after him! What do you stand staring there for? Coppelius—Coppelius—he's stolen my best automaton—at which I’ve worked for twenty years—my life work—the clockworkspeech—movement—mine—your

eyes—stolen

your

eyes—damn

him—curse him—after him—fetch me back Olimpia—there are

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the eyes.” And now Nathanael saw a pair of bloody eyes lying on the floor staring at him; Spalanzani seized them with his un¬ injured hand and threw them at him, so that they hit his breast. Then madness dug her burning talons into Nathanael and swept down into his heart, rending his mind and thoughts to shreds. “Aha! aha! aha! Fire-wheel—fire-wheel! Spin round, firewheel! merrily, merrily! Aha! wooden doll! spin round, pretty wooden doll!” and he threw himself upon the Professor, clutch¬ ing fast by the throat. He would certainly have strangled him had not several peo¬ ple, attracted by the noise, rushed in and torn away the mad¬ man; and so they saved the Professor, whose wounds were immediately dressed. Siegmund, with all his strength, was not able to subdue the frantic lunatic, who continued to scream in a dreadful way, “Spin round, wooden doll!” and to strike out right and left with his doubled fists. At length the united strength of several succeeded in overpowering him by throwing him on the floor and binding him. His cries passed into a brutish bellow that was awful to hear; and thus raging with the harrowing violence of madness, he was taken away to the madhouse. Before continuing my narration of what happened further to the unfortunate Nathanael, I will tell you, indulgent reader, in case you take any interest in that skillful mechanician and fabricator of automata, Spalanzani, that he recovered completely from his wounds. He had, however, to leave the university, for Nathanael’s fate had created a great sensation; and the opinion was pretty generally expressed that it was an imposture alto¬ gether unpardonable to have smuggled a wooden puppet in¬ stead of a living person into intelligent tea-circles—for Olimpia had been present at several with success. Lawyers called it a cunning piece of knavery, and all the harder to punish since it was directed against the public; and it had been so craftily con¬ trived that it had escaped unobserved by all except a

few

preternaturally acute students, although everybody was very wise now and remembered to have thought of several facts which occurred to them as suspicious. But these latter could not suc¬ ceed in making out any sort of a consistent tale. For was it, for instance, a thing likely to occur to anyone as suspicious that.

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according to the declaration of an elegant beau of these teaparties, Olimpia had, contrary to all good manners, sneezed oftener than she had yawned? The former must have been, in the opinion of this elegant gentleman, the winding up of the concealed clockwork; it had always been accompanied by an observable creaking, and so on. The Professor of Poetry and Eloquence took a pinch of snuff, and, slapping the lid to and clearing his throat, said solemnly, “My most honourable ladies and gentlemen, don’t you see then where the rub is? The whole thing is an allegory, a continuous metaphor. You understan4 me? Sapienti sat.” But several most honourable gentlemen did not rest satisfied with this explanation; the history of this automaton had sunk deeply into their souls, and an absurd mistrust of human figures began to prevail. Several lovers, in order to be fully convinced that they were not paying court to a wooden puppet, required that their mistress should sing and dance a little out of time, should embroider or knit or play with her little pug. See., when being read to, but above all things else that she should do some¬ thing more than merely listen—that she should frequently speak in such a way as to really show that her words presupposed as a condition some thinking and feeling. The bonds of love were in many cases drawn closer in consequence, and so of course became more engaging; in other instances they gradually re¬ laxed and fell away. “I cannot really be made responsible for it,’’ was the remark of more than one young gallant. At the tea-gatherings everybody, in order to ward off suspi¬ cion, yawned to an incredible extent and never sneezed. Spalanzani was obliged, as has been said, to leave the place in order to escape a criminal charge of having fraudulently imposed an automaton upon human society. Coppola, too, had also dis¬ appeared. When Nathanael awoke he felt as if he had been oppressed by a terrible nightmare; he opened his eyes and experienced an indescribable sensation of mental comfort, while a soft and most beautiful sensation of warmth pervaded his body. He lay on his own bed in his own room at home; Clara was bending over him, and at a little distance stood his mother and Lothair. "At last, at last, O my darling Nathanael; now we have you again; now

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you are cured of your grievous illness, now you are mine again.” And Clara’s words came from the depths of her heart; and she clasped him in her arms. The bright scalding tears streamed from his eyes, he was so overcome with mingled feelings of sor¬ row and delight; and he gasped forth, “My Clara, my Clara!” Siegmund, who had staunchly stood by his friend in his hour of need, now came into the room. Nathanael gave him his hand—“My faithful brother, you have not deserted me.” Every trace of insanity had left him, and in the tender hands of his mother and his beloved, and his friends, he quickly recovered his strength again. Good fortune had in the meantime visited the house; a niggardly old uncle, from whom they had never ex¬ pected to get anything, had died, and left Nathanael’s mother not only a considerable fortune, but also a small estate, pleas¬ antly situated not far from the town. There they resolved to go and live, Nathanael and his mother, and Clara, to whom he was now to be married, and Lothair. Nathanael had become gentler and more childlike than he had ever been before, and now began really to understand Clara’s supremely pure and noble character. None of them ever reminded him, even in the remotest degree, of the past. But when Siegmund took leave of him, Nathanael said, "By heaven, brother! I was in a bad way, but an angel came just at the right moment and led me back upon the path of light. Yes, it was Clara.” Siegmund would not let him speak further, fearing lest the painful recollections of the past might arise too vividly and too intensely in his mind. The time came for the four happy people to move to their little property. At noon they were going through the streets. After making several purchases they found that the lofty tower of the town hall was throwing its giant shadows across the market place. “Come,” said Clara, “let us go up to the top once more and have a look at the distant hills.” No sooner said than done. Both of them, Nathanael and Clara, went up the tower; their mother, however, went on with the servant-girl to her new home, and Lothair, not feeling inclined to climb up all the many steps, waited below. There the two lovers stood arm in arm on the topmost gallery of the tower, and gazed out into the sweet-scented wooded landscape, beyond which the blue hills rose up like a giant’s city.

0

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HI

“OhI do look at that strange little gray bush, it looks as if it were actually walking towards us,” said Clara. Mechanically he put his hand into his side pocket; he found Coppola’s per¬ spective and looked for the bush; Clara stood in front of the glass. Then a convulsive thrill shot through his pulse and veins; pale as a corpse, he fixed his staring eyes upon her; but soon they began to roll, and a fiery current flashed and sparkled in them, and he yelled fearfully, like a hunted animal. Leaping up high in the air and laughing horribly at the same time, he began to shout in a piercing voice, “Spin roynd, wooden doll! Spin round, wooden doll!” With the strength of a giant he laid hold upon Clara and tried to hurl her over, but in an agony of despair she clutched fast hold of the railing that went round the gallery. Lothair heard the madman raging and Clara’s scream of terror: a fearful presentiment flashed across his mind. He ran up the steps; the door of the second flight was locked. Clara’s scream for help rang out more loudly. Mad with rage and fear, he threw himself against the door, which at length gave way. Clara’s cries were growing fainter and fainter—“Help! save me! save me!” and her voice died away in the air. “She is killed— murdered by that madman,” shouted Lothair. The door to the gallery was also locked. Despair gave him the strength of a giant; he burst the door oft its hinges. Good God! there was Clara in the grasp of the madman Nathanael, hanging over the gallery in the air, hold¬ ing on to the iron bar with only one hand. Quick as lightning, Lothair seized his sister and pulled her back, at the same time dealing the madman a blow in the face with his doubled fist, which sent him reeling backwards, forcing him to let go his victim. Lothair ran down with his insensible sister in his arms. She was saved. But Nathanael ran round and round the gallery, leaping up in the air and shouting, “Spin round, fire-wheel! Spin round, fire-wheel!” The people heard the wild shouting, and a crowd began to gather. In the midst of them towered the lawyer Coppelius, like a giant; he had only just arrived in the town, and had gone straight to the market place.

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Some were for going up to overpower and take the madman, but Coppelius laughed and said, “Ha! ha! wait a bit; he’ll come down of his own accord;” and he stood gazing up along with the rest. All at once Nathanael stopped as if spellbound; he bent down over the railing and perceived Coppelius. With a piercing scream, “Eh! Fine eyes-a, fine eyes-a!” he leaped over the railing. When Nathanael lay on the stone pavement with a shattered head, Coppelius had disappeared in the crush and confusion. Several years afterwards it was reported that, outside the door of a pretty country house in a remote district, Clara had been seen sitting hand in hand with a pleasant gentleman, while two bright boys were playing at her feet. From this it may be concluded that she eventually found that quiet domestic happi¬ ness which her cheerful, blithesome character required, and which Nathanael, with his tempest-tossed soul, could never have been able to give her.

From Frankenstein,

or The Modern Prometheus (1818) Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797-1851)

Mary Shelley was a major figure of the Romantic movement, creator of the most potent myth of the technological age in Frankenstein, writer of the first novel of the sole survivor of our race (The Last Man, 1826), wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley, friend of Lord Byron, daughter of the liberal writer William Godwin and the articulate feminist Mary Wollstonecraft. She was inspired as a teenager to write the novel about the young scientist, Victor Frankenstein, subtitled ‘‘The Modern Prome-

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theus,” when a group including Shelley and Byron challenged one another one winter’s eve to a literary competition. J. W. Polidori was also present and produced The Vampyre, the first novel of that genre. But while Bram Stoker’s Dracula has super¬ seded the fame of Polidori’s work, Frankenstein stands alone as the classic treatment of the self-abosrbed scientist falling into moral ruin. Victor’s fiancee Elizabeth urges him to marry, but he follows his proud thoughts, first to help the human race by creating superior creatures—and in the novel the demon is superior indeed—and then to save the human race from the creature’s murderous loneliness by supplying the bride it re¬ quests. The doubling of characters here is striking; even more striking is the clarity with which Shelley has captured the sexual charge inherent in this archetypal science fiction tale.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of the in¬ habitants, when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the daemon’s disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they were delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime. I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet

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that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford: for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and ad¬ miration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey. We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew’s, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. “Do you,’’ said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper.” Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. “I had rather be with you,” he said, “in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know: hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence.” Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster followed me, and would dis¬ cover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which con¬ sisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they in-

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dulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be pro¬ cured from the main land, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It con¬ tained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession; an inci¬ dent which would, doubtless, have occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave; so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea, to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and, when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant, when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first ar¬ rived; but, as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not pre¬ vail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days; and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was in¬ tently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my

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spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every mo¬ ment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them, lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim his companion. In the meantime I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom.

Chapter 20 I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of considera¬ tion of whether I should leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me to con¬ sider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretched¬ ness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her cre¬ ation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again

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alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the daemon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck sense¬ less by his fiendish threats: but now, for |,he first time, the wick¬ edness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on lookmg up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the daemon at the case¬ ment. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid him¬ self in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose fu¬ ture existence he depended for happiness, and, with a howl of evilish despair and revenge, withdrew. I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries. Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the

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gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly con¬ scious of its extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly ar¬ rested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice— “You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?” “Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.” “Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master;—obey!” “The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only ex¬ asperate my rage.” The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed

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his teeth in the impotence of anger. “Shall each man,” cried he, find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were re¬ quited by detestation and scorn. Man! you may hate; but be¬ ware! your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretch¬ edness? You can blast my other passions; but revenge remains— revenge, henceforth dearer than light or foodl I may die; but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore power¬ ful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict.” "Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable.” “It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night.” I started forward, and exclaimed, “Villain! before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.” I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to de¬ part, and he had directed his course towards the main land. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words— '7 will be with you on your wedding-night.” That then was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my be¬ loved Elizabeth,—of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her,—tears, the first

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I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I re¬ solved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night’s contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuper¬ able barrier between me and my fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrified, or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes in¬ flamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I be¬ longed to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satis¬ fying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he was; that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to be¬ stow as much of my society on him as I could spare. He be¬ sought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards together. This let-

*

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ter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect: I must pack up my chemical instruments; and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at day¬ break, I summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to col¬ lect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and, laying them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfish¬ ness; and I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my

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fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took ad¬ vantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea: I listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water; and, fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, everything was ob¬ scure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted con¬ siderably. The wind was high, and the waves continually threat¬ ened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was north¬ east, and must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but quickly found that, if I again made the attempt, the boat would be in¬ stantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the world, that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your task is already fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; all left be¬ hind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie, so des¬ pairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined

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towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell: I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes. How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that cling¬ ing love we have of life even in the excess of miseryl I con¬ structed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appear¬ ance: but, as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I carefully traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small prom¬ ontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my appearance; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that language: “My good friends,” said I, “will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town, and inform me where I am?” “You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a hoarse voice. “May be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste; but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you.” I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the

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frowning and angry countenances of his companions. “Why do you answer me so roughly?” I replied; “surely it is not the cus¬ tom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably.” “I do not know,” said the man, “what the custom of the English may be; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains.” While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn; but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking man ap¬ proaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s, to give an account of your¬ self.” “Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of my¬ self? Is not this a free country?” “Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magis¬ trate; and you are to give an account of the death of a gentle¬ man who was found murdered here last night.” This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent; that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me, and ex¬ tinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my recollection.

Chapter 21 I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked

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upon me, however, with some degree of severity: and then, turn¬ ing towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward; and one being se¬ lected by the magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fish¬ ing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o’clock, they observed a strong north¬ erly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen on the body of a man who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposi¬ tion was that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, on ex¬ amination, they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had ap¬ parently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remem¬ bered the murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely agi¬ tated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate ob¬ served me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father’s account: but when Daniel Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed.

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A woman deposed that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely that, as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the dis¬ tance of the town of - from the place where I had de¬ posited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agi¬ tation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing myself

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on the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor-” The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convul¬ sions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death: my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was be¬ fore, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miser¬ able apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around, and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise that class. The lines of her face were

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hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:— “Are you better now, sir?” said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I be¬ lieve I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror.” “For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that’s none of my business; I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same.” I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never pre¬ sented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me: no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter careless¬ ness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be in¬ terested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me; for, although he ar¬ dently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes, to see that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and with long intervals. One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a

i

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chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and com¬ passion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French— “I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any¬ thing to make you more comfortable?” “I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.” “I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge.” ‘‘That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?” “Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore renowned for its hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.” As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I en¬ dured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say— “Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found sev-

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eral letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Ge¬ neva: nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.—But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any kind.” “This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most hor¬ rible event: tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?” “Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin, with gen¬ tleness; “and some one, a friend, is come to visit you.” I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented it¬ self, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes and cried out in agony— “Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake do not let him enter!” Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone— “I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome instead of inspiring such violent repugnance.” “My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure: “is my father indeed come? How kind, how very kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?” My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momen¬ tary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his for¬ mer benevolence. He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater plea¬ sure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him and cried— “Are you then safe—and Elizabeth—and Ernest?” My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a

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prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!” said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance of the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval-” The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears. “Alas! yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry.” We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh! very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and re¬ lieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revo¬ lution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county-town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting wit¬ nesses and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill on its being proved that I was on the Orkney

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Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexa¬ tions of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and permitted to return to my native country. I did not participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and though the sun shone upon me as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit—of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Some¬ times, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or longed, with a de¬ vouring maladie du pays, to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone that had been so dear to me in early childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed; and it required unceasing atten¬ dance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dread¬ ful act of violence. Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly loved; and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his conceal¬ ment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the mon¬ strous Image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our depar-

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ture, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey: for I was a shattered wreck—the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton; and fever night and day preyed upon my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight; and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my de¬ parture for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad en¬ thusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous en¬ emy, and I called to mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the cus¬ tom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the rec¬ ollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams pre¬ sented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend’s grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, per¬ ceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around: the cloudy sky above; the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour

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and the irresistible, disastrous future, imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible.

A Descent into the Maelstrom (7847) Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Edgar Allan Poe had two apparently conflicting loves: the lit¬ erature of spiritual terror and the literature of precise empirical science. In such tales as “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” Poe vir¬ tually invented the Tale of the Great Detective in which the cogitating sleuth and his merely human companion bring order into a world terrified by hideous crime. In such tales as “The Descent into the Maelstrom,” Poe exuberantly indulges in sci¬ entific detail to impose an ever vaster sense of nature’s power on the conciousness of the captivated reader. As matters proceed, horror and fear mount inexorably under the influence of the un¬ forgiving laws of physical bodies, and the plot itself finally turns on scientific observation and a clever employment of that ob¬ servation that Bacon would have admired. This marks the be¬ ginning of a main branch of science fiction: the inventive puzzle, the clever and nearly believable tale that brings us high roman¬ tic adventure yet finally reveals the world as a place we can un¬ derstand and control. Poe, who felt keenly the world’s horror, used science fiction to convey that horror and to calm himself against it.

The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the vastness, profundity, and unsearch-

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ableness of His works, which have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus. Joseph Glanville

We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting giddy?” The “little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge—this “little cliff” arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fif¬ teen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half-a-dozen yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous posi¬ tion of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance up¬ ward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason my¬ self into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the distance. “You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, “for I have brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I mentioned—and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye.” “We are now,” he continued in that particularising manner which distinguished him—“we are now close upon the Norwe¬ gian coast—in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great province of Nordland—and in the dreary district of Lofoden.

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The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up a little higher—hold on to the grass if you feel giddy—so—and look out, beyond the belt of vapour beneath us, into the sea.” I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian geographer’s account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A pan¬ orama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can con¬ ceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking for ever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island; or, more prop¬ erly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren and encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks. The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although at the time so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction—as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks. “The island in the distance,” resumed the old man, “is called by the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, Keildhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off—between Moskoe and Vurrgh—are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are the true names of the places—but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?” We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseg-

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gen, to which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping char¬ acter of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a cur¬ rent which set to the eastward. Even while I gazed this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed— to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea as far as Vurrgh was lashed into ungovernable fqry; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into frenzied convulsionheaving, boiling, hissing,—gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except in pre¬ cipitous descents. In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another rad¬ ical alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools one by one disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen be¬ fore. These streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering into combination, took unto themselves the gyra¬ tory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly—very suddenly—this as¬ sumed a distinct and definite existence in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some fortyfive degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the wind an ap¬ palling voice, half-shriek, half-roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous agitation.

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“This,” said I at length, to the old man—“this can be noth¬ ing else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstrom.” “So it is sometimes termed,” said he. “We Norwegians call it the Moskoe-strom, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.” The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means pre¬ pared me for what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is per¬ haps the most circumstantial of any, cannot impart the faintest conception either of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene—or of the wild bewildering sense of the novel which con¬ founds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle. “Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “the depth of the water is between thirty-five and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not to af¬ ford a convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of split¬ ting on the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofo¬ den and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity, but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts—the noise being heard several leagues off, and the vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom and there beat to pieces against the rocks, and when the water relaxes the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently that whales come too near the stream, and are over¬ powered by its violence, and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to dis-

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engage themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regu¬ lated by the flux and reflux of the sea—it being constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the ground.” In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The “forty fathoms” must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-strom must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help smiling at the sim¬ plicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing that the largest ship of the line in existence coming within the influence of that deadly attraction could resist it as little as a feather the hurri¬ cane, and must disappear bodily and at once. The attempts to account for the phenomenon—some of which I remember seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal—now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea gener¬ ally received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among the Ferroe Islands, “have no other cause than the collision of waves rising and falling at flux and reflux against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirl¬ pool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser experiments.”—These are the words of the En-

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cyclopaedia Britannica. Kircher and others imagine that in the centre of the channel of the Maelstrom is an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part—the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one instance. This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed, my imag¬ ination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by the Norwe¬ gians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here I agreed with him—for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes alto¬ gether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of the abyss. “You have had a good look at the whirl now,” said the old man, “and if you will creep round this crag so as to get in its lee, and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that will convince you I ought to know something of the Moskoestrom.” I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded. “Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of about seventy tons burthen, with which we were in the habit of fishing among the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all violent eddies at sea there is good fishing at proper opportunities if one has only the courage to attempt it, but among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the southward. There fish can be got at all hours, with¬ out much risk, and therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance, so that we often got in a single day what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of des¬ perate speculation—the risk of life standing instead of labour, and courage answering for capital. “We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast than this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take advantage of the fifteen minutes’ slack to push across the main channel of the Moskoe-strom, far above the pool, and then drop

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down upon anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere. Here we used to remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we weighed and made for home. We never set out upon this ex¬ pedition without a steady side wind for going and coming—one that we felt sure would not fail us before our return—and we seldom made a mis-calculation upon this point. Twice during six years we were forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to a gale whiqh blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in spite of everything (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently that at length we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents—here to-day and gone to-morrow— which drove us under the lee of Flimen, where, by good luck, we brought up. “I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we encountered ‘on the grounds’—it is a bad spot to be in, even in good weather—but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the Moskoe-strom itself without accident; although at times my heart has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way then we could wish, while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such times in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing, but somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the young ones get into the danger—for, after all is said and done, it was a hor¬ rible danger, and that is the truth. “It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth day of July 18—, a day which the people of this part of the world will never for¬ get—for it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever came out of the heavens; and yet all the morning, and

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indeed until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze from the south-west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to follow. “The three of us—my two brothers and myself—had crossed over to the islands about 2 o’clock p.m., and had soon nearly loaded the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plentiful that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven by my watch when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst of the Strom at slack water, which we knew would be at eight. “We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseggen. This was most unusual—something that had never hap¬ pened to us before—and I began to feel a little uneasy without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was put upon the point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular coppercoloured cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity. “In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This state of things, however, did not last long enough to give us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us—in less than two the sky was entirely overcast—and what with this and the driving spray it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack. “Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt de¬ scribing. The oldest seaman in Norway never experienced any¬ thing like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off—the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety. “Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had always been our cus¬ tom to batten down when about to cross the Strom by way of

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precaution against the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once—for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the fore-mast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do this— which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done— for I was too much flurried to think. ‘‘For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I raised myself up on my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Pres¬ ently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the water, and thus rid herself in some measure of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard—but the next moment all this joy was turned into horror—for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the word 'Moskoe-strom!’ “No one ever will know what my feelings were at that mo¬ ment. I shook from head to foot, as if I had had the most vio¬ lent fit of the ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough—I knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now drove us on we were bound for the whirl of the Strom, and nothing could save us! "You perceive that in crossing the Strom channel, we always went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack—but now we were driving right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurri¬ cane as this! ‘To be sure,’ I thought, ‘we shall get there just about the slack—there is some little hope in that’—but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed had we been ten times a ninety-gun ship. “By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself,

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or perhaps we did not feel it so much as we scudded before it, but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind and lay flat and frothing now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once a circular rift of clear sky—as clear as I ever saw, and of a deep bright blue—and through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up everything about us with the greatest distinctness—but, O God, what a scene it was to light up! “I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother— but, in some manner which I could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single word, al¬ though I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers as if to say ‘listen!’ “At first I could not make out what he meant—but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. It had run down at seven o’clock! We were behind the time of the slack, and the whirl of the Strom was in full fury!

“When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath her—which appears very strange to a landsman—and this is what is called riding, in sea-phrase. Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly, but presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose—up—up—as if into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around—and that one glance was all sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-strom whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but no more like the every-day Moskoe-strom, than the whirl as you now see it is like a millrace. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to

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expect, I should not have recognised the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. “It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same mo¬ ment the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek—such a sound as you might imagine given out by the wastepipes of many thousand steam-vessels letting off their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the whirl; and I thought of course that an¬ other moment w'ould plunge us into the abyss—down which we could only see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon. “It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was despair that strung my nerves. “It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God’s power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I be¬ came possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man’s mind in such extremity, and I have often thought since that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have rendered me a little lightheaded. “There was another circumstance which tended to restore

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my self-possession, and this was the cessation of the wind, which could not reach us in our present situation—for, as you saw your¬ self, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now' towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale you can form no idea of the confusion of mind oc¬ casioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all power of action or reflec¬ tion. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoy¬ ances—just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet un¬ certain. "How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, fly¬ ing rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its hor¬ rible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring¬ bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty W'ater-cask which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavoured to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him at¬ tempt this act—although I knew' he was a madman w'hen he did it—a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, how¬ ever to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no dif¬ ference w’hether either of us held on at all, so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask. This there was no great diffi¬ culty in doing, for the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel, only swaying to and fro with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new position wrhen we gave a w’ild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. “As I felt the sickening sw'eep of the descent I had instinc¬ tively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes.

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For some seconds I dared not open them, while I expected instant destruction, and wondered that I was not already in my deathstruggle5 with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before while in the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took courage, and looked once again upon the scene. “Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and ad¬ miration with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior sur¬ face of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony but for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. “At first I was too much confused to observe anything ac¬ curately. The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view from the manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water—but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation than if we had been upon a dead level, and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved. “The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick mist in which everything there was envel¬ oped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist or spray was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of

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the funnel as they all met together at the bottom, but the yell that went up to the Heavens from out of that mist I dare not attempt to describe. "Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us a great distance down the slope, but our farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept—not with any uniform movement—but in dizzy¬ ing swings and jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hun¬ dred yards—sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward at each revolution was slow but very perceptible. "Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and be¬ low us were visible fragments of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels, and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been delirious, for I even sought amusement in speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. ‘This fir-tree,’ I found myself at one time saying, ‘will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,’—and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all, this fact—the fact of my invariable miscalculation—set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more. “It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoestrom. By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened as to

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have the appearance of being stuck full of splinters—but then I distinctly recollected that there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been completely absorbed—that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, for some reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either in¬ stance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of jhose which had been drawn in more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made also three important observations. The first was that, as a general rule, the larger the bodies were the more rapid their descent; the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical and the other of any other shape, the superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere; the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape I have had several conversations on this subject with an old school master of the district, and it was from him that I learned the use of the words ‘cylinder’ and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—although I have forgotten the explanationhow what I observed was in fact the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments, and showed me how it hap¬ pened that a cylinder swimming in a vortex offered more resis¬ tance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than an equally bulky body of any form whatever.1 “There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in enforcing these observations and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that at every revolution we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. “I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself 1 See Archimedes’

De Incidentibus in Fluido— lib. 2.

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securely to the water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted my brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design, but, whether this was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and re¬ fused to move from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossi¬ ble to reach him, the emergency admitted of no delay, and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea without an¬ other moment’s hesitation. “The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale—as you see that I did es¬ cape—and as you are already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have further to say, I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour or thereabout after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged headlong at once and for ever into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance be¬ tween the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew gradually less and less violent. By degrees the froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found my¬ self on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoestrom had been. It was the hour of the slack—but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Strom, and in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A boat picked me up, exhausted from fatigue

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and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions, but they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair which had been raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it now. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story—they did not believe it. I now tell it to you, and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.” /

The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar {1845)

Edgar Allan Poe

“The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” purports to be just that: a recitation of facts. The language of the tale is precise, flavored with Latinisms and suggesting fine points of calcula¬ tion. The report is presumably validated by reference to a set of notes; the authority of the notes is in turn validated by the fact that their author is a medical student (a cousin, perhaps, of Victor Frankenstein?). This rhetoric implies the careful scrutiny of dispassionate science, yet in the story, as so often in science fiction, the facts reported are in themselves, finally, beyond be¬ lief. From the conflict between the realities of empiricism and the fabrications of fantasy, science fiction draws its special en¬ ergy. After the highly scientific explanation at the end of "The Descent into the Maelstrom,” we are asked to accept the idea than an impossible and instantaneous change occurred in the man who experienced the exrents. The change at the end of this tale is equally abrupt and fantastic, but in this case represents

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not simply an admixture of artistic inventiveness but a narra¬ tive reassertion, even in the face of modern science, of the sta¬ bility of the world as we think we know it.

Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for won¬ der that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited dis¬ cussion. It would have been a miracle had it not—especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties con¬ cerned to keep the affair from the public, at least for the pres¬ ent, or until we had further opportunities for investigationthrough our endeavours to effect this—a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into society and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief. It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these: My attention for the last three years had been repeatedly drawn to the subject of Mesmerism; and about nine months ago it occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experi¬ ments made hitherto there had been a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission:—no person had as yet been mes¬ merised in articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic influence: secondly, whether, if any existed, it was impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what ex¬ tent, or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity—the last in es¬ pecial, from the immensely important character of its conse¬ quences. In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the “Biblio¬ theca Forensica,” and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and “Gargantua.” M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, N. Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for

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the extreme spareness of his person—his lower limbs much re¬ sembling those of John Randolph; and also for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair-the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occa¬ sions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but was dis¬ appointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period posi¬ tively or thoroughly under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted with him his physicians had declared him in a con¬ firmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching dissolution as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted. When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valde¬ mar. I knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to ap¬ prehend any scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject, and to my surprise his interest seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise; for, although he had always yielded his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death; and it was finally ar¬ ranged between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his decease. It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself, the subjoined note: “My dear P-,

“You may as well come now. D- and F- are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond to-morrow mid¬ night; and I think they have hit the time very nearly. “Valdemar.”

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I received this note within half-an-hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness—took some palliative medicines without aid—and, when I entered the room, was occupied in pencilling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D- and F-were in attendance. After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from them a minute account of the patient’s condition. The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semiosseous or cartilaginous state, and was of course entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper por¬ tion, was also partially if not thoroughly ossified, while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles running one into another. Several extensive perforations existed, and at one point permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symp¬ toms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o’clock on Saturday evening. On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D-and F-had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night. When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on

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the subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next night, when the arrival of a medical student, with whom I had some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L-1), relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast. Mr. L-1 was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that occurred: and it is from his mem¬ oranda that what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim. It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L-1, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerising him in his then condition. He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, “Yes, I wish to be mes¬ merised”—adding immediately afterwards, “I fear you have deferred it too long." While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but although I exerted all my powers, no farther perceptible effect was induced until some minutes after ten o’clock, when Doctors D-and F-called, according to ap¬ pointment. I explained to them in a few words what I de¬ signed, and as they opposed no objection, saying that the pa¬ tient was already in the death agony, I proceeded without hesi¬ tation-exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer.

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By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous, and at intervals of half-a-minute. This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this period, however, a natural al¬ though a very deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased—that is to say, its stertorous¬ ness was no longer apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient’s extremities were of an icy coldness. At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite im¬ possible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy posi¬ tion. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loins. The head was very slightly elevated. When I had accomplished this it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be in an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D-resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F-took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L-1 and the nurses remained. We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F- went away —that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, un¬ less through the application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.

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As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experi¬ ments with this patient, I had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but, to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, fol¬ lowed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation. “M. Valdemar,”

I said, “are you asleep?”

He made no

answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At this third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shiver¬ ing: the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of a ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words: “Yes;—asleep now. Do not wake me!—let me die sol” I here felt the limbs, and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I ques¬ tioned the sleep-waker again: “Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?” The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before: “No pain—I am dying.” I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F-, who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment ac finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying: “M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?” As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said faintly, almost inaudibly: “Yes still asleep—dying.” It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition until death should

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supervene; and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my previous question. While I spoke, there came a marked change over the coun¬ tenance of the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly;

the skin generally

assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper: and the circular hectic spots, which hitherto had been strongly defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguish¬ ment of a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed. I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed. There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and, concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice—such as it would be mad¬ ness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity.

There

were

two

particulars,

nevertheless,

which I thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast distance,

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or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch. I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully thrillingly distinct syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said: “Yes;—no;—I have

been

sleeping—^nd

now—now—7

am

dead.” No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress,

the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few

words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L-1 (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own impres¬ sions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour we busied ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in endeavours to revive Mr. L-1. When he came to himself we addressed ourselves again to an investiga¬ tion of M. Valdemar’s condition. It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respira¬ tion. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavoured in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influ¬ ence was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly insensible—although I endeavoured to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I be¬ lieve that I have now related all that is necessary to an under¬ standing of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L-1. In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His

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condition remained precisely the same. We had now some dis¬ cussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution. From this period until the close of last week—an interval of nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied now and then by medical and other friends. All this time the sleep-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were con¬ tinual. It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling. For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mes¬ meric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was af¬ forded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable,

that

this

lowering of

the

pupil

was

accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odour. It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F- then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows: “M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?” There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks: the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before); and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth: “For

God’s

sake!—quick!—quickl—put

me

to

sleep—or,

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quick!-waken me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!” I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavour to re¬ compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be suc¬ cessful—or at least I soon fancied that my success would be com¬ plete; and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken. For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepare^. As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of "dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the space of a single minute, or even less shrunk—crumbled—ab¬ solutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loath¬ some—of detestable putrescence.

Rappaccini's Daughter (1844) Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)

Nathaniel Hawthorne was one of America’s truly great narrative artists. In such novels as The Scarlet Letter (1850) and The House of the Seven Gables (1851) he dealt with the consequences of human passion. The later novel, as well as “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” falls within the tradition called Gothic fiction, a literature of crumbling castles, family curses, vague witchcraft, and sepulchral mists. When Horace Walpole published The Castle of Otranto in 1764, he subtitled it "A Gothic Tale.” To the English readers of his day, “Gothic” signified the style of

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heavy mediexxil architecture characteristic of the disestablished Catholic churches that still loomed upon the moors, long in bad repair since Henry VIII had broken with Rome. Gothic then signified something Mediterranean, dark, hot, sexual, ancient, and yet present among us. the power of the older ways still seethingly alii>e in the world we want safe. Much of science fiction is Gothic romance, capturing again the sexual tenors and the sense of powers be^'ond us. powers that come from or lie with those in the hands of human scientists, but which finally make us aware that we are not so much fsassionate as ruled by fsassion. not so much seekers of knowledge as obsessed by the need to seek.

Writings of Aub^pine We do not remember to have seen any translated specimens of the productions of M. de l’Aubepine: a fact the less to be won¬ dered at. as his very name is unknown to mans of his own countrymen, as well as to the student of foreign literature. As a writer, he seems to occupy an unfortunate position between the Transcendentalists (who, under one name or another, have their share in all the current literature of the world), and the great body of pen-and-ink men who address the intellect and sympathies of the multitude. If not too refined, at all events too remote, too shadows and unsubstantial in his modes of development, to suit the taste of the latter class, and vet too popular to satisfy the spiritual or metaphysical requisitions of the former, he must necessarily find himself without an audi¬ ence: except here and there an individual, or possibly an iso¬ lated clique. His writings, to do them justice, are not altogether destitute of fanes and originality; thev might have svon him greater reputation but for an inveterate love of allegory-, which is apt to invest his plots and characters svith the aspect of scenery and people in the clouds, and to steal awav the human svarmth out of his conceptions. His fictions are sometimes his¬ torical. sometimes of the present das. and sometimes, so far as

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163

can be discovered, have little or no reference either to time or space. In any case, he generally contents himself with a very slight embroidery of outward manners—the faintest possible counterfeit of real life,—and endeavors to create an interest by some less obvious peculiarity of the subject. Occasionally, a breath of nature, a rain-drop of pathos and tenderness, or a gleam of humor, will find its way into the midst of his fantastic imagery, and make us feel as if, after all, we were yet within the limits of our native earth. We will only add to this very cursory notice, that M. de 1’Aubdpine’s productions, if the reader chance to take them in precisely -the proper point of view, may amuse a leisure hour as well as those of a brighter man; if otherwise, they can hardly fail to look excessively like nonsense. Our author is voluminous; he continues to write and pub¬ lish with as much praiseworthy and indefatigable prolixity, as if his efforts were crowned with the brilliant success that so justly attends those of Eugene Sue. His first appearance was by a col¬ lection of stories, in a long series of volumes, entitled "Contes deux fois racontees” The titles of some of his more recent works (we quote from memory) are as follows:—"Le Voyage Celeste a Chemin de Fer,” 3 tom. 1838. “Le nouveau pere Adam et la nouvelle mere Eve,” 2 tom. 1839. “Roderic; ou le Serpent a I’estomac” 2 tom. 1840. "Le Culte du Feu,” a folio volume of ponderous research into the religion and ritual of the old Persian Ghebers, published in 1841. “La Soiree du Chateau en Espagne,” 1 tom. 8vo. 1842; and “L’Artiste du Beau; ou le Papillon Mecanique,” 5 tom. 4to. 1843. Our somewhat weari¬ some perusal of this startling catalogue of volumes has left behind it a certain personal affection and sympathy, though by no means admiration, for M. de 1 Aub^pine; and we would fain do the little in our power towards introducing him favorably to the American public. The ensuing tale is a translation of his “Beatrice; ou La Belle Empoisonneuse,” recently published in “La Revue Anti-Aristocratique” This journal, edited by the Comte de Bearhaven, has, for some years past, led the defence of liberal principles and popular rights, with a faithfulness and ability worthy of all praise.

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Rappaccini’s Daughter A young man, named Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, from the more southern region of Italy, to pursue his studies at the University of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice, which looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, exhibited over its entrance the armorial bearings of a family long since extinct. The young stranger, who was not unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of the ancestors of this family, and perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictured by Dante as a partaker of the im¬ mortal agonies of his Inferno. These reminiscences and associa¬ tions, together with the tendency to heart-break natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily, as he looked around the desolate and ill-furnished apartment. “Holy Virgin, signor,” cried old dame Lisabetta, who, won by the youth’s remarkable beauty of person, was kindly endeavor¬ ing to give the chamber a habitable air, “what a sigh was that to come out of a young man’s heart! Do you find this old man¬ sion gloomy? For the love of heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in Naples.” Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not quite agree with her that the Lombard sunshine was as cheerful as that of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a garden beneath the window, and expended its fostering influences on a variety of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care. “Does this garden belong to the house?” asked Giovanni. “Heaven forbid, signor!—unless it were fruitful of better pot¬ herbs than any that grow there now,” answered old Lisabetta. “No: that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini, the famous Doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said he distils these plants

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into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may see the signor Doctor at work, and perchance the signora his daughter, too, gathering the strange flowers that grow in the garden.” The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the chamber, and, commending the young man to the protec¬ tion of the saints, took her departure. Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he judged it to be one of those botanic gardens, which were of earlier date in Padua than elsewhere in^taly, or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once have been the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was the ruin of a marble foun¬ tain in the centre, sculptured with rare art, but so wofully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, con¬ tinued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man’s window, and made him feel as if the fountain were an im¬ mortal spirit, that sung its song unceasingly, and without heed¬ ing the vicissitudes around it; while one century embodied it in marble, and another scattered the garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which the water subsided, grew various plants, that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and, in some instances, flowers gorgeously magnificent. There was one shrub in particu¬ lar, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the lustre and richness of a gem; and the whole together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care; as if all had their individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fostered them. Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and others in com¬ mon garden-pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground, or climbed on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itself round a statue of Vertum-

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nus, which was thus quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study. While Giovanni stood at the window, he heard a rustling behind a screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, ema¬ ciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man, dressed in a scholar’s garb of black. He was beyond the middle term of life, with grey hair, a thin grey beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart. Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scien¬ tific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path; it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape, and another in that, and where¬ fore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of the deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch, or the direct inhaling of their odors, with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man’s de¬ meanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young man’s imagination, to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world?—and this man, with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow, was he the Adam? The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, de¬ fended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When, in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask over his mouth and

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nostrils, as if all this beauty did but conceal a deadlier malice. But finding his task, still too dangerous, he draw back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a person affected with inward disease: "Beatrice!—Beatrice!” "Here am I, my father! What would you?” cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of the opposite house; a voice as rich as a tropical sunet, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson, and of perfumes heavily delectable.—“Are you in the garden?” “Yes, Beatrice,” answered the gardenej", “and I need your help.” Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and com¬ pressed, as it were, and girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni’s fancy must have grown morbid, while he looked down into the garden; for the impression which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as beautiful as they—more beautiful than the richest of them—but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden-path, it was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants, which her father had most sedulously avoided. “Here, Beatrice,” said the latter,-“see how many needful offices require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge.” “And gladly will I undertake it,” cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she bent towards the magnificant plant, and opened her arms as if to embrace it. “Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall be Beatrice’s task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the breath of life!”

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Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his eyes, and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. The scene soon terminated. Whether Doctor

Rappaccini had

finished

his labors in

the

garden, or that his watchful eye had caught the stranger’s face, he now took his daughter’s arm and retired. Night was already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from the plants, and steal upward past the open window; and Giovanni, closing the lattice, went to his couch, and dreamed of a rich flower and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different and yet the same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape. But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment, we may have incurred during the sun’s decline, or among the shadows of the night, or in the less wholesome glow of moonshine. Gio¬ vanni’s first movement on starting from sleep, was to throw open the window, and gaze down into the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries. He was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be, in the first days of the sun, which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought everything within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man rejoiced, that, in the heart of the barren city, he had the privilege of overlook¬ ing this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language, to keep him in com¬ munion with nature. Neither the sickly and thought-worn Doc¬ tor Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter were now visible; so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the singularity which he attributed to both, was due to their own qualities, and how much

to his wonder-working

fancy. But he was inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter. In the course of the day, he paid his respects to Signor Pietro Baglioni, professor of medicine in the University, a physician

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of eminent repute, to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction. The professor was an elderly personage, appar¬ ently of genial nature, and habits that might almost be called jovial; he kept the young man to dinner, and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same city, must needs be on familiar terms with one another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Dr. Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated.

,

“Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine,” said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Gio¬ vanni, “to withhold due and well-considered praise of a physi¬ cian so eminently skilled as Rappaccini. But, on the other hand, I should answer it but scantily to my conscience, were I to permit a worthy youth like yourself. Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Doctor Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty—with perhaps one single exception—in Padua, or all Italy. But there are certain grave objections to his professional character.” “And what are they?” asked the young man. “Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so inquisitive about physicians?” said the Professor, with a smile. “But as for Rappaccini, it is said of him—and I, who know the man well, can answer for its truth—that he cares infinitely more for science than for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard-seed to the great heap of his accumulated knowledge.” “Methinks he is an awful man, indeed,” remarked Guasconti, mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini. “And yet, worshipful Professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are there many men capable of so spiritual a love of science?” “God forbid,” answered the Professor, somewhat testily-“at

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least, unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory, that all medicinal virtues are comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have produced new varieties of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature, without the assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued the world with. That the signor Doctor does less mischief than might be expected, with such dangerous substances, is undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, he has effected—or seemed to effect—a mar¬ vellous cure. But, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he should receive little credit for such instances of success—they being probably the work of chance—but should be held strictly accountable for his failures, which may just be considered his own work.” The youth might have taken Baglioni’s opinions with many grains of allowance, had he known that there was a professional warfare of long continuance between him and Doctor Rap¬ paccini, in which the latter was generally thought

to

have

gained the advantage. If the reader be inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter tracts on both sides, preserved in the medical department of the University of Padua. “I know not, most learned Professor,” returned Giovanni, after musing on what had been said of Rappaccini’s exclusive zeal for science—“I know not how dearly this physician may love his art; but surely there is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter.” “Aha!” cries the Professor with a laugh. “So now our friend Giovanni’s secret is out. You have heard of this daughter, whom all the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen have ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice, save that Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in his science, and that, young and beauti¬ ful as fame reports her, she is already qualified to fill a profes¬ sor’s chair. Perchance her father destines her for mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not worth talking about, or listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink off your glass of Lacryma.” Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with

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strange fantasies in reference to Doctor Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by a florist’s, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers. Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the win¬ dow, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the mag¬ nificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however,—as Giovanni had half-hoped, half-feared, would be the case,—a figure ap¬ peared beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes, as if she were one of those beings of old classic fable, that lived upon sweet odors. On again beholding Beatrice, the young man was even startled to perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so vivid in its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its expression of simplicity and sweetness; qualities that had not entered into his idea of her character, and which made him ask anew, what manner of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail again to observe, or imag¬ ine, an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub

that

hung its gem-like

flowers over

the

fountain;

a

resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of its hues. Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate em¬ brace; so intimate, that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom, and her glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers.

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“Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice; “for I am faint with common airl And give me this flower of thine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem, and place it close beside my heart.” With these words, the beautiful

daughter of Rappaccini

plucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her bosom. But now, unless Giovanni’s draughts of wine had bewildered his senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile of the lizard or chameleon spe¬ cies, chanced to be creeping along the bath, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni—but, at the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen anything so mi¬ nute—it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard’s head. For an instant, the reptile contorted itself violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed this re¬ markable phenomenon, and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one appropriate charm, which nothing else in the world could have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window bent forward and shrank back, and murmured and trembled. “Am I awake? Have I my senses?” said he to himself. “What is this being?—beautiful, shall I call her?—or inexpressibly ter¬ rible?” Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approach¬ ing closer beneath Giovanni’s window, so that he was compelled to thrust his head quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and painful curiosity which she excited. At this mo¬ ment, there came a beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had perhaps wandered through the city and found no flowers nor verdure among those antique haunts of men, until the heavy perfumes of Doctor Rappaccini’s shrubs had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, this winged brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the air and fluttered about her head. Now here it could not be but that Giovanni Guasconti’s eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fancied

-IT

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that while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish de¬ light, it grew faint and fell at her feet!—its bright wings shivered! it was dead!—from no cause that he could discern, unless it were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself and sighed heavily, as she bent over the dead insect. An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man—rather a Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a glistening of gold among his ringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in mid-air. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw do\yn the bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand. “Signora,” said he, “there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti!” “Thanks, Signor,” replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came forth as it were like a gush of music; and with a mirthful expression half childish and half woman-like. “I accept your gift, and would fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if I toss it into the air, it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even content himself with my thanks.” She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then as if in¬ wardly ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly re¬ serve to respond to a stranger’s greeting, passed swiftly home¬ ward through the garden. But, few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni when she was on the point of vanishing be¬ neath the sculptured portal, that his beautiful bouquet was al¬ ready beginning to wither in her grasp. It was an idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing a faded flower from a fresh one at so great a distance. For many days after the incident, the young man avoided the window that looked into Doctor Rappaccini’s garden, as if some¬ thing ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eye-sight, had he been betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within the influence of an unin¬ telligible power, by the communication which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest course would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his lodgings and Padua itself, at once; the next wiser, to have accustomed himself, as far as pos¬ sible, to the familiar and day-light view of Beatrice; thus bring-

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ing her rigidly and systematically within the limits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, should Gio¬ vanni have remained so near this extraordinary being, that the proximity and possibility even of intercourse, should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagina¬ tion ran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had not a deep heart—or at all events, its depths were not sounded now—but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which rose every instant to a higher fever-pitch. Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes—that fatal breath—the affinity with those so beautiful and deadly flowers—which were indicated by what Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and subtle poison into his system. It was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he know what to hope; hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afresh to renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions. Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid walk through the streets of Padua, or beyond its gates; his footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day, he found himself arrested; his arm was seized by a portly per¬ sonage who had turned back on recognizing the young man, and expended much breath in overtaking him. “Signor Giovanni!—stay, my young friend!” cried he. “Have you forgotten me? That might well be the case, if I were as much altered as yourself.” It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided, ever since their first meeting, from a doubt that the professor’s sagacity would look too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one, and spoke like a man in a dream;

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“Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni. Now let me pass!” “Not yet—not yet. Signor Giovanni Guasconti,” said the Pro¬ fessor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest glance—“What; did I grow up side by side with your father, and shall his son pass me like a stranger, in these old streets of Padua? Stand still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or two, before we part.” "Speedily, then, most worshipful Professor, speedily!” said Giovanni, with feverish impatience. “Does not yOur worship see that I am in haste?” Now, while he was speaking, there came a man in black along the street, stooping and moving feebly, like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and ac¬ tive intellect, that an observer might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes, and have seen only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if taking merely a speculative, not a human interest, in the young man. “It is Doctor Rappaccini!” whispered the Professor, when the stranger had passed.—“Has he ever seen your face before?” “Not that I know,” answered Giovanni, starting at the name. “He has seen you!—he must have seen you!” said Baglioni, hastily. “For some purpose or other, this man of science is mak¬ ing a study of you. I know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face, as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a flower;—a look as deep as nature it¬ self, but without nature’s warmth of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one of Rappaccini’s experiments!” “Will you make a fool of me?” cried Giovanni, passionately. “That, Signor Professor, were an untoward experiment.” “Patience, patience!” replied the imperturbable Professor.— “I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific

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interest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the Signora Beatrice? What part does she act in this mystery?” But Guasconti, finding Baglioni’s pertinacity intolerable, here broke away, and was gone before the Professor could again seize his arm. He looked after the young man intently, and shook his head. “This must not be,” said Baglioni to himself. “The youth is the son of my old friend, and should not come to any harm from which the arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini, thus to snatch the bud out of my own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!” Meanwhile, Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold, he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, and was evidently desirous to attract his attention: vainly, however, as the ebullition of his feelings had momen¬ tarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dame, therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak. “Signor!—Signor!” whispered she, still with a smile over the whole breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a gro¬ tesque carving in wood, darkened by centuries—“Listen, Signor! There is a private entrance into the garden!” “What do you say?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an inanimate thing should start into feverish life.— “A private entrance into Doctor Rappaccini’s garden!” “Hush! hush!—not so loud!” whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over his mouth. “Yes; into the worshipful Doctor’s garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers.” Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand. “Show me the way,” said he. A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Bag¬ lioni, crossed his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta

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might perchance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature, in which the Professor seemed to suppose that Doc¬ tor Rappaccini was involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequate to restrain him. The in¬ stant he was aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity of his existence to do so. It mat¬ tered not whether she were angel or demon; he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him on¬ ward, in ever lessening circles, towards a result which he did not attempt to foreshadow. And yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt, whether this intense interest on his part were not delusory—whether it were really of so deep and posi¬ tive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into an incalculable position—whether it were not merely the fantasy of a young man’s brain, only slightly, or not at all, connected with his heart! He paused—hesitated—turned half about—but again went on. His withered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the sight and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering among them. Giovanni stepped forth, and forcing himself

through

the entanglement of a

shrub

that

wreathed its tendrils over the hidden entrance, he stood be¬ neath his own window, in the open area of Doctor Rappaccini’s garden. How often is it the case, that, when impossibilities have come to pass, and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly selfpossessed, amid circumstances which it would have been a de¬ lirium of joy or agony to anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly behind, when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to summon his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day, his pulses had throbbed with fever¬ ish blood, at the improbable idea of an interview with Beatrice, and of standing with her, face to face, in this very garden, bask¬ ing in the oriental sunshine of her beauty, and snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now there was a singular and untimely equanimity

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within his breast. He threw a glance around the garden to dis¬ cover if Beatrice or her father were present, and perceiving that he was alone, began a critical observation of the plants. The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gor¬ geousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was hardly an individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself through a forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket. Several, also, would have shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness, indicating that there had been such commixture, and, as it were, adultery of various vegetable species, that the production was no longer of God’s making, but the monstrous offspring of man’s depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They were probably the result of experiment, which, in one or two cases, had succeeded in mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but two or three plants in the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous. While busy with these contempla¬ tions, he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and turning, beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the sculptured portal. Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his deportment; whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the garden, or assume that he was there with the privity, at least, if not the desire of Doctor Rappaccini or his daughter. But Be¬ atrice’s manner placed him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by what agency he had gained admittance. She came lightly along the path, and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure. “You are a connoisseur in flowers, Signor,” said Beatrice with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window. “It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my fa¬ ther’s rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs, for he has spent a life-time in such studies, and this garden is his world.” “And yourself, lady”—observed Giovanni—"if fame says true—

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you, likewise, are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich blossoms, and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than under Signor Rappaccini himself.” “Are there such idle rumors?” asked Beatrice, with the music of a pleasant laugh. “Do people say that I am skilled in my fa¬ ther’s science of plants? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their hues and perfume; and sometimes, methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not the least brilliant, that shock and offend me, when they meet my eye. But, pray, Signor, do not believe these stories about my science. Believe nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes.” “And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?” asked Giovanni pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes made him shrink. “No, Signora, you demand too little of me. Bid me believe nothing, save what comes from your own lips.” It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush to her cheek; but she looked full into Giovanni’s eyes, and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queen¬ like haughtiness. “I do so bid you, Signor!” she replied. “Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may be false in its essence. But the words of Beatrice Rappaccini’s lips are true from the heart outward. Those you may believe!” A fervor glowed in her whole aspect, and beamed upon Gio¬ vanni’s consciousness like the light of truth itself. But while she spoke, there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice’s breath, which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni, and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful girl’s eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear. The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice’s manner van-

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ished; she became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her communion with the youth, not unlike what the maiden of a lonely island might have felt, conversing with a voyager from the civilized world. Evidently her experience of life had been confined within the limits of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as the day-light or summerclouds, and now asked questions in reference to the city, or Gio¬ vanni’s distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters; questions indicating such seclusion, and such lack of familiarity with modes and forms, that Giovanni responded as if to an in¬ fant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill, that was just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight, and wondering at the reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. There came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gem-like brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon, there gleamed across the young man’s mind a sense of wonder, that he should be walking side by side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination—whom he had idealized in such hues of terrorin whom he had positively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes—that he should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so human and so maiden-like. But such reflections were only momentary; the effect of her char¬ acter was too real, not to make itself familiar at once. In this free intercourse, they had strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub with its treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it, which Giovanni recognized as identical with that which he had attributed to Beatrice’s breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom, as if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully. “For the first time in my life,” murmured she, addressing the shrub, “I had forgotten thee!” “I remember, Signora,” said Giovanni, “that you once prom¬ ised to reward me with one of these living gems for the bouquet, which I had the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now to pluck it as a memorial of this interview.”

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He made a step towards the shrub, with extended hand. But Beatrice darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand, and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibres. “Touch it not!” exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. “Not for thy life! It is fatal!” Then, hiding her face, she fled from him, and vanished be¬ neath the sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he beheld the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Doctor Rappaccini, who had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of the entrance. No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber, than the image of Beatrice came back to his passionate musings, invested with all the witchery that had been gathering around it ever since his first glimpse of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of girlish womanhood. She was human: her na¬ ture was endowed with all gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthiest to be worshipped; she was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love. Those tokens, which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful peculiarity in her physical and moral system, were now either forgotten, or, by the subtle sophistry of passion, transmuted into a golden crown of enchantment, rendering Beatrice the more admirable, by so much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly, was now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away and hid itself among those shapeless half-ideas, which throng the dim region beyond the daylight of our perfect con¬ sciousness. Thus did Giovanni spend the night, nor fell asleep, until the dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Doctor Rappaccini’s garden, whither his dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and flinging his beams upon the young man’s eyelids, awoke him to a sense of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of a burning and tingling agony in his hand—in his right hand—the very hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own, when he was on the point of plucking one of the gem-like flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a purple print, like that of four small fingers, and the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist.

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Oh, how stubbornly does love—or even that cunning sem¬ blance of love which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into the heart—how stubbornly does it hold its faith, until the moment come, when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni wrapt a handkerchief about his hand, and wondered what evil thing had stung him, and soon forgot his pain in a reverie of Beatrice. After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of what we call fate. A third; a fourth; and a meeting with Be¬ atrice in the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni’s daily life, but the whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for the youth’s appearance, and flew to his side with confidence as unreserved as if they had been play¬ mates from early infancy—as if they were such playmates still. If, by any unwonted chance, he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window, and sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber, and echo and reverberate throughout his heart—“Giovanni!

Gio¬

vanni! Why tarriest thou? Come down!”—And down he hastened into that Eden of poisonous flowers. But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a re¬ serve in Beatrice’s demeanor, so rigidly and invariably sustained, that the idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagina¬ tion. By all appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love, with eyes that conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way; they had even spoken love, in those gushes of passion when their spirits darted forth in articulated breath, like tongues of long-hidden flame; and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress, such as love claims and hallows. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her garment—so marked was the physical barrier between them—had never been waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, so stern, and withal wore such a look of desolate separation, shud-

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dering at itself, that not a spoken word was requisite to repel him. At such times, he was startled at the horrible suspicions that rose, monster-like, out of the caverns of his heart, and stared him in the face; his love grew thin and faint as the morningmist; his doubts alone had substance. But when Beatrice’s face brightened again, after the momentary shadow, she was trans¬ formed at once from the mysterious, questionable being, whom he had watched with so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated girl, whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other knowledge. A considerable time had now passed, since Giovanni’s last meeting with Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagree¬ ably surprised by a visit from the Professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up, as he had long been, to a per¬ vading excitement, he could tolerate no companions, except upon condition of their perfect sympathy with his present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected from Professor Baglioni. The visitor chatted carelessly, for a few moments, about the gossip of the city and the University, and then took up another topic. “I have been reading an old classic author lately,” said he, “and met with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn, and gorgeous as the sunset; but what especially dis¬ tinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath—richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnifi¬ cent stranger. But a certain sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her.” “And what was that?” asked Giovanni, turning his eyes down¬ ward to avoid those of the Professor. “That this lovely woman,” continued Baglioni, with em¬ phasis, “had been nourished with poisons from her birth up¬ ward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them, that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison

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was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath, she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison!—her embrace death! Is not this a marvellous tale?” “A childish fable,” answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his chair. “I marvel how your worship finds time to read such nonsense, among your graver studies.” “By the by,” said the Professor, looking uneasily about him, “what singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the per¬ fume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious, and yet, after all, by no means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make me ill. It is like the breath of a flower—but I see no flowers in the chamber.” “Nor are there any,” replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the Professor spoke; “nor, I think, is there any fragrance, ex¬ cept in your worship’s imagination. Odors, being a sort of ele¬ ment combined of the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to de¬ ceive us in this nature. The recollection of a perfume—the bare idea of it—may easily be mistaken for a present reality.” “Aye; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks,” said Baglioni; “and were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fin¬ gers are likely enough to be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden’s breath. But wo to him that sips them!” Giovanni’s face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which the Professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini was a torture to his soul; and yet, the intimation of a view of her character, opposite to his own, gave instanta¬ neous distinctness to a thousand dim suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons. But he strove hard to quell them, and to respond to Baglioni’s with a true lover’s perfect faith. “Signor Professor,” said he, “you were my father’s friend— perchance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part towards his son. I would fain feel nothing towards you, save respect and deference. But I pray you to observe, Signor, that there is one

If

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subject on which we must not speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice. You cannot, therefore, estimate the wrong—the blas¬ phemy, I may even say—that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word.” “Giovanni!—my poor Giovanni!” answered the Professor, with a calm expression of pity, “I know this wretched girl far better than yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner Rappaccini, and his poisonous daughter. Yes; poisonous as she is beautiful! Listen; for even should you do violence to my grey hairs, it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has become a truth, by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini, and in the person of the lovely Beatrice!” Giovanni groaned and hid his face. “Her father,” continued Baglioni, “was not restrained by natural affection from offering up his child, in this horrible manner, as the victim of his insane zeal for science. For—let us do him justice—he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic. What, then, will be your fate? Be¬ yond a doubt, you are selected as the material of some new ex¬ periment. Perhaps the result is to be death—perhaps a fate more awful still! Rappaccini, with what he calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing.” “It is a dream!” muttered Giovanni to himself, “surely it is a dream!” "But,” resumed the professor, “be of good cheer, son of my friend! It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly, we may even succeed in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary nature, from which her father’s madness has estranged her. Behold this little silver vase! It was wrought by the hands of the renowned Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love-gift to the fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are in¬ valuable. One little sip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of the Borgias innocuous. Doubt not that it will be as efficacious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious liquid within it, on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result.” Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver phial on the table, and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its ef¬ fect upon the young man’s mind.

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"We will thwart Rappaccini yet!” thought he, chuckling to himself, as he descended the stairs. “But, let us confess the truth of him, he is a wonderful man!—a wonderful man indeed! A vile empiric, however, in his practice, and therefore not to be tolerated by those who respect the good old rules of the medical profession!” Throughout Giovanni’s whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he had occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark sur¬ mises as to her character. Yet, so thoroughly had she made her¬ self felt by him as a simple, natural, most affectionate and guile¬ less creature, that the image now held up by Professor Baglioni, looked as strange and incredible, as if it were not in accordance with his own original conception. True, there were ugly recol¬ lections connected with his first glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could not quite forget the bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid the sunny air, by no ostensible agency, save the fragrance of her breath. These incidents, how¬ ever, dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fan¬ tasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real, than what we can see with the eyes, and touch with the finger. On such better evidence, had Giovanni founded his confidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her high attri¬ butes, than by any deep and generous faith, on his part. But, now, his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to which the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down, grovelling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice’s image. Not that he gave her up; he did but distrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that should satisfy him, once for all, whether there were those dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature, which could not be supposed to exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, and the flowers. But if he could wit¬ ness, at the distance of a few paces, the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower in Beatrice’s hand, there would be room for no further question. With this idea, he hastened to

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the florist’s, and purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning dew-drops. It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before descending into the garden, Giovanni failed not to look at his figure in the mirror; a vanity to be expected in a beautiful young man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certain shallowness of feel¬ ing and insincerity of character. He did gaze, however, and said to himself, that his features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such vivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life. "At least,” thought he, “her poison has not yet insinuated itself into my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp!” With that thought, he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had never once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of inde¬ finable horror shot through his frame, on perceiving that those dewy flowers were already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh and lovely, yesterday. Gio¬ vanni grew white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there, as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered Baglioni’s remark about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the chamber. It must have been the poison in his breath! Then he shuddered—shuddered at himself! Recovering from his stupor, he began to watch, with curious eye, a spider that was busily at work, hanging its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing and re-cross¬ ing the artful system of interwoven lines, as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni bent to¬ wards the insect, and emitted a deep, long breath. The spider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor origi¬ nating in the body of the small artizan. Again Giovanni sent forth a breath, deeper, longer, and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart; he knew not whether he were wicked or only desperate. The spider made a convulsive gripe with his limbs, and hung dead across the window. "Accursed! Accursed!” muttered Giovanni, addressing him¬ self. "Hast thou grown so poisonous, that this deadly insect perishes by thy breath?”

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At that moment, a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden:— “Giovanni! Giovanni! It is past the hour! Why tarriest thou! Come down!” “Yes,” muttered Giovanni again. "She is the only being whom my breath may not slay! Would that it might!” He rushed down, and in an instant, was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago, his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her by a glance. But, with her actual presence, there came influences which had too real an existence to be at once shaken off; recollections of the delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, which had so often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a holy and passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure fountain had been unsealed from its depths, and made visible in its transparency to his men¬ tal eye; recollections which, had Giovanni known how to esti¬ mate them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith, still her presence had not utterly lost its magic. Giovanni’s rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Beatrice, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt that there was a gulf of blackness be¬ tween them, which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came thus to the marble foun¬ tain, and to its pool of water on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore gem-like blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at the eager enjoyment—the appetite, as it were— with which he found himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers. “Beatrice,” asked he abruptly, “whence came this shrub?” “My father created it,” answered she, with simplicity. “Created it! created it!” repeated Giovanni. “What mean you, Beatrice?” “He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of na¬ ture,” replied Beatrice; “and, at the hour when I first drew breath, this plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his sci¬ ence, of his intellect, while I was but his earthly child. “Ap-

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proach it not!” continued she, observing with terror that Gio¬ vanni was drawing nearer to the shrub. “It has qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearest Giovanni,—I grew up and blos¬ somed with the plant, and was nourished with its breath. It was my sister, and I loved it with a human affection: for—alas! hast thou not suspected it? there was an awful doom.” Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and trembled. But her faith in his tenderness re-assured her, and made her blush that she had doubted for an instant. “There was an awful doom,” she continued,—“the effect of my father’s fatal love of science—which estranged me from all society of any kind. Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, Oh! how lonely was thy poor Beatrice!” “Was it a hard doom?” asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her. “Only of late have I known how hard it was,” answered she tenderly. “Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet.” Giovanni’s rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning-flash out of a dark cloud. “Accursed one!” cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. “And finding thy solitude wearisome, thou hast severed me, like¬ wise, from all the warmth of life, and enticed me into they re¬ gion of unspeakable horror!” “Giovanni!” exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon his face. The force of his words had not found its way into her mind; she was merely wonder-struck. “Yes, poisonous thing!” repeated Giovanni, beside himself with passion. “Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself,—a world’s wonder of hideous monstrosity! Now—if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all others—let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred, and so die!” “What has befallen me?” murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her heart. “Holy Virgin, pity me, a poor heart¬ broken child!” “Thou! Dost thou pray?” cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish scorn. “Thy very prayers, as they come from thy lips,

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taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to church, and dig our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that come after us will perish as by a pestilence. Let us sign crosses in the air! It will be scattering curses abroad in the like¬ ness of holy symbols!” “Giovanni,” said Beatrice calmly, for her grief was beyond passion, “why dost thou join thyself with me in those terrible words? I, it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me. But thou!—what hast thou to do, save with one other shudder at my hideous misery, to go forth out of the garden and mingle with they race, and forget that there ever crawled on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?” “Dost thou pretend ignorance?” asked Giovanni, scowling upon her. “Behold! This power have I gained from the pure daughter of Rappaccini!” There was a swarm of summer-insects flitting through the air, in search of the food promised by the flower-odors of the fatal garden. They circled round Giovanni’s head, and were evidently attracted towards him by the same influence which had drawn them, for an instant, within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Be¬ atrice, as at least a score of the insects fell dead upon the ground. “I see it! I see it!” shrieked Beatrice. “It is my father’s fatal science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never, never! I dreamed only to love thee, and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass away, leaving but thine image in mine heart. For, Gio¬ vanni—believe it—though my body be nourished with poison, my spirit is God’s creature, and craves love as its daily food. But my father!—he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn me!—tread upon me!—kill me! Oh, what is death, after such words as thine? But it was not I! Not for a world of bliss would I have done it!” Giovanni’s passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his lips. There now came across him a sense, mournful, and not without tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Beatrice and himself. They stood, as it were, in an ut¬ ter solitude, which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press this insulated pair close to-

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gether? If they should be cruel to one another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of his returning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice—the redeemed Beatrice—by the hand? Oh, weak, and selfish, and unworthy spirit, that could dream of an earthly union and earthly happiness as possible, after such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was Be¬ atrice’s love by Giovanni’s blighting words! No, no; there could be no such hope. She must pass heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders—she must bathe her hurts in some fount of Paradise, and forget her grief in the light pi immortality—and there be well! But Giovanni did not know it. “Dear Beatrice,” said he, approaching her, while she shrank away, as always at his approach, but now with a different im¬ pulse—"dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! There is a medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost divine in its efficacy. It is composed of ingredients the most opposite to those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity upon thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaff it together, and thus be purified from evil?” “Give it me!” said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the little silver phial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added, with a peculiar emphasis; “I will drink—but do thou await the result.” She put Baglioni’s antidote to her lips; and, at the same mo¬ ment, the figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal, and came slowly towards the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expres¬ sion at the beautiful youth and maiden, as might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a picture or a group of statu¬ ary, and finally be satisfied with his success. He paused—his bent form grew erect with conscious power, he spread out his hand over them, in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his children. But those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives! Giovanni trembled. Be¬ atrice shuddered nervously, and pressed her hand upon her heart. “My daughter,” said Rappaccini, “thou are no longer lonely

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in the world! Pluck one of those precious gems from thy sister shrub, and bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him now! My science, and the sympathy between thee and him, have so wrought within his system, that he now stands apart from common men, as thou dost, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary women. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to one another, and dreadful to all besides!” "My father,” said Beatrice, feebly—and still, as she spoke, she kept her hand upon her heart—"wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?” “Miserable!” exclaimed Rappaccini. “What mean you, foolish girl? Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvellous gifts, against which no power nor strength could avail an en¬ emy? Misery, to be able to quell the mightiest with a breath? Misery, to be as terrible as thou art beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil, and capable of none?” “I would fain have been loved, not feared,” murmured Be¬ atrice, sinking down upon the ground.—“But now it matters not; I am going, father, where the evil, which thou hast striven to mingle with my being, will pass away like a dream—like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers, which will no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are like lead within my heart—but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?” To Beatrice—so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by Rappaccini’s skill—as poison had been life, so the pow¬ erful antidote was death. And thus the poor victim of man’s in¬ genuity and of thwarted nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of perverted wisdom, perished there, at the feet of her father and Giovanni. Just at that moment, Professor Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the window, and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with horror, to the thunder-stricken man of science: “Rappaccini! Rappaccini! And is this the upshot of your ex¬ periment?”

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From Looking Backward "2000-1887" {1888) Edward Bellamy {1850-1898)

Frederick Winslow Taylor (1856-1915), an American inventor, founded “Scientific Management,” what came to be known as time-and-motion studies. Taylor showed how more work could be gotten by making workmen more mechanically efficient. He became the most important social engineer of his day. Edward Bellamy caught the spirit of Taylorism and argued, as in the following excerpt, that an “industrial army” could supply the economic largesse necessary for human happiness—like it or not. While today we may rebel against Bellamy’s brand of utopian¬ ism, in its day it spawned hundreds of politically active “Bellamy Clubs.” When Julian West falls into a mesmeric sleep in nine¬ teenth-century Boston, he has just had labor trouble and has had to put off his marriage pending construction of his new home; when he miraculously awakens in the year 2000, labor unrest has led to the new order which is explained to him through most of the book by his reviver, Dr. Leete, and Edith Leete, the doctor’s daughter and Julian’s future bride. Although there is some hardware science in this utopia—a system of pneu¬ matic tubes connects the storehouses of the city, and something like radiotelephones make live music widely available—it is the software science of human management that here raises inter¬ esting fictional questions.

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The Bostonians of your day had the reputation of being great askers of questions, and I am going to show my descent by ask¬ ing you one to begin with. What should you name as the most prominent feature of the labor troubles of your day?” ‘‘Why, the strikes, of course,” I replied. ‘‘Exactly; but what made the strikes so formidable?” “The great labor organizations.” “And what was the motive of these great organizations?” “The workmen claimed they had to organize to get their rights from the big corporations,” I replied. “That is just it,” said Dr. Leete; “the organization of labor and the strikes were an effect, merely, of the concentration of capital in greater masses than had ever been known before. Be¬ fore this concentration began, while as yet commerce and in¬ dustry were conducted by innumerable petty concerns with small capital, instead of a small number of great concerns with vast capital, the individual workman was relatively important and independent in his relations to the employer. Moreover, when a little capital or a new idea was enough to start a man in busi¬ ness for himself, workingmen were constantly becoming em¬ ployers and there was no hard and fast line between the two classes. Labor unions were needless then, and general strikes out of the question. But when the era of small concerns with small capital was succeeded by that of the great aggregations of capi¬ tal, all this was changed. The individual laborer, who had been relatively important to the small employer, was reduced to in¬ significance and powerlessness over against the great corporation, while at the same time the way upward to the grade of employer was closed to him. Self-defense drove him to union with his fellows. “The records of the period show that the outcry against the concentration of capital was furious. Men believed that it threat¬ ened soicety with a form of tyranny more abhorrent than it had ever endured. They believed that the great corporations were preparing for them the yoke of a baser servitude than had ever From Looking Backward, 2000-1887 by Edward Bellamy, edited by John L. Thomas, Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1967.

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been imposed on the race, servitude not to men but to soulless machines incapable of any motive but insatiable greed. Looking back, we cannot wonder at their desperation, for certainly hu¬ manity was never confronted with a fate more sordid and hid¬ eous than would have been the era of corporate tyranny which they anticipated. ‘‘Meanwhile, without being in the smallest degree checked by the clamor against it, the absorption of business by ever larger monopolies continued. In the United States there was not, after the beginning of the last quarter of the century, any op¬ portunity whatever for individual enterprise in any important field of industry, unless backed by a great capital. During the last decade of the century, such small businesses as still remained were fast-failing survivals of a past epoch, or mere parasites on the great corporations, or else existed in fields too small to at¬ tract the great capitalists. Small businesses, as far as they still remained, were reduced to the condition of rats and mice, living in holes and corners, and counting on evading notice for the enjoyment of existence. The railroads had gone on combining till a few great syndicates controlled every rail in the land. In manufactories, every important staple was controlled by a syndi¬ cate. These syndicates, pools, trusts, or whatever their name, fixed prices and crushed all competition except when combina¬ tions as vast as themselves arose. Then a struggle, resulting in a still greater consolidation, ensued. The great city bazar crushed its country rivals with branch stores, and in the city itself ab¬ sorbed its smaller rivals till the business of a whole quarter was concentrated under one roof, with a hundred former proprietors of shops serving as clerks. Having no business of his own to put his money in, the small capitalist, at the same time that he took service under the corporation, found no other investment for his money but its stocks and bonds, thus becoming doubly dependent upon it. “The fact that the desperate popular opposition to the con¬ solidation of business in a few powerful hands had no effect to check is proves that there must have been a strong economical reason for it. The small capitalists, with their innumerable petty concerns, had in fact yielded the field to the great aggregations of capital, because they belonged to a day of small things and

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were totally incompetent to the demands of an age of steam and telegraphs and the gigantic scale of its enterprises. To restore the former order of things, even if possible, would have involved returning to the day of stage-coaches. Oppressive and intolerable as was the regime of the great consolidations of capital, even its victims, while they cursed it, were forced to admit the prodigious increase of efficiency which had been imparted to the national industries, the vast economies effected by concentration of man¬ agement and unity of organization, and to confess that since the new system had taken the place of the old the wealth of the world had increased at a rate before undreamed of. To be sure this vast increase had gone chiefly to make the rich richer, in¬ creasing the gap between them and the poor; but the fact re¬ mained that, as a means merely of producing wealth, capital had been proved efficient in proportion to its consolidation. The restoration of the old system with the subdivision of capital, if it were possible, might indeed bring back a greater equality of conditions, with more individual dignity and freedom, but it would be at the price of general poverty and the arrest of material progress. “Was there, then, no way of commanding the services of the mighty wealth-producing principle of consolidated capital with¬ out bowing down to a plutocracy like that of Carthage? As soon as men began to ask themselves these questions, they found the answer ready for them. The movement toward the conduct of business by larger and larger aggregations of capital, the ten¬ dency toward monopolies, which had been so desperately and vainly resisted, was recognized at last, in its true significance, as a process which only needed to complete its logical evolution to open a golden future to humanity. “Early in the last century the evolution was completed by the final consolidation of the entire capital of the nation. The in¬ dustry and commerce of the country, ceasing to be conducted by a set of irresponsible corporations and syndicates of private persons at their caprice and for their profit, were entrusted to a single syndicate representing the people, to be conducted in the common interest for the common profit. The nation, that is to say, organized as the one great business corporation in which all other corporations were absorbed; it became the one capi-

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talist in the place of all other capitalists, the sole employer, the final monopoly in which all previous and lesser monopolies were swallowed up, a monopoly in the profits and economies of which all citizens shared. The epoch of trusts had ended in The Great Trust. In a word, the people of the United States concluded to assume the conduct of their own business, just as one hundred odd years before they had assumed the conduct of their own government, organizing now for industrial purposes on pre¬ cisely the same grounds that they had then organized for polit¬ ical purposes. At last, strangely late in the world’s history, the obvious fact was perceived that no business is so essentially the public business as the industry and commerce on which the peo¬ ple’s livelihood depends, and that to entrust it to private per¬ sons to be managed for private profit is a folly similar in kind, though vastly greater in magnitude, to that of surrendering the functions of political government to kings and nobles to be con¬ ducted for their personal glorification.” “Such a stupendous change as you describe,” said I, “did not, of course, take place without great bloodshed and terrible con¬ vulsions.” “On the contrary,” replied Dr. Leete, “there was absolutely no violence. The change had been long foreseen. Public opinion had become fully ripe for it, and the whole mass of the people was behind it. There was no more possibility of opposing it by force than by argument. On the other hand the popular senti¬ ment toward the great corporations and those identified with them had ceased to be one of bitterness, as they came to realize their necessity as a link, a transition phase, in the evolution of the true industrial system. The most violent foes of the great private monopolies were now forced to recognize how invaluable and indispensable had been their office in educating the people up to the point of assuming control of their own business. Fifty years before, the consolidation of the industries of the country under national control would have seemed a very daring experi¬ ment to the most sanguine. But by a series of object lessons, seen and studied by all men, the great corporations had taught the people an entirely new set of ideas on this subject. They had seen for many years syndicates handling revenues greater than those of states, and directing the labors of hundreds of thousands

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of men with an efficiency and economy unattainable in smaller operations. It had come to be recognized as an axiom that the larger the business the simpler the principles that can be applied to it; that, as the machine is truer than the hand, so the system, which in a great concern does the work of the master’s eye in a small business, turns out more accurate results. Thus it came about that, thanks to the corporations themselves, when it was proposed that the nation should assume their functions, the sug¬ gestion implied nothing which seemed impracticable even to the timid. To be sure it was a step beyond any yet taken, a broader generalization, but the very fact that the nation would be the sole corporation in the field would, it was seen, relieve the undertaking of many difficulties with which the partial monop¬ olies had contended.”

Chapter 6. Dr. Leete ceased speaking, and I remained silent, endeavoring to form some general conception of the changes in the arrange¬ ments of society implied in the tremendous revolution which he had described. Finally I said, “The idea of such an extension of the func¬ tions of government is, to say the least, rather overwhelming.” “Extension!” he repeated, “where is the extension?” “In my day,” I replied, “it was considered that the proper functions of government, strictly speaking, were limited to keep¬ ing the peace and defending the people against the public enemy, that is, to the military and police powers.” “And, in heaven’s name, who are the public enemies?” ex¬ claimed Dr. Leete. “Are they France, England, Germany, or hunger, cold, and nakedness? In your day governments were accustomed, on the slightest international misunderstanding, to seize upon the bodies of citizens and deliver them over by hundreds of thousands to death and mutilation, wasting their treasures the while like water; and all this oftenest for no imag¬ inable profit to the victims. We have no wars now, and our

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governments no war powers, but in order to protect every citi¬ zen against hunger, cold, and nakedness, and provide for all his physical and mental needs, the function is assumed of directing his industry for a term of years. No, Mr. West, I am sure on reflection you will perceive that it was in your age, not in ours, that the extension of the functions of governments was extraor¬ dinary., Not even for the best ends would men now allow their governments such powers as were then used for the most maleficent.” “Leaving comparisons aside,” I said, "the demagoguery and corruption of our public men would hav£ been considered, in my day, insuperable objections to any assumption by govern¬ ment of the charge of the national industries. We should have thought that no arrangement could be worse than to entrust the politicians with control of the wealth-producing machinery of the country. Its material interests were quite too much the football of parties as it was.” “No doubt you were right,” rejoined Dr. Leete, “but all that is changed now. We have no parties or politicians, and as for demagoguery, and corruption, they are words having only an historical significance.” "Human nature itself must have changed very much,” I said. “Not at all,” was Dr. Leete’s reply, “but the conditions of human life have changed, and with them the motives of human action. The organization of society with you was such that offi¬ cials were under a constant temptation to misuse their power for the private profit of themselves or others. Under such cir¬ cumstances it seems almost strange that you dared entrust them with any of your affairs. Nowadays, on the contrary, society is so constituted that there is absolutely no way in which an offi¬ cial, however ill-disposed, could possibly make any profit for himself or any one else by a misuse of his power. Let him be as bad an official as you please, he cannot be a corrupt one. There is no motive to be. The social system no longer offers a premium on dishonesty. But these are matters which you can only under¬ stand as you come, with time, to know us better.” "But you have not yet told me how you have settled the labor problem. It is the problem of capital which we have been

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200 discussing,” I said.

‘‘After the nation had assumed conduct

of the mills, machinery, railroads, farms, mines, and capital in general of the country, the labor question still remained. In assuming the responsibilities of capital the nation had assumed the difficulties of the capitalist’s position.” ‘‘The moment the nation assumed the responsibilities of capi¬ tal those difficulties vanished,” replied Dr. Leete. ‘‘The national organization of labor under one direction was the complete solu¬ tion of what was, in your day and under your system, justly regarded as the insoluble labor problem. When the nation be¬ came the sole employer, all the citizens, by virtue of their citizen¬ ship, became employees, to be distributed according to the needs of industry.” ‘‘That is,” I suggested, ‘‘you have simply applied the princi¬ ple of universal military service, as it was understood in our day, to the labor question.” “Yes,” said Dr. Leete, “that was something which followed as a matter of course as soon as the nation had become the sole capitalist. The people were already accustomed to the idea that the obligation of every citizen, not physically disabled, to con¬ tribute his military services to the defense of the nation was equal and absolute. That it was equally the duty of every citizen to contribute his quota of industrial or intellectual services to the maintenance of the nation was equally evident, though it was not until the nation became the employer of labor that citizens were able to render this sort of service with any pretense either of universality or equity. No organization of labor was possible when the employing power was divided among hun¬ dreds or thousands of individuals and corporations, between which concert of any kind was neither desired nor indeed feasi¬ ble. It constantly happened then that vast numbers who desired to labor could find no opportunity, and on the other hand, those who desired to evade a part or all of their debt could easily do so.” “Service, now, I suppose, is compulsory upon all,” I sug¬ gested. “It is rather a matter of course than of compulsion,” replied Dr. Leete. “It is regarded as so absolutely natural and reason¬ able that the idea of its being compulsory has ceased to be

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thought of. He would be thought to be an incredibly contempti¬ ble person who should need compulsion in such a case. Never¬ theless, to speak of service being compulsory would be a weak way to state its absolute inevitableness. Our entire social order is so wholly based upon and deduced from it that if it were con¬ ceivable that a man could escape it, he would be left with no possible way to provide for his existence. He would have ex¬ cluded himself from the world, cut himself off from his kind, in a word, committed suicide.” “Is the term of service in this industrial army for life?” “Oh, no; it both begins later and ends>earlier than the aver¬ age working period in your day. Your workshops were filled with children and old men, but we hold the period of youth sacred to education, and the period of maturity, when the physical forces begin to flag, equally sacred to ease and agreeable relax¬ ation. The period of industrial service is twenty-four years, be¬ ginning at the close of the course of education at twenty-one and terminating at forty-five. After forty-five, while discharged from labor, the citizen still remains liable to special calls, in case of emergencies causing a sudden great increase in the demand for labor, till he reaches the age of fifty-five, but such calls are rarely, in fact almost never, made. The fifteenth day of October of every year is what we call Muster Day, because those who have reached the age of twenty-one are then mustered into the industrial service, and at the same time those who, after twenty-four years’ service, have reached the age of fortyfive, are honorably mustered out. It is the great day of the year with us, whence we reckon all other events, our Olympiad, save that it is annual.”

Chapter 7. It is after you have mustered your industrial army into service, I said, “that I should expect the chief difficulty to arise, for there its analogy with a military army must cease. Soldiers have all the same thing, and a very simple thing, to do, namely, to

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practice the manual of arms, to march and stand guard. But the industrial army must learn and follow two or three hundred diverse trades and avocations. What administrative talent can be equal to determining wisely what trade or business every individual in a great nation shall pursue?” “The administration has nothing to do with determining that point.” “Who does determine it, then?” I asked. “Every man for himself in accordance with his natural apti¬ tude, the utmost pains being taken to enable him to find out what his natural aptitude really is. The principle on which our industrial army is organized is that a man’s natural endowments, mental and physical, determine what he can work

at most

profitably to the nation and most satisfactorily to himself. While the obligation of service in some form is not to be evaded, vol¬ untary election, subject only to necessary regulation, is depended on to determine the particular sort of service every man is to render. As an individual’s satisfaction during his term of service depends on his having an occupation to his taste, parents and teachers watch from early years for indications of special apti¬ tudes in children. A thorough study of the National industrial system, with the history and rudiments of all the great trades, is an essential part of our educational system. While manual training is not allowed to encroach on the general intellectual culture to which our schools are devoted, it is carried far enough to give our youth, in addition to their theoretical knowledge of the national industries, mechanical and agricultural, a certain familiarity with their tools and methods. Our schools are con¬ stantly visiting our workshops, and often are taken on long ex¬ cursions to inspect particular industrial enterprises. In your day a man was not ashamed to be grossly ignorant of all trades except his own, but such ignorance would not be consistent with our idea of placing every one in a position to select intelli¬ gently the occupation for which he has most taste. Usually long before he is mustered into service a young man has found out the pursuit he wants to follow, has acquired a great deal of knowledge about it, and is waiting impatiently the time when he can enlist in its ranks.” “Surely,” I said, “it can hardly be that the number of volun-

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teers for any trade is exactly the number needed in that trade. It must be generally either under or over the demand.’’ “The supply of volunteers is always expected to fully equal the demand,” replied Dr. Leete. “It is the business of the ad¬ ministration to see that this is the case. The rate of volunteering for each trade is closely watched. If there be a noticeably greater excess of volunteers over men needed in any trade, it is inferred that the trade offers greater attractions than others. On the other hand, if the number of volunteers for a trade tends to drop below the demand, it is inferred that it is thought more arduous. It is the business of the administration to seek constantly to equalize the attractions of the trades, so far as the conditions of labor in them are concerned, so that all trades shall be equally attractive to persons having natural tastes for them. This is done by making the hours of labor in different trades to differ accord¬ ing to their arduousness. The lighter trades, prosecuted under the most agreeable circumstances, have in this way the longest hours, while an arduous trade, such as mining, has very short hours. There is no theory, no a priori rule, by which the respec¬ tive attractiveness of industries is determined. The administra¬ tion, in taking burdens off one class of workers and adding them to other classes, simply follows the fluctuations of opinion among the workers themselves as indicated by the rate of men volun¬ teering. The principle is that no man’s work ought to be, on the whole, harder for him than any other man’s for him, the workers themselves to be the judges. There are no limits to the applica¬ tion of this rule. If any particular occupation is in itself so arduous or so oppressive that, in order to induce volunteers, the day’s work in it had to be reduced to ten minutes, it would be done. If, even then, no man was willing to do it, it would remain undone. But of course, in point of fact, a moderate reduction in the hours of labor, or addition of other privileges, suffices to secure all needed volunteers for any occupation necessary to men. If, indeed, the unavoidable difficulties and dangers of such a necessary pursuit were so great that no inducement of com¬ pensating advantages would overcome men’s repugnance to it, the administration would only need to take it out of the com¬ mon order of occupations by declaring it extra hazardous, and those who pursued it especially worthy of the national gratitude,

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to be overrun with volunteers. Our young men are very greedy of honor, and do not let slip such opportunities. Of course you will see that dependence on the purely voluntary choice of avo¬ cations involves the abolition in all of anything like unhygienic conditions or special peril to life and limb. Health and safety are conditions common to all industries. The nation does not maim and slaughter its workmen by thousands, as did the pri¬ vate capitalists and corporations of your day.” “When there are more who want to enter a particular trade than there is room for, how do you decide between the appli¬ cants?” I inquired. “Preference is given to those who have acquired the most knowledge of the trade they wish to follow. No man, however, who through successive years remains persistent in his desire to show what he can do at any particular trade, is in the end denied an opportunity. Meanwhile, if a man cannot at first win entrance into the business he prefers, he has usually one or more alternative preferences, pursuits for which he has some degree of aptitude, although not the highest. Every one, indeed, is ex¬ pected to study his aptitudes so as to have not only a first choice as to occupation, but a second or third, so that if, either at the outset of his career or subsequently, owing to the progress of invention or changes in demand, he is unable to follow his first vocation, he can still find reasonably congenial employment. This principle of secondary choices as to occupation is quite important in our system. I should add, in reference to the counter-possibility of some sudden failure of volunteers in a particular trade, or some sudden necessity of an increased force, that the administration, while depending on the voluntary sys¬ tem for filling up the trades as a rule, holds always in reserve the power to call for special volunteers, or draft any force needed from any quarter. Generally, however, all needs of this sort can be met by details from the class of unskilled or common laborers.” “How is this class of common laborers recruited?" I asked. “Surely nobody voluntarily enters that.” “It is the grade to which all new recruits belong for the first three years of their service. It is not till after this period, during which he is assignable to any work at the discretion of his su-

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periors, that the young man is allowed to elect a special avoca¬ tion. These three years of stringent discipline none are exempt from, and very glad our young men are to pass from this severe school into the comparative liberty of the trades. If a man were so stupid as to have no choice as to occupation, he would simply remain a common laborer; but such cases, as you may suppose, are not common." "Having once elected and entered on a trade or occupation,” I remarked, “I suppose he has to stick to it the rest of his life.” “Not necessarily,” replied Dr. Leete; "while frequent and merely capricious changes of occupation ape not encouraged or even permitted, every worker is allowed, of course, under certain regulations and in accordance with the exigencies of the service, to volunteer for another industry which he thinks would suit him better than his first choice. In this case his application is received just as if he were volunteering for the first time, and on the same terms. Not only this, but a worker may likewise, under suitable regulations and not too frequently, obtain a transfer to an establishment of the same industry in another part of the country which for any reason he may prefer. Under your system a discontented man could indeed leave his work at will, but he left his means of support at the same time, and took his chances as to future livelihood. We find that the number of men who wish to abandon an accustomed occupation for a new one, and old friends and associations for strange ones, is small. It is only the poorer sort of workmen who desire to change even as frequently as our regulations permit. Of course transfers or discharges, when health demands them, are always given.” “As an industrial system, I should think this might be ex¬ tremely efficient,” I said, “but I don’t see that it makes any provision for the professional classes, the men who serve the nation with brains instead of hands. Of course you can’t get along without the brain-workers. How, then, are they selected from those who are to serve as farmers and mechanics? That must require a very delicate sort of sifting process, I should say.” “So it does,” replied Dr. Leete; “the most delicate possible test is needed here, and so we leave the question whether a man shall be a brain or hand worker entirely to him to settle.

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At the end of the term of three years as a common laborer, which every man must serve, it is for him to choose, in ac¬ cordance to his natural tastes, whether he will fit himself for an art or profession, or be a farmer or mechanic. If he feels that he can do better work with his brains than his muscles, he finds every facility provided for testing the reality of his supposed bent, of cultivating it, and if fit, of pursuing it as his avocation. The schools of technology, of medicine, of art, of music, of histrionics, and of higher liberal learning are always open to aspirants without condition.” “Are not the schools flooded with young men whose only motive is to avoid work?” Dr. Leete smiled a little grimly. “No one is at all likely to enter the professional schools for the purpose of avoiding work, I assure you,” he said. “They are intended for those with special aptitude for the branches they teach, and any one without it would find it easier to do double hours at his trade than try to keep up with the classes. Of course many honestly mistake their vocation, and, finding themselves unequal to the requirements of the schools, drop out and return to the industrial service; no discredit attaches to such persons, for the public policy is to encourage all to develop suspected talents which only actual tests can prove the reality of. The pro¬ fessional and scientific schools of your day depended on the patronage of their pupils for support, and the practice appears to have been common of giving diplomas to unfit persons, who afterwards found their way into the professions. Our schools are national institutions, and to have passed their tests is a proof of special abilities not to be questioned. “This opportunity for a professional training,” the doctor continued, “remains open to every man till the age of thirty is reached, after which students are not received, as there would remain too brief a period before the age of discharge in which to serve the nation in their professions. In your day young men had to choose their professions very young, and therefore, in a large proportion of instances, wholly mistook their vocations. It is recognized nowadays that the natural aptitudes of some are later than those of others in developing, and therefore, while the

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choice of profession may be made as early as twenty-four, it remains open for six years longer.” A question which had a dozen times before been on my lips now found utterance, a question which touched upon what, in my time, had been regarded the most vital difficulty in the way of any final settlement of the industrial problem. "It is an ex¬ traordinary thing,” I said, “that you should not yet have said a word about the method of adjusting wages. Since the nation is the sole employer, the government must fix the rate of wages and determine just how much everybody shall earn, from the doctors to the diggers. All I can say is, that this plan would never have worked with us, and I don’t see how it can now unless human nature has changed. In my day, nobody was satisfied with his wages or salary. Even if he felt he received enough, he was sure his neighbor had too much, which was as bad. If the universal discontent on this subject, instead of being dissipated in curses and strikes directed against innumerable employers, could have been concentrated upon one, and that the government, the strongest ever devised would not have seen two pay days.” Dr. Leete laughed heartily. “Very true, very true,” he said, “a general strike would most probably have followed the first pay day, and a strike directed against a government is a revolution.” “How, then, do you avoid a revolution every pay day?” I de¬ manded. “Has some prodigious philosopher devised a new sys¬ tem of calculus satisfactory to all for determining the exact and comparative value of all sorts of service, whether by brawn or brain, by hand or voice, by ear or eye? Or has human nature itself changed, so that no man looks upon his own things but ‘every man on the things of his neighbor?’ One or the other of these events must be the explanation.” “Neither one nor the other, however, is,” was my host s laughing response. “I should not fail to mention,” resumed the doctor, “that for those too deficient in mental or bodily strength to be fairly graded with the main body of workers, we have a separate grade, unconnected with the others,—a sort of invalid corps, the mem¬ bers of which are provided with a light class of tasks fitted to

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their strength. All our sick in mind and body, all our deaf and dumb, and lame and blind and crippled, and even our insane, belong to this invalid corps, and bear its insignia. The strongest often do nearly a man’s work, the feeblest, of course, nothing; but none who can do anything are willing quite to give up. In their lucid intervals, even our insane are eager to do what they can.” “And now, Mr. West,” he continued, “you must remember that you are my patient as well as my guest, and permit me to prescribe sleep for you before we have any more conversation. It is after three o’clock.” “The prescription is, no doubt, a wise one,” I said; “I only hope it can be filled.” “I will see to that,” the doctor replied, and he did, for he gave me a wineglass of something or other which sent me to sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.

A Curious Fragment (7908) lack London (7876-7976)

“A Curious Fragment,” like Looking Backward, makes funda¬ mentally Marxist assumptions about the growth of economic conflict and the inevitability of social change, but the change that the proletarian Jack London sees is quite different from that imagined by Bellamy. This short tale is important as a critique of nineteenth-century scientific optimism and yet, at the same time, it is fundamentally more optimistic than the dour twentieth-century dystopias like Brave New World (1932). This residual optimism is clear in the romance of sacrifice and perseverance and in the editorial framing of the fragment at a far future time when writing and art have regained their power.

4

London/A Curious Fragment

209

This “fragment” exemplifies a wide group of science fiction works known as future history, works that perform their specu¬ lation and commentary by removal to a land not distant in space but in time, specifically into a future which looks back on our own future as on its past. Treating the future as history allows again for the taming effects of scientific rhetoric while reporting events that fascinate us by their inventiveness and warn us by their possibility.

[The capitalist, or industrial oligarch, Roger Vanderwater, men¬ tioned in the narrative, has been identified as the ninth in the line of the Vanderwaters that controlled for hundreds of years the cotton factories of the South. This Roger Vanderwater flourished in the last decades of the twenty-sixth century after Christ, which was the fifth century of the terrible industrial oligarchy that was reared upon the ruins of the early Republic. From internal evidences we are convinced that the narrative which follows was not reduced to writing till the twenty-ninth century. Not only was it unlawful to write or print such matter during that period, but the working-class was so illiterate that only in rare instances were its members able to read and write. This was the dark reign of the overman, in whose speech the great mass of the people were characterized as the “herd ani¬ mals.” All literacy was frowned upon and stamped out. From the statute-books of the times may be instanced that black law that made it a capital offence for any man, no matter of what class, to teach even the alphabet to a member of the workingclass. Such stringent limitation of education to the ruling class was necessary if that class was to continue to rule. One result of the foregoing was the development of the professional story-tellers. These story-tellers were paid by the oligarchy, and the tales they told were legendary, mythical, romantic, and harmless. But the spirit of freedom never quite died out, and agitators, under the guise of story-tellers, preached revolt to the slave class. That the following tale was banned by the oligarchs we have proof from the records of the criminal police court of Ashbury, wherein, on January 27, 2734, one

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John Tourney, found guilty of telling the tale in a boozing-ken of laborers, was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude in the borax mines of the Arizona Desert.—Editor's Note.]

A Curious Fragment Listen, my brothers, and I will tell you a tale of an arm. It was the arm of Tom Dixon, and Tom Dixon was a weaver of the first class in a factory of that hell-hound and master, Roger Vanderwater. This factory was called “Hell’s Bottom” ... by the slaves who toiled in it, and I guess they ought to know; and it was situated in Kingsbury, at the other end of the town from Vanderwater’s summer palace. You do not know where Kings¬ bury is? There are many things, my brothers, that you do not know, and it is sad. It is because you do not know that you are slaves. When I have told you this tale, I should like to form a class among you for the learning of written and printed speech. Our masters read and write and possess many books, and it is because of that that they are our masters, and live in palaces, and do not work. When the toilers learn to read and write,—all of them,—they will grow strong; then they will use their strength to break their bonds, and there will be no more masters and no more slaves. Kingsbury, my brothers, is in the old State of Alabama. For three hundred years the Vanderwaters have owned Kingsbury and its slave pens and factories, and slave pens and factories in many other places and States. You have heard of the Vanderwa¬ ters,—who has not?—but let me tell you things you do not know about them. The first Vanderwater was a slave, even as you and I. Have you got that? He was a slave, and that was over three hundred years ago. His father was a machinist in the slave pen of Alexander Burrell, and his mother was a washerwoman in the same slave pen. There is no doubt about this. I am telling you truth. It is history. It is printed, every word of it, in the history books of our masters, which you cannot read because your masters will not permit you to learn to read. You can

# London/A Curious Fragment

211

understand why they will not permit you to learn to read, when there are such things in the books. They know, and they are very wise. If you did read such things, you might be wanting in respect to your masters, which would be a dangerous thing . . . to your masters. But I know, for I can read, and I am telling you what I have read with my own eyes in the history books of our masters. The first Vanderwater’s name was not Vanderwater; it was Vange—Bill Vange, the son of Yergis Vange, the machinist, and Laura Carnly, the washerwoman. Young Bill Vange was strong. He might have remained with the slaves and led them to free¬ dom; instead, however, he served the masters and was well rewarded. He began his service, when yet a small child, as a spy in his home slave pen. He is known to have informed on his own father for seditious utterance. This is fact. I have read it with my own eyes in the records. He was too good a slave for the slave pen. Alexander Burrell took him out, while yet a child, and he was taught to read and write. He was taught many things, and he was entered in the secret service of the govern¬ ment. Of course, he no longer wore the slave dress, except for disguise at such times when he sought to penetrate the secrets and plots of the slaves. It was he, when but eighteen years of age, who brought that great hero and comrade, Ralph Jacobus, to trial and execution in the electric chair. Of course, you have all heard the sacred name of Ralph Jacobus, but it is news to you that he was brought to his death by the first Vanderwater, whose name was Vange. I know. I have read it in the books. There are many interesting things like that in the books. And after Ralph Jacobus died his shameful death,

Bill

Vange’s name began the many changes it was to undergo. He was known as “Sly Vange” far and wide. He rose high in the secret service, and he was rewarded in grand ways, but still he was not a member of the master class. The men were willing that he should become so; it was the women of the master class who refused to have Sly Vange one of them. Sly Vange gave good service to the masters. He had been a slave himself, and he knew the ways of the slaves. There was no fooling him. In those days the slaves were braver than now, and they were always trying for their freedom. And Sly Vange was everywhere, in all

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their schemes and plans, bringing their schemes and plans to naught and their leaders to the electric chair. It was in 2255 that his name was next changed for him. It was in that year that the Great Mutiny took place. In that region west of the Rocky Mountains, seventeen millions of slaves strove bravely to over¬ throw their masters. Who knows, if Sly Vange had not lived, but that they would have succeeded? But Sly Vange was very much alive. The masters gave him supreme command of the situation. In eight months of fighting, one million and three hundred and fifty thousand slaves were killed. Vange, Bill Vange, Sly Vange, killed them, and he broke the Great Mutiny. And he was greatly rewarded, and so red were his hands with the blood of the slaves that thereafter he was called “Bloody Vange.” You see, my brothers, what interesting things are to be found in the books when one can read them. And, take my word for it, there are many other things, even more interesting, in the books. And if you will but study with me, in a year’s time you can read those books for yourselves—ay, in six months some of you will be able to read those books for yourselves. Bloody Vange lived to a ripe old age, and always, to the last, was he received in the councils of the masters; but never was he made a master himself. He had first opened his eyes, you see, in a slave pen. But oh, he was well rewarded! He had a dozen palaces in which to live. He, who was no master, owned thousands of slaves. He had a great pleasure yacht upon the sea that was a floating palace, and he owned a whole island in the sea where toiled ten thousand slaves on his coffee plantations. But in his old age he was lonely, for he lived apart, hated by his brothers, the slaves, and looked down upon by those he had served and who refused to be his brothers. The masters looked down upon him because he had been born a slave. Enormously wealthy he died; but he died horribly, tormented by his con¬ science, regretting all he had done and the red stain on his name. But with his children it was different. They had not been born in the slave pen, and by the special ruling of the Chief Oligarch of that time, John Morrison, they were elevated to the master class. And it was then that the name of Vange disappears

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from the page of history. It becomes Vanderwater, and Jason Vange, the son of Bloody Vange, becomes Jason Vanderwater, the founder of the Vanderwater line. But that was three hundred years ago, and the Vanderwaters of to-day forget their begin¬ nings and imagine that somehow the clay of their bodies is different stuff from the clay in your body and mine and in the bodies of all slaves. And I ask. you. Why should a slave become the master of another slave? And why should the son of a slave become the master of many slaves? I leave these questions for you to answer for yourselves, but do not forget that in the beginning the Vanderwaters were slaves.' And now, my brothers, I come back to the beginning of my tale to tell you of Tom Dixon’s arm. Roger Vanderwater’s factory in Kingsbury was rightly named “Hell’s Bottom,” but the men who toiled in it were men, as you shall see. Women toiled there, too, and children, little children. All that toiled there had the regular slave rights under the law, but only under the law, for they were deprived of many of their rights by the two overseers of Hell’s Bottom, Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster. It is a long story, but I shall not tell all of it to you. I shall tell only about the arm. It happened that, according to the law, a portion of the starvation wage of the slaves was held back each month and put into a fund. This fund was for the purpose of helping such unfortunate fellow-workmen as happened to be injured by accidents or to be overtaken by sickness. As you know with yourselves, these funds are controlled by the over¬ seers. It is the law, and so is was that the fund at Hell’s Bottom was controlled by the two overseers of accursed memory. Now, Clancy and Munster took this fund for their own use. When accidents happened to the workmen, their fellows, as was the custom, made grants from the fund; but the overseers refused to pay over the grants. What could the slaves do? They had their rights under the law, but they had no access to the law. Those that complained to the overseers were punished. You know yourselves what form such punishment takes—the fines for faulty work that is not faulty; the overcharging of accounts in the Company’s store; the vile treatment of one’s

214 women and children;

NINETEENTH CENTURY and the allotment to bad machines

whereon, work as one will, he starves. Once, the slaves of Hell’s Bottom protested to Vanderwater. It was the time of the year when he spent several months in Kingsbury. One of the slaves could write; it chanced that his mother could write, and she had secretly taught him as her mother had secretly taught her. So this slave wrote a round robin, wherein was contained their grievances, and all the slaves signed by mark. And, with proper stamps upon the envelope, the round robin was mailed to Roger Vanderwater. And Roger Vanderwater did nothing, save to turn the round robin over to the two overseers. Clancy and Munster were angered. They turned the guards loose at night on the slave pen. The guards were armed with pick handles. It is said that next day only half of the slaves were able to work in Hell’s Bottom. They were well beaten. The slave who could write was so badly beaten that he lived only three months. But before he died, he wrote once more, to what purpose you shall hear. Four or five weeks afterward, Tom Dixon, a slave, had his arm torn off by a belt in Hell’s Bottom. His fellow-workmen, as usual, made a grant to him from the fund, and Clancy and Munster, as usual, refused to pay it over from the fund. The slave who could write, and who even then was dying, wrote anew a recital of their grievances. And this document was thrust into the hand of the arm that had been torn from Tom Dixon’s body. Now it chanced that Roger Vanderwater was lying ill in his palace at the other end of Kingsbury—not the dire illness that strikes down you and me, brothers; just a bit of biliousness, mayhap, or no more than a bad headache because he had eaten too heartily or drunk too deeply. But it was enough for him, being tender and soft from careful rearing. Such men, packed in cotton wool all their lives, are exceeding tender and soft. Believe me, brothers, Roger Vanderwater felt as badly with his aching head, or thought he felt as badly, as Tom Dixon really felt with his arm torn out by the roots. It happened that Roger Vanderwater was fond of scientific farming, and that on his farm, three miles outside of Kingsbury,

London /A Curious Fragment

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he had managed to grow a new kind of strawberry. He was very proud of that new strawberry of his, and he would have been out to see and pick the first ripe ones, had it not been for his illness. Because of his illness he had ordered the old farm slave to bring in personally the first box of the berries. All this was learned from the gossip of a palace scullion, who slept each night in the slave pen. The overseer of the plantation should have brought in the berries, but he was on his back with a broken leg from trying to break a colt. The scullion brought the word in the night, and it was known that next day the berries would come in. And the men in' the slave pen of Hell’s Bottom, being men and not cowards, held a council. The slave who could write, and who was sick and dying from the pick-handle beating, said he would carry Tom Dixon’s arm; also, he said he must die anyway, and that it mattered nothing if he died a little sooner. So five slaves stole from the slave pen that night after the guards had made their last rounds. One of the slaves was the man who could write. They lay in the brush by the roadside until late in the morning, when the old farm slave came driving to town with the precious fruit for the master. What of the farm slave being old and rheumatic, and of the slave who could write being stiff and injured from his beating, they moved their bodies about when they walked, very much in the same fashion. The slave who could write put on the other’s clothes, pulled the broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, climbed upon the seat of the wagon, and drove on to town. The old farm slave was kept tied all day in the bushes until evening, when the others loosed him and went back to the slave pen to take their punishment for having broken bounds. In the meantime, Roger Vanderwater lay waiting for the berries in his wonderful bedroom—such wonders and such com¬ forts were there that they would have blinded the eyes of you and me who have never seen such things. The slave who could write said afterward that it was like a glimpse of Paradise. And why not? The labor and the lives of ten thousand slaves had gone to the making of that bedchamber, while they themselves slept in vile lairs like wild beasts. The slave who could write

216

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brought in the berries on a silver tray or platter—you see, Roger Vanderwater wanted to speak with him in person about the berries. The slave who could write tottered his dying body across the wonderful room and knelt by the couch of Vanderwater, holding out before him the tray. Large, green leaves covered the top of the tray, and these the body-servant alongside whisked away so that Vanderwater could see. And Roger Van¬ derwater, propped upon his elbow, saw. He saw the fresh, won¬ derful fruit lying there like precious jewels, and in the midst of it the arm of Tom Dixon as it had been torn from his body, well-washed, of course, my brothers, and very white against the blood-red fruit. And also he saw, clutched in the stiff, dead fingers, the petition of his slaves who toiled in Hell’s Bottom. “Take and read,” said the slave who could write. And even as the master took the petition, the body-servant, who till then had been motionless with surprise, struck with his fist the kneeling slave upon the mouth. The slave was dying anyway, and was very weak, and did not mind. He made no sound, and, having fallen over on his side, he lay there quietly, bleeding from the blow on the mouth. The physician, who had run for the palace guards, came back with them, and the slave was dragged upright upon his feet. But as they dragged him up, his hand clutched Tom Dixon’s arm from where it had fallen on the floor. “He shall be flung alive to the hounds!” the body-servant was crying in great wrath. “He shall be flung alive to the hounds!” But Roger Vanderwater, forgetting his headache, still lean¬ ing on his elbow, commanded silence, and went on reading the petition. And while he read, there was slience, all standing up¬ right, the wrathful body-servant, the physician, the palace guards, and in their midst the slave, bleeding at the mouth and still holding Tom Dixon’s arm. And when Roger Vanderwater had done, he turned upon the slave, saying: — “If in this paper there be one lie, you shall be sorry that you were ever born.” And the slave said, “I have been sorry all my life that I was born.”

4

London /A Curious Fragment

217

Roger Vanderwater looked at him closely, and the slave said:— “You have done your worst to me. I am dying now. In a week I shall be dead, so it does not matter if you kill me now.” “What do you with that?” the master asked, pointing to the arm; and the slave made answer:— "I take it back to the pen to give it burial. Tom Dixon was my friend. We worked beside each other at our looms.” There is little more to my tale, brothers. The slave and the arm were sent back in a cart to the pen. Nor were any of the slaves punished for what they had done. Instead, Roger Vander¬ water

made

Joseph

investigation

Clancy

and

and

Adolph

punished

Munster.

the

Their

two

overseers,

freeholds

were

taken from them. They were branded, each upon the forehead, their right hands were cut off, and they were turned loose upon the highway to wander and beg until they died. And the fund was managed rightfully thereafter for a time—for a time, only, my brothers; for after Roger Vanderwater came his son, Albert, who was a cruel master and half mad. Brothers, that slave who carried the arm into the presence of the master was my father. He was a brave man. And even as his mother secretly taught him to read, so did he teach me. Because he died shortly after from the pick-handle beating, Roger Vanderwater took me out of the slave pen and tried to make various better things out of me. I might have become an overseer in Hell’s Bottom, but I chose to become a story-teller, wandering over the land and getting close to my brothers, the slaves, everywhere. And I tell you stories like this, secretly, knowing that you will not betray me; for if you did, you know as well as I that my tongue will be torn out and that I shall tell stories no more. And my message is, brothers, that there is a good time coming, when all will be well in the world and there will be neither masters nor slaves. But first you must pre¬ pare for that good time by learning to read. There is power in the printed word. And here am I to teach you to read, and as well there are others to see that you get the books when I am gone along upon my way—the history books wherein you will learn about your masters, and learn to become strong even as they.

218

NINETEENTH CENTURY

[Editor’s Note— From “Historical Fragments and Sketches,” first published in fifty volumes in 4427, and now, after two hundred years, because of its accuracy and value, edited and republished by the National Committee on Historical Research.]

PART 3

Early Twentieth Century /

The twentieth century has more than realized both the hopes and the fears expressed in ninetenth-century science fiction. We have gone from Kitty Hawk to the Moon and from San Juan Hill to Saigon. The question for many in the first four decades seemed not to be whether the powerful changes oc¬ curring in the world would be controlled for the good of all, but precisely how those forces, uncontrolled, would make the world fundamentally worse. As our society, primarily through technology, became better able to educate the population and simultaneously more in need of literate workers, a publishing industry grew up to supply those workers’ aesthetic wants cheaply, printing fiction intended to be ephemeral on the ephemeral paper used by newspapers, pulp. Pulp culture was mass culture and, by its very breadth, not susceptible to simple characterization. While much pulp writing shared the fears expressed in the middle-class writing that continued to be pro¬ duced, it also kept alive, perhaps as a palliative, the fond hopes of human supremacy. Pulp writing was typically less com¬ plicated than middle-class writing, typically read by the young or the less well educated. While Hawthorne and Poe were writers for the dominant culture, Edgar Rice Burroughs (cre¬ ator not only of Tarzan but of wildly popular books set on Mars and Venus) and E. E. ‘‘Doc’’ Smith (reporter of cosmic voyages) were printed on pulp and read by boys. If these stories were read by highbrow adult critics, the critics did not admit it. If works we now think of as science fiction, like George 219

220

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

Bernard Shaw’s Back to Methuselah (1921) or C. S. Lewis s Out of the Silent Planet (1938), were judged by these critics to be good, then they were not judged to be science fiction. At this period in which science itself began to fall into disdain among certain sorts of intellectuals, science fiction fell too. In one sense, the best human hopes for dealing with our fears were being relegated to the literature of the socially weak. Fortunately, the scientific exuberance often fed by pulp fiction created a class of readers who grew up to shape the world and change the social balance. In addition, the pulp magazines never ceased to tap the tradition of well-crafted science fiction. Hugo Gernsback, the first great science fiction pulp editor, began by reprinting Verne and Wells in his popular science magazines devoted to radio and electronics. Instead of estab¬ lishment critics, pulp writers found themselves dealing with “fandom,” the body of committed readers who responded to the stories through the magazine letter columns. The sense of ghetto life, a small group of writers and readers known to each other and excluded from the mainstream, became strong, fos¬ tered highly sophisticated literary conventions, and gave science fiction a feeling of warmth, the special preserve of a special band. Thus through the creation of a literate lower class and the subsequent creation of a literary community, publishing technology provided a sense of place for science fiction readers that technology threatened to obliterate in the larger world. The world of pulp science fiction became a safe place from which to confront the demise of humanity or even, still, to believe in human supremacy. If critics now charge that some pulp writing, even the well-crafted examples, is simply too sim¬ ple, so be it; they were still useful works of art. In April 1926 Gernsback launched Amazing, the first maga¬ zine devoted entirely to science fiction, to what Gernsback called in his editorial statement “scientifiction.” The thrill of it all was upon the public and Weird, Astounding, Astonishing, and many others soon followed. Their letters columns became clubs, and Gernsback fostered reader involvement. Today the award given by fans for the year’s best work in science fiction is known as the Hugo. While so-called mainstream fiction often seemed to bur¬ row more deeply into mannered realism or stylistic experimen-

4

Early Twentieth Century

221

tation, pulp fiction kept turning out one good read after an¬ other. And the beauty of it all was that, just as the magazines kept publishing good stories, good writers kept reading them. The partial separation of low-brow and middle-brow science fic¬ tion culture was not permanent. The greatest figure of science fiction of this period was H. G. Wells. The Time Machine (1895) was a huge popular success among all classes of readers. While some writers aimed only for the pulp market and others only for the universities, Wells wrote for everyone. While he chatted with heads of state, his readers hopped on and off London buses. He would turn his writerly eye on anything, but primarily he aspired to teach, to plot a perfect future for humanity, to explain science, to ratio¬ nalize history, and to persuade his readers by craft and intelli¬ gence that there was hope for a better future. His great early novels were warnings; his later works blueprints. Wells and his fellows in the pulps continued all the domi¬ nant themes of science fiction—the meaning of humanity and of alienness, the right organization of society, the conflicts between power and weakness, the urge for excitement. But in the first part of this century they began to see the far future as less far off, the workings of science less as tools for the dramatic exag¬ geration of persisting human problems and more as seeds of actual human problems nearly upon us. This era saw the ad¬ vent both of moving pictures and of chemical warfare. The stories printed on pulp had something, besides economics, in common with the newspaper. In a world of conflict made pos¬ sible by science, the fictions of science became daily fare.

222

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

The Star (1899) H. C. Wells (1866-1946)

"The Star” is widely acknowledged both by science fiction read¬ ers and by general critics to be a great story. It builds through¬ out; there is a crescendo created by the accretion of realistic de¬ tail that moves the narrative along ever more quickly despite the absence of any real character. Rather, we find ourselves lis¬ tening to the voice of the narrator, a voice in control of detail, scientific, knowledgeable, and powerful. Only after the last para¬ graph can we realize how much more powerful than we are may be the possessor of this voice. The events imagined in this story are literally astronomical and concern the planet as a whole; science fiction is uniquely able to paint in such broad strokes. A special effect of this painting which Wells has mastered and which so many others now use is to sketch in suddenly with fine point a human detail of much different scale. “ ‘What is a new star to me?’ cried the weeping woman kneeling beside her dead.” The clash of scales puts humanity in its place, reveals our vul¬ nerabilities, and suggests why we sometimes yearn for the calm¬ ing voices of power.

It was on the first day of the new year that the announcement was made, almost simultaneously from three observatories, that the motion of the planet Neptune, the outermost of all the planets that wheel about the sun, had become very erratic. Ogilvy had already called attention to a suspected retardation in its velocity in December. Such a piece of news was scarcely calcu¬ lated to interest a world the greater portion of whose inhabitants Reprinted by permission of the Executors of the Estate of the late H. G. Wells.

Wells/The Star

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were unaware of the existence of the planet Neptune, nor out¬ side the astronomical profession did the subsequent discovery of a faint remote speck of light in the region of the perturbed planet cause any very great excitement. Scientific people, however, found the intelligence remarkable enough, even before it became known that the new body was rapidly growing larger and brighter, that its motion was quite different from the orderly progress of the planets, and that the deflection of Neptune and its satellite was becoming now of an unprecedented kind. Few people without a training in science can realise the huge isolation of the solar system. The sun with its specks of planets, its dust of planetoids, and its impalpable comets, swims in a vacant immensity that almost defeats the imagination. Beyond the orbit of Neptune there is space, vacant so far as human ob¬ servation has penetrated, without warmth or light or sound, blank emptiness, for twenty million times a million miles. That is the smallest estimate of the distance to be traversed before the very nearest of the stars is attained. And, saving a few comets more unsubstantial than the thinnest flame, no matter had ever to human knowledge crossed this gulf of space, until early in the twentieth century this strange wanderer appeared. A vast mass of matter it was, bulky, heavy, rushing without warning out of the black mystery of the sky into the radiance of the sun. By the second day it was clearly visible to any decent instrument, as a speck with a barely sensible diameter, in the constellation Leo near Regulus. In a little while an opera glass could attain it. On the third day of the new year the newspaper readers of two hemispheres were made aware for the first time of the real importance of this unusual apparition in the heavens. “A Plane¬ tary Collision,” one London paper headed the news, and pro¬ claimed Duchaine’s opinion that this strange new planet would probably collide with Neptune. The leader writers enlarged upon the topic. So that in most of the capitals of the world, on January 3rd, there was an expectation, however vague, of some imminent phenomenon in the sky; and as the night followed the sunset round the globe, thousands of men turned their eyes skyward to see—the old familiar stars just as they had always been. Until it was dawn in London and Pollux setting and the stars overhead grown pale. The Winter’s dawn it was, a sickly

224

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

filtering accumulation of daylight, and the light of gas and can¬ dles shone yellow in the windows to show where people were astir. But the yawning policeman saw the thing, the busy crowds in the markets stopped agape, workmen going to their work betimes, milkmen, the drivers of newscarts, dissipation going home jaded and pale, homeless wanderers, sentinels on their beats, and in the country, labourers trudging afield, poachers slinking home, all over the dusky quickening country it could be seen—and out at sea by seamen watching for the day—a great white star, come suddenly into the westward sky! Brighter it was than any star in our skies: brighter than the evening star at its brightest. It still glowed out white and large, no mere twinkling spot of light, but a small round clear shining disc, an hour after the day had come. And where science has not reached, men stared and feared, telling one another of the wars and pestilences that are foreshadowed by these fiery signs in the Heavens. Sturdy Boers, dusky Hottentots, Gold Coast Negroes, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, stood in the warmth of the sunrise watching the setting of this strange new star. And in a hundred observatories there had been suppressed excitement, rising almost to shouting pitch, as the two remote bodies had rushed together, and a hurrying to and fro, to gather photographic apparatus and spectroscope, and this appliance and that, to record this novel astonishing sight, the destruction of a world. For it was a world, a sister planet of our earth, far greater than our earth indeed, that had so suddenly flashed into flaming death. Neptune it was, had been struck, fairly and squarely, by the strange planet from outer space and the heat of the concussion had incontinently turned two solid globes into one vast mass of incandescence. Round the world that day, two hours before the dawn, went the pallid great white star, fading only as it sank westward and the sun mounted above it. Every¬ where men marvelled at it, but of all those who saw it none could have marvelled more than those sailors, habitual watchers of the stars, who far away at sea had heard nothing of its advent and saw it now rise like a pigmy moon and climb zenithward and hang overhead and sink westward with the passing of the night. And when next it rose over Europe everywhere were crowds

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of watchers on hilly slopes, on house-roofs, in open spaces, star¬ ing eastward for the rising of the great new star. It rose with a white glow in front of it, like the glare of a white fire, and those who had seen it come into existence the night before cried out at the sight of it. "It is larger,” they cried. "It is brighter!” And, indeed the moon a quarter full and sinking in the west was in its apparent size beyond comparison, but scarcely in all its breadth had it as much brightness now as the little circle of the strange new star. "It is brighter!” cried the people clustering in the streets. But in the dim observatories the watchers held their breath and peered at one another. “It is nearer,” they said. “Nearer!” And voice after voice repeated, “It is nearer,” and the click¬ ing telegraph took that up, and it trembled along telephone wires, and in a thousand cities grimy compositors fingered the type. “It is nearer.” Men writing in offices, struck with a strange realisation, flung down their pens, men talking in a thousand places suddenly came upon a grotesque possibility in those words, “It is nearer.” It hurried along awakening streets, it was shouted down the frost-stilled ways of quiet villages; men who had read these things from the throbbing tape stood in yellow-lit door¬ ways shouting the news to the passers-by. “It is nearer.” Pretty women, flushed and glittering, heard the news told jestingly be¬ tween the dances, and feigned an intelligent interest they did not feel. “Nearer! Indeed. How curious! How very, very clever people must be to find out things like that!” Lonely tramps faring through the wintry night murmured those words to comfort themselves—looking skyward. “It has need to be nearer, for the night’s as cold as charity. Don’t seem much warmth from it if it is nearer, all the same.” “What is a new star to me?” cried the weeping woman kneeling beside her dead. The schoolboy, rising early for his examination work, puzzled it out for himself—with the great white star, shining broad and bright through the frost-flowers of his window. “Centrifugal, centripetal,” he said, with his chin on his fist. “Stop a planet in its flight, rob it of its centrifugal force, what then? Centripetal has it, and down it falls into the sun! and this—!” “Do we come in the way? I wonder—”

226

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

The light of that day went the way of its brethren, and with the later watches of the frosty darkness rose the strange star again. And it was now so bright that the waxing moon seemed but a pale yellow ghost of itself, hanging huge in the sunset. In a South African city a great man had married, and the streets were alight to welcome his return with his bride. “Even the skies have illuminated,” said the flatterer. Under Capricorn, two Negro lovers, daring the wild beasts and evil spirits, for love of one an¬ other, crouched together in a cane brake where the fire-flies hov¬ ered. “That is our star,” they whispered, and felt strangely com¬ forted by the sweet brilliance of its light. The master mathematician sat in his private room and pushed the papers from him. His calculations were already finished. In a small white phial there still remained a little of the drug that had kept him awake and active for four long nights. Each day, serene, explicit, patient as ever, he had given his lecture to his students, and then had come back at once to this momentous calculation. His face was grave, a little drawn and hectic from his drugged activity. For some time he seemed lost in thought. Then he went to the window, and the blind went up with a click. Half way up the sky, over the clustering roofs, chimneys and steeples of the city, hung the star. He looked at it as one might look into the eyes of a brave enemy. “You may kill me,” he said after a silence. “But I can hold you—and all the universe for that matter—in the grip of this little brain. I would not change. Even now.” He looked at the little phial. “There will be no need of sleep again,” he said. The next day at noon, punctual to the minute, he entered his lecture theatre, put his hat on the end of the table as his habit was, and carefully selected a large piece of chalk. It was a joke among his students that he could not lecture without that piece of chalk to fumble in his fingers, and once he had been stricken to impotence by their hiding his supply. He came and looked under his grey eyebrows at the rising tiers of young fresh faces, and spoke with his accustomed studied com¬ monness of phrasing. “Circumstances have arisen—circumstances beyond my control,” he said and paused, “which will debar me from completing the course I had designed. It would seem, gen-

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tlemen, if I may put the thing clearly and briefly, that—Man has lived in vain.” The students glanced at one another. Had they heard aright? Mad? Raised eyebrows and grinning lips there were, but one or two faces remained intent upon his calm grey-fringed face. “It will be interesting,” he was saying, “to devote this morning to an exposition, so far as I can make it clear to you, of the calcula¬ tions that have led me to this conclusion. Let us assume—” He turned towards the blackboard, meditating a diagram in the way that was usual to him. “What was that about ‘lived in vain?’ ” whispered one student to another. “Listen,” said the other, nodding towards the lecturer. And presently they began to understand. That night the star rose later, for its proper eastward motion had carried it some way across Leo towards Virgo, and its bright¬ ness was so great that the sky became a luminous blue as it rose, and every star was hidden in its turn, save only Jupiter near the zenith. Capella, Aldebaran, Sirius and the pointers of the Bear. It was very white and beautiful. In many parts of the world that night a pallid halo encircled it about. It was perceptibly larger; in the clear refractive sky of the tropics it seemed as if it were nearly a quarter the size of the moon. The frost was still on the ground in England, but the world was as brightly lit as if it were midsummer moonlight. One could see to read quite ordinary print by that cold clear light, and in the cities the lamps burnt yellow and wan. And everywhere the world was awake that night, and through¬ out Christendom a sombre murmur hung in the keen air over the country side like the belling of bees in the heather, and this murmurous tumult grew to a clangour in the cities. It was the tolling of the bells in a million belfry towers and steeples, sum¬ moning the people to sleep no more, to sin no more, but to gather in their churches and pray. And overhead, growing larger and brighter, as the earth rolled on its way and the night passed, rose the dazzling star. And the streets and houses were alight in all the cities, the shipyards glared, and whatever roads led to high country were lit and crowded all night long. And in all the seas about the

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civilised lands, ships with throbbing engines, and ships with bellying sails, crowded with men and living creatures, wrere standing out to ocean and the north. For already the warning of the master mathematician had been telegraphed all over the world, and translated into a hundred tongues. The new planet and Neptune, locked in a fiery embrace, were whirling head¬ long, ever faster and faster towards the sun. Already every sec¬ ond this blazing mass flew a hundred miles, and every second its terrific velocity increased. As it flew now, indeed, it must pass a hundred million of miles wide of the earth and scarcely affect it. But near its destined path, as yet only slightly perturbed, spun the mightly planet Jupiter and his moons sweeping splendid round the sun. Every moment now the attraction between the fiery star and the greatest of the planets grew stronger. And the result of that attraction? Inevitably Jupiter would be deflected from its orbit into an elliptical path, and the burning star, swung by his attraction wide of its sunward rush, would “de¬ scribe a curved path” and perhaps collide with, and certainly pass very close to, our earth. “Earthquakes, volcanic outbreaks, cyclones, sea waves, floods, and a steady rise in temperature to I know not what limit”—so prophesied the master mathematician. And overhead, to carry out his words, lonely and cold and livid, blazed the star of the coming doom. To many who stared at it that night until their eyes ached, it seemed that it was visibly approaching. And that night, too. the weather changed, and the frost that had gripped all Central Europe and France and England softened towards a thaw. But you must not imagine because I have spoken of people praying through the night and people going aboard ships and people fleeing towards mountainous country that the whole world was already in a terror because of the star. As a matter of fact, use and wont still ruled the world, and save for the talk of idle moments and the splendour of the night, nine human beings out of ten were still busy at their common occupations. In all the cities the shops, save one here and there, opened and closed at their proper hours, the doctor and the undertaker plied their trades, the workers gathered in the factories, soldiers drilled, scholars studied, lovers sought one another, thieves lurked and fled, politicians planned their schemes. The presses of the news-

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papers roared through the nights, and many a priest of this church and that would not open his holy building to further what he considered a foolish panic. The newspapers insisted on the lesson of the year 1000—for then, too, people had anticipated the end. The star was no star—mere gas—a comet; and were it a star it could not possibly strike the earth. There was no prece¬ dent. for such a thing. Common sense was sturdy everywhere, scornful, jesting, a little inclined to persecute the obdurate fear¬ ful. That night, at seven-fifteen by Greenwich time, the star would be at its nearest to Jupiter. Then the world would see the turn things would take. The master mathematician’s grim warn¬ ings were treated by many as so much mere elaborate self-adver¬ tisement. Common sense at last, a little heated by argument, signified its unalterable convictions by going to bed. So, too, barbarism and savagery, already tired of the novelty, went about their nightly business, and save for a howling dog here and there, the beast world left the star unheeded. And yet, when at the last the watchers in the European States saw the star rise, an hour late it is true, but no larger than it had been the night before, there were still plenty awake to laugh at the master mathematician—to take the danger as if it had passed. But hereafter the laughter ceased. The star grew-it grew with a terrible steadiness hour after hour, a little larger each hour, a little nearer the midnight zenith, and brighter and brighter, until it had turned night into a second day. Had it come straight to the earth instead of in a curved path, had it lost no velocity to Jupiter, it must have lept the intervening gulf in a day, but as it was it took five days altogether to come by our planet. The next night it had become a third the size of the moon before it set to English eyes, and the thaw was as¬ sured. It rose over America near the size of the moon, but blind¬ ing white to look at, and hot, and a breath of hot wind blew now with its rising and gathering strength, and in Virginia, and Brazil, and down the St. Lawrence valley, it shone intermittently through a driving reek of thunder-clouds, flickering violet light¬ ning, and hail unprecedented. In Manitoba was a thaw and devastating floods. And upon all the mountains of the earth the snow and ice began to melt that night, and all the rivers coming

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out of high country flowed thick and turbid, and soon—in their upper reaches—with swirling trees and the bodies of beasts and men. They rose steadily, steadily in the ghostly brilliance, and came trickling over their banks at last, behind the flying popu¬ lation of their valleys. And along the coast of Argentina and up the South At¬ lantic the tides were higher than had ever been in the memory of man, and the storms drove the waters in many cases scores of miles inland, drowning whole cities. And so great grew the heat during the night that the rising of the sun was like the coming of a shadow. The earthquakes began and grew until all down America, from the Arctic Circle to Cape Horn, hillsides were sliding, fissures were openings, and houses and walls crumbling to destruction. The whole side of Cotopaxi slipped out in one vast convulsion, and a tumult of lava poured out so high and broad and swift and liquid that in one day it reached the sea. So the star, with the wan moon in its wake, marched across the Pacific, trailed the thunderstorms like the hem of a robe, and the growing tidal wave that toiled behind it, frothing and eager, poured over island and island and swept them clear of men. Until that wave came at last—in a blinding light and with the breath of a furnace, swift and terrible it came—a wall of water, fifty feet high, roaring hungrily, upon the long coasts of Asia, and swept inland across the plains of China. For a space the star, hotter now and larger and brighter than the sun in its strength, showed with pitiless brilliance the wide and populous country; towns and villages with their pagodas and trees, roads, wide cultivated fields, millions of sleepless people staring in helpless terror at the incandescent sky; and then, low and grow¬ ing, came the murmur of the flood. And thus it was with millions of men that night—a flight nowhither, with limbs heavy with heat and breath fierce and scant, and the flood like a wall swift and white behind. And then death. China was lit glowing white, but over Japan and Java and all the islands of Eastern Asia the great star was a ball of dull red fire because of the steam and smoke and ashes the volcanoes were spouting forth to salute its coming. Above was the lava, hot gases and ash, and below the seething floods, and the whole earth swayed and rumbled with the earthquake shocks. Soon the

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immemorial snows of Tibet and the Himalaya were melting and pouring down by ten million deepening converging channels upon the plains of Burmah and Hindostan. The tangled sum¬ mits by the Indian jungles were aflame in a thousand places, and below the hurrying waters around the stems were dark ob¬ jects that still struggled feebly and reflected the blood-red tongues of fire. And in a rudderless confusion a multitude of men and women fled down the broad river-ways to that one last hope of men—the open sea. Larger grew the star, and larger, hotter, and brighter with a terrible swiftness now. The tropical ocean had lost its phos¬ phorescence, and the whirling steam rose in ghostly wreaths from the black waves that plunged incessantly, speckled with storm-tossed ships. And then came a wonder. It seemed to those who in Europe watched for the rising of the star that the world must have ceased its rotation. In a thousand open spaces of down and up¬ land the people who had fled thither from the floods and the falling houses and sliding slopes of hill watched for that rising in vain. Hour followed hour through a terrible suspense, and the star rose not. Once again men set their eyes upon the old constellations they had counted lost to them forever. In England it was hot and clear overhead, though the ground quivered per¬ petually, but in the tropics, Sirius and Capella and Aldebaran showed through a veil of steam. And when at last the great star rose near ten hours late, the sun rose close upon it, and in the centre of its white heat was a disc of black. Over Asia it was the star had begun to fall behind the move¬ ment of the sky, and then suddenly, as it hung over India, its light had been veiled. All the plain of India from the mouth of the Indus to the mouths of the Ganges was a shallow waste of shining water that night, out of which rose temples and palaces, mounds and hills, black with people. Every minaret was a clustering mass of people, who fell one by one into the turbid waters, as heat and terror overcame them. The whole land seemed a-wailing, and suddenly there swept a shadow across that furnace of despair, and a breath of cold wind, and a gathering of clouds, out of the cooling air. Men looking up, near blinded, at the star, saw that a black disc was creeping across the light.

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It was the moon, coming between the star and the earth. And even as men cried to God at this respite, out of the East with a strange inexplicable swiftness sprang the sun. And then star, sun and moon rushed together across the heavens. So it was that presently, to the European watchers, star and sun rose close upon each other, drove headlong for a space and then slower, and at last came to rest, star and sun merged into one glare of flame at the zenith of the sky. The moon no longer eclipsed the star but was lost to sight in the brilliance of the sky. And though those who were still alive regarded it for the most part with that dull stupidity that hunger, fatigue, heat and de¬ spair engender, there were still men who could perceive the meaning of these signs. Star and earth had been at their nearest, had swung about one another, and the star had passed. Already it was receding, swifter and swifter, in the last stage of its head¬ long journey downward into the sun. And then the clouds gathered, blotting out the vision of the sky, the thunder and lightning wove a garment round the world; all over the earth was such a downpour of rain as men had never before seen, and where the volcanoes flared red against the cloud canopy there descended torrents of mud. Everywhere the waters were pouring off the land, leaving mud-silted ruins, and the earth littered like a storm-worn beach with all that had floated, and the dead bodies of the men and brutes, its children. For days, the water streamed off the land, sweeping away soil and trees and houses in the way, and piling huge dykes and scooping out Titanic gullies over the country side. Those were the days of darkness that followed the star and the heat. All through them, and for many weeks and months, the earthquakes continued. But the star had passed, and men, hunger-driven and gather¬ ing courage only slowly, might creep back to their ruined cities, buried granaries, and sodden fields. Such few ships as had es¬ caped the storms of that time came stunned and shattered and sounding their way cautiously through the new marks and shoals of once familiar ports. And as the storms subsided men perceived that everywhere the days were hotter than of yore, and the sun larger, and the moon, shrunk to a third of its former size, took now forescore days between its new and new. But of the new brotherhood that grew presently among men.

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of the saving of laws and books and machines, of the strange change that had come over Iceland and Greenland and the shores of Baffin’s Bay, so that the sailors coming there presently found them green and gracious, and could scarce believe their eyes, this story does not tell. Nor of the movement of mankind now that the earth was hotter, northward and southward towards the poles of the earth. It concerns itself only with the coming and the passing of the Star. The Martian astronomers—for there are astronomers on Mars, although they are very different beings from men—were naturally profoundly interested by these things. They saw them from their own standpoint of course. “Considering the mass and temperature of the missile that was flung through our solar sys¬ tem into the sun,” one wrote, “it is astonishing what a little damage the earth, which it missed so narrowly, has sustained. All the familiar continental markings and the masses of the seas remain intact, and indeed the only difference seems to be a shrinking of the white discoloration (supposed to be frozen water) round either pole.” Which only shows how small the vastest of human catastrophes may seem, at a distance of a few million miles.

From Ralph 124C 41+ (7977) Hugo Gernsback (1884-1967)

Hugo Gernsback published his own novel serially in his own magazine, Modern Electrics; it is pulp science fiction at its purest. In the following pages, which join the opening, a sec¬ tion from the middle, and the end of the novel, we meet a macho scientist who will, of course, save the world and the girl. “ ‘The fight is to be man against man, brain against brain. . . .

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Today it is not brute force that counts, but scientific knowledge.’ ” Yet Ralph is also, again of course, strong and agile. He meets the girl by saving her, loses her to abduction, and finally re¬ saves her. This melodramatic and absolutely standard plot al¬ lows the parade of Gernsback’s inventive genius—the creation of a novel rife with devices and processes that he imagines and, implicitly, predicts. While science fiction has been much less successfully prophetic than is often believed, Gernsback actually does often hit the mark, the most astonishing example being his blueprint for radar. In the world of pulp science fiction, a reader could imagine both a far-future high adventure and a near¬ future exciting career.

The Avalanche As the vibrations died down in the laboratory the big man arose from the glass chair and viewed the complicated apparatus on the table. It was complete to the last detail. He glanced at the calendar. It was September 1st in the year 2660. Tomorrow was to be a big and busy day for him, for it was to witness the final phase of the three-year experiment. He yawned and stretched himself to his full height, revealing a physique much larger than that of the average man of his times and approach¬ ing that of the huge Martians. His physical superiority, however, was as nothing compared to his gigantic mind. He was Ralph 124C 41+, one of the greatest living scientists and one of the ten men on the whole planet earth permitted to use the Plus sign after his name. Stepping to the Telephot on the side of the wall he pressed a group of buttons and in a few minutes the faceplate of the Telephot became luminous, revealing the face of a clean shaven man about thirty, a pleasant but serious face. As soon as he recognized the face of Ralph in his own Tele¬ phot he smiled and said, “Hello Ralph.” Reprinted by permission of the Publisher Frederick V. Fell Publisher Inc., N.Y. Copyright 1925 by the Stratford Company; 2nd edition copyright 1950 by Hugo Gernsback.

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“Hello Edward, I wanted to ask if you could come over to the laboratory tomorrow morning. • • • He was now positive that Fernand 600 10 had carried off his sweetheart in a space flyer and that the machine by this time was probably far away from the earth, headed for unknown regions. It would also be practically impossible to follow without knowing the direction of the space-defying machine. In a daze Ralph returned to his laboratory, where he again called the Central Office. As all space flyers must be licensed by law. he had no trouble in getting the information he desired. A new machine of a well-known Detroit firm had been regis¬ tered four days ago, and the description of the owner answered to that of Fernand 600 10. Late as it was, Ralph immediately communicated with the Detroit manufacturer, who, upon hearing his reasons for the re¬ quest, supplied him with all the necessary details. Ralph learned from him that the purchaser of the new machine, one of the very latest models, was Fernand, beyond any doubt, and when he was informed that the latter had plentifully supplied himself with spare parts as if for a long journey, and moreover, the most significant fact that the cabin had been fitted out as a lady’s boudoir, then indeed were his worst suspicions confirmed. The manufacturer also told him that the entire outside shell was of Magnelium—an invention of Ralph’s—and that this flyer was the first to be equipped with the new metal. As he concluded his conversation and disconnected, Ralph brought his clenched fist down upon the desk. “Magnelium,” he muttered between set teeth, “the only machine out in the universe made with Magnelium. Magnelium, my own Magne¬ lium, about which no one in the world knows more than I do. Perhaps the odds are not all with you, Fernand, damn you!” At first thought it might be considered a difficult feat ac¬ curately to locate a machine thousands of miles from the earth, speeding in an unknown direction somewhere in the boundless universe. The feat was easy to the scientist. As far back as the year 1800 astronomers accurately measured the distance between

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

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the earth and small celestial bodies, but it was not until the year 2659 that Ralph 124C 41+ succeeded in accurately determining the exact location of flyers, in space, beyond the reach of the most powerful telescope.

A pulsating polarized ether wave, if directed on a metal ob¬ ject can be reflected in the same manner as a light-ray is re¬ flected from a bright surface or from a mirror. The reflection factor, however, varies with different metals. Thus the reflection factor from silver is 1,000 units, the reflection from iron 645, alomagnesium 460, etc. If, therefore, a polarized wave generator were directed toward space, the waves would take a direction as shown in the diagram, provided the parabolic wave reflector was used as shown. By manipulating the entire apparatus like a searchlight, waves would be sent over a large area. Sooner or later these waves would strike a space flyer. A small part of the waves would strike the metal body of the flyer, and these waves would be reflected back to the sending apparatus. Here they would fall on the Actinoscope (see diagram), which records only reflected waves, not direct ones. From the actinoscope the reflection factor is then determined, which shows the kind of metal from which the reflection comes. From the intensity and the elapsed time of the reflected im¬ pulses, the distance between the earth and the flyer can then be accurately and quickly calculated. The reflection factor of Magnelium being 1060, Ralph suc¬ ceeded in locating Fernand’s space flyer in less than five hours’ search. He found that Fernand’s machine at that time was about 400,000 miles distant from the earth and apparently headed in

4

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the direction of the planet Venus. A few seconds’ calculation showed that he was flying at the rate of about 45,000 miles an hour. This was a great surprise to Ralph and it puzzled him somewhat. He knew that Fernand’s machine was capable of making at least 75,000 miles an hour. Ralph reasoned that if he were in Fernand’s place, he would speed up the flyer to the utmost. Why was Fernand flying so leisurely? Did he think himself secure? Did he think that nobody could or would follow? Or was he having trouble with the Anti-Gravitator? Ralph could not understand it. However, his mind had al¬ ready been made up. He would pursue Fernand even though it took him into those parts of the solar system yet uncharted, and, if necessary—kill himl It was now noon, and he gave sharp, quick instructions to his assistants, ordering his space flyer, the “Cassiopeia,” to be made ready at once. Provisions sufficient to last for six months were put on board and Ralph himself installed a great number of scientific instruments, many of which he considered he might find useful. He also ordered a large number of duplicate parts of the flyer’s machinery to be stowed on board in case of emer¬ gency. To the astonishment and dismay of Peter and the others, the scientist announced his intention of making the journey alone. “The fight is to be man against man, brain against brain,” he said as he stood by his space flyer which was in readiness upon the tower-platform. “Today it is not brute force that counts, but scientific knowledge. I will demonstrate to the world that crimes of this kind need not be tolerated.” He stepped onto the running board as he spoke and was about to step into the flyer when the sound of an aeroflyer descending close by made him hesitate. It was a government flyer, and even as Ralph paused, it landed on the platform be¬ side his own machine, and a smartly uniformed young official sprang from the seat beside the driver. Saluting Ralph he handed him a transcribed telegram with the words: “Message from the Planet Governor, sir.” Dismay seized the scientist, as, breaking the seal of the wrapper, he read the printed words:

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EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY Unipopulis, Sept. 34, 2660, Planet Governor’s Capitol.

I have just received news of the calamity that has befallen you. I extend to you my sincere sympathy. I will this afternoon place at your disposal six Government space flyers, the crews of which are absolutely under your instructions. I must, however, caution you not to enter into any pursuit in person. As Planet Governor it is my duty to advise you that you have not the right to place your person in unnecessary danger. Allow me furthermore to point out to you that under the law scientists are not allowed to endanger their lives under any circumstances. I therefore command you not to leave the earth without my permission. I have ordered your space flyer to be guarded. In high esteem, William Kendrick 2IK 4, The 18th Planet Governor To Ralph 124C 41+, New York Ralph read the raidogram twice before he folded it slowly and deliberately thrust it into his pocket. Then slowly withdrawing his hand and extending it to the government official, he said: “Well, I must obey orders.” The official took the proffered hand, and no sooner had he grasped it than he stiffened and became as rigid as stone. With one bound Ralph was in his machine crying to the stupefied audience: “Don’t worry about him. I pricked his hand with a little Catalepsol. In fifteen minutes he will be all right again.” He slammed the door of his space flyer and simultaneously

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the machine rose as if shot from a cannon, and in ten seconds was lost to sight. • • #

[Ralph intercepts Fernand’s flyer only to discover that Alice has been re-abducted in mid-space by her Martian admirer, Llysanorh’. Ralph chases the brute, attacks his flyer, boards it and'. . .]

The Supreme Victory When Ralph burst into the machine room of the Martian’s flyer and saw Alice lying dead in a pool of her own blood the shock was almost more than he could bear. Falling on his knees beside her he caught her small, yet warm hand in his, calling her name again and again in agonized tones. He covered her lovely white face with kisses, while dry tearless sobs tore at his throat. Then, thinking that perhaps he had made a mistake, that her heart must still beat, he tried, with trembling hands to dis¬ cover the extent of her injuries. Llysanorh’ had aimed at her heart but the dying man had missed his mark, and the sharp point of the dagger had slashed her arm, cutting into the large artery. And in those precious moments when Ralph had been connecting the two flyers, and making his way from one to the other, her warm rich life’s blood had ebbed rapidly away. He lifted the lifeless body in his arms and carried it to his machine, where he laid it on his bed. His mind was confused and disordered and he was unable to think coherently. A sick¬ ening sensation of depression so overwhelmed him that he felt physically ill. Suddenly an electric thrill seemed to pass through his body and his clouded mental vision cleared. A picture flashed upon his mind. He saw himself in his laboratory on Earth, bending over a “dead” dog. And there came to him a memory of the words of that Dean of scientists:

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

240

“What you have done with a dog [suspended animation], you can do with a human being.”

In that instant Ralph was galvanized. For the first time in his life he doubted. Could he do it? What if he failed? Then he pushed such thoughts from him with stern resolution. We would not fail!

He touched the body of the girl. It had not yet grown cold with the icy chill of death. He rushed for some electric heating pads, which he applied to her to keep what warmth remained. Then came that which proved itself a terrible ordeal for him. It was absolutely necessary to drain away all the remaining blood, so that it would not coagulate. It had been a simple matter to empty the blood vessels of a dog, but this was the girl he loved, and he shuddered as he began his work. He opened the large artery, and it was only with supreme courage that he forced himself to complete the heartbreaking task, while scalding tears ran down his cheeks unheeded. He had scarcely terminated his work, when he heard steps in the corridor. He could feel his hair bristling, and he whirled to face the door, reaching for his radioperforer as he did so. Could Llysanorh’? . . . The next moment a large woman stood in the doorway. Ralph stared at her in amazement. Then suddenly it dawned upon him that this must be the maid Fernand had provided. She had hidden herself in abject terror when the darkness came down, and had only now mustered enough courage to in¬ vestigate. The first object she had seen upon creeping to the machine room was the dead body of the Martian. Horrified, she had fainted away, but later, recovering, she crawled through the connecting tube. She was weak, trembling with fright, and could be of no use, and Ralph hastened to get her into another room, where he put her into a comfortable chair and left her, for he could not afford to lose a minute now. A most important task was now before him. He had to pump an antiseptic solution through the veins of Alice, and after that the blood vessels must be filled with a weak solution of Ra-

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dium-K Bromide, which, taking the place of the blood would prevent her body from undergoing physical and chemical changes. With infinite care Ralph applied himself to his difficult task. After the blood vessels had been completely filled with the Ra¬ dium preparation, he sewed up the arteries. In this gruesome task he was assisted by Lylette, who had recovered sufficiently to be df some help to him. There remained only one more thing—to apply the Permagatol, the rare gas, having the property of conserving animal tis¬ sue, which Ralph had used successfully in his dog experiment, in keeping the respiratory organs from decomposing in the ab¬ sence of blood in the blood vessels. Ralph then quickly constructed a case of flexible glass, which he fitted around the upper part of Alice’s body, covering her head and torso. He took special precautions, moreover, to make the case air-tight. When the case had been completed and the recording and registering instruments put in place, Ralph went up to the lab¬ oratory to get the Permagatol. When, however, he tested the steelonium bomb, labeled “Permagatol,” he found it absolutely empty. The discovery nearly paralyzed him. His head swam and he was forced to sit down to keep from slumping over in the gravitation-less flyer. This last blow was almost too much. His cup of hope, that Alice could be brought back to life, had been snatched out of his hands. Without the Permagatol, it was impossible to save her. There was nothing to keep the beautiful dead body from disinte¬ grating. While the Radium-K Bromide stayed the process to a certain extent, the respiratory organs could only be saved by means of the precious Permagatol. Could he use a substitute gas? It was a dangerous experiment to make, but he had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. He threw himself with a frenzy into the work and in six hours had compounded a gas that, in its general structure and atomic weight, came close to the properties and characteristics

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of Permagatol. The gas he evolved was Armagatol, and while he knew that it had never been used for the purpose for which he intended it, he felt justified in risking the experiment. After the air had been drawn from the glass case, he im¬ mediately introduced the Armagatol into it. The change in Alice’s face shocked him, as he watched the Armagatol fill the case. The green gas-vapors cast an unearthly green pallor over his countenance, and the ghastliness was further enhanced by the deathly pallor of her face. He arranged the electric heating pads around Alice’s body, and inspected the registering instruments. It had now become necessary to take his bearings. He found to his amazement that instead of being close to Mars, as he had expected, he was moving away from that body. The two space flyers, although their machinery was not work¬ ing, had been moving rapidly, due to the gravitational action of the nearest large celestial body. This body was not Mars, how¬ ever, but Earth. Although, at the time of the encounter with Llysanorh’, the two machines had been slightly nearer to Mars, the larger mass, and consequently the stronger attraction of the Earth had overcome the pull that Mars exerted on the machines, and as a result the machines were now being drawn toward Earth. A glance at the celestial chart revealed to Ralph that Earth and Mars would be in opposition the next day and that he was separated from Earth by twenty-two million miles. He would have to move faster than Earth if he were to overtake that body. Besides, he was twenty-two million miles to the east of the planet. The Earth was traveling 65,533 miles per hour in its orbit. A simple calculation indicated that, by forcing his space flyer to the utmost, or 90,000 miles an hour, he could not hope to reach Earth in less than fifty days, as he could only gain about 24,400 miles an hour on Earth. The next important step was to cut loose Llysanorh’s ma¬ chine. He instructed Lylette to get her things from the Martian’s flyer. She started to crawl through the connecting tube, and that was the last time Ralph saw her alive.

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A loud hissing noise, like escaping steam caused him to rush to the connecting tube, but he was too late. The automatic safety valve had sprung, and the circular door of the connect¬ ing tube had been hermetically closed. The two machines had drifted apart, and as Ralph peered anxiously through one of the windows, he was horrified at the sight of Lylette, hanging by her feet from the circular connect¬ ing-tube door of Llysanorh’s machine. The door had closed automatically when the two machines had become disconnected. The air had of course rushed out immediately from Llysanorh’ flyer. §he had died in a few seconds and her body had become distended to a great many times its normal size. Ralph, nauseated by the terrible spectacle, turned away from it. There was nothing he could do. Few people realize that it is nothing but the atmospheric pressure that keeps our bodies from falling apart; thus, it is well known that when flying at high altitudes on the Earth, where the atmosphere becomes thin, blood will begin to flow from the mouth, nose and ears. When he glanced backwards a few minutes later and saw Llysanorh’s machine he gave an exclamation of astonishment. The machine was not to be seen, but in its place was a wondrous comet, its tail streaming thousands of miles behind it! Llysanorh’s flyer, which was somewhat larger in size than that of Ralph’s, had “captured” the artificial comet! There remained not a part of it attached to Ralph’s flyer. Ralph reasoned that the air that had been contained formerly in Llysa¬ norh’s machine had, upon rushing out the flyer after Lylette’s fatal accident, mixed with the gases of the "comet” and thereby assisted the latter in detaching itself from Ralph’s flyer. It remained within range of his vision for many weeks, be¬ fore it was finally lost in the depths of infinite space, where it would, in all probability, rush through the boundless universe for aeon upon aeon, ere it would eventually collide with some other body, and would be reduced to cosmic dust. The long days during Ralph’s flight back to Earth left their indelible imprint upon his mind. Never, in all the years to

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follow, could he look back upon them without a shudder, re¬ membering the heart-break of the terrible hours in which he sat beside the bed on which lay his beloved. The nearer he drew to Earth, the more his dread of the coming ordeal increased. He was by no means sure that he could bring Alice back to life; it was not even probable. It was but an experiment at best, the outcome of which could not be fore¬ told. If Armagatol would bring the same reactions as Permagatol, there was a reasonable assurance of restoring Alice to life, but Ralph was inclined to doubt the efficiency of the substitute gas. He examined her every few hours, and once in twenty-four he looked at the blood-vessels. This was made possible by means of his Platinum-Barium-Arcturium eyeglasses, which acted in a similar manner to the old-fashioned X-ray screen. Inasmuch as all the blood vessels of Alice’s body were filled with Radium-K Bromide—which latter, like Radium, excited the Platinum-Bar¬ ium-Arcturium eyeglasses—each blood vessel could be inspected with ease. The invisible Rays (the same as X-rays) emanating from the Radium-K Bromide solution in the blood vessels, showed Ralph their exact condition. While all the blood vessels remained healthy, Ralph became greatly alarmed over the change that slowly, but steadily, made itself apparent in the respiratory organs. Some change was tak¬ ing place which he did not understand. He knew it must be the action of the Armagatol, but he was unable to do anything, as with the chemicals on hand it was impossible to produce the life-saving Permagatol. Ralph grew more despondent each day, and his hope of bringing his betrothed back to life grew dimmer and dimmer as the hours rolled on. For the first time since he left the Earth he became space-sick. Space-sickness is one of the most unpleasant sensations that a human being can experience. Not all are subject to it, and it does not last longer than forty-eight hours, after which it never recurs. On Earth, gravitational action to a certain degree exerts a certain pull on the brain. Out in space, with practically no gra-

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vitational action, this pull ceases. When this happens, the brain is no longer subjected to the accustomed pull, and it expands slightly in all directions, just as a balloon loses its pear shape and becomes round when an aeronaut cuts loose, to drop down with his parachute. The effect on the brain results in space-sickness, the first symptoms being violent melancholy and depression followed by a terrible heart-rending longing for Earth. During this stage, at which the patient undergoes great mental suffering, the optical nerves usually become affected and everything appears upside down, as if the sufferer were loqking through a lens. It becomes necessary to take large doses of Siltagol, otherwise brain fever may develop. At the end of two days the sickness left Ralph, but it left him worn and exhausted physically and he was subject to terrible fits of depression. At these times the boundless space about him appalled him, weighing him down with its infinite immensity. The awful stillness crushed him. Everything seemed dead—dead as was that silent motionless figure that had been a living laughing creature who had loved him—it seemed so long ago. He felt that Nature herself was punishing him for his daring assault upon her dominions. He had presumed to set the laws of Life and Death at variance, and this was the penalty, this living death, shut in with the living dead. At such times a madness of fear and despair would grip him. He would fling himself down at Alice’s side, his face buried in her cold inert hand, and sob like a child in his loneliness and agony of spirit. When this had passed he would return to his state of leth¬ argy, sitting hours at a time staring moodily at the floor. Gaunt, hollow-eyed and listless, he seemed more mad than sane. And yet, the tremendous will-power of the man came into evidence when, within forty-eight hours’ distance of Earth he threw off his blinding lethargy, and made himself ready, men¬ tally and physically, for his last fight for Alice’s life. He had drawn close enough to Earth now to use the Radio apparatus, and soon he was in hourly communication with his laboratory. He gave his instructions clearly and definitely, and

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EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

he soon had assurance that everything that could possibly be done for the dead girl had been carefully arranged. Ralph’s flyer landed on top of his tower sixty-nine days after his departure. He was greatly impressed at the sight of the flags of the city at half mast. The town itself was very still. There were no aeroflyers, no vehicles in motion in the streets. Business was at a standstill for ten minutes after Ralph landed. Thus the world expressed its deep sympathy. Within a few minutes Alice had been placed on an operat¬ ing table in Ralph’s laboratory, and 16K 5+, the world’s great¬ est surgeon, who had been summoned, was in readiness. Ralph was placed on an operating table to the right of Alice. To the left lay Cldose, a beloved cousin of Alice. In a few seconds Alice’s arteries had been opened and the Radium-K Bromide solution was drawn off. A quantity of warm, distilled water, containing antiseptic salts was then pumped through her blood vessels by two assistants. During this time the surgeon had opened the large arteries of both Ralph and C16ose, and had introduced a flexible glass tube into each. In a short time the blood of Ralph and Cl£ose began flow¬ ing rapidly through these tubes into Alice’s blood vessels. Simultaneously a third assistant administered oxygen to Alice, while a fourth commenced to excite her heart rhythmi¬ cally by means of electrical current. The brain was stimulated energetically at the same time by means of the powerful F-9-Rays, and while Ralph and Cl£ose grew paler and paler as their blood flowed out into Alice’s body, the latter began to acquire color by degrees, though there was no other sign of life. After enough blood had been taken from the two, the surgeon closed their arteries; and, while Cl^ose had fainted during the ordeal, Ralph, weakened as he was, remained conscious by sheer force of will. The surgeon 16K 5-f, asked Ralph if he did not think it would be better for him to be removed to another room, but Ralph refused so vehemently, despite his terribly depleted strength, that he was allowed to remain. He asked to be raised slightly higher that he might watch the work of restoring Alice to life, and this request too, was granted. Almost two hours had passed since Alice had first been laid

Cernsback/From Ralph 124C 41 +

247

upon the operating table, and still there was no sign of life. The suspense became well-nigh unendurable, not only to Ralph, but to the workers as well. Was she lost after all? Was he fated never to see her alive again? The great surgeon and his assistants were working desper¬ ately. Every conceivable means was used to revive the inanimate body, but all was to no avail. As attempt after attempt failed the faces of the men grew graver. A tense silence prevailed through¬ out the laboratory, broken only by the surgeon’s sharp low in¬ structions from time to time. It was then, when the tide of hope was at the lowest ebb, that Ralph beckoned one of the assistants to his side. Though unable to speak above a whisper, so weak was he, he managed with difficulty to convey his meaning to the man, who sprang to the side of the surgeon and in a low voice gave him Ralph’s message. Ralph had sent for a Hypnobioscope [a sleep-learning device of Ralph’s invention], the head pieces of which they fastened to Alice’s temples. They brought a number of rolls and from them Ralph chose one of the world’s most beautiful love stories. It was the last trench in his desperate combat with Nature. It was the supreme effort. It was the last throw of the dice in the game between Science and Death, with a girl as the stakes. Ralph knew that if the brain was at all alive to impressions, the effect of the story would stimulate it to voluntary action. As the reel unrolled, Ralph fixed his burning eyes on the closed ones as though he would drive by the very force of his will the impressions coming from the Hypnobioscope deep into her brain. Then, while they watched, with bated breath, the slight body on the operating table quivered almost imperceptibly, as the water of a still pool is rippled by a passing zephyr. A mo¬ ment later her breast rose gently and fell again, and from the white lips came the suggestion of a sigh. When Ralph saw this, his strength returned to him, and he raised himself, listening with throbbing heart to the soft breath¬ ing. His eyes glowed with triumph. The battle was won. His face was transfigured. All the agony, the heart-breaking fore-

248

EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY

boding of the past weeks passed from him, and a great peace settled upon his soul. The surgeon sprang to catch him as he dropped, unconscious. About a week later Ralph was admitted by the nurse to the room where Alice lay, regaining her strength. He was still weak, himself, from the loss of blood. Alice had just awakened, and at his step, she turned her lovely face eagerly toward him. Her cheeks were faintly tinged with the delicate pink of the seashell, her eyes were bright with the soft glow of health. She beckoned to him smiling into his eyes, and he knelt down beside her, taking her hands in his own, and holding them close. She moved her lips and he bent his head close to them, so that her gentle breath fanned his cheek. “I can’t talk very loud,” she whispered. ‘‘My lungs and vocal chords are not strong yet, but the nurse said I might speak just a few words. But I wanted to tell you something.” ‘‘What is it, my darling?” he asked tenderly. She looked at him with the old sparkle of mischief in her dark eyes. “Dearest,” she said, “I have just found out what your name really means.” Ralph twined a little tendril of her hair around one of his fingers. “Yes?” he asked with a quizzical smile. “Well, you see,” and the lovely color deepened to rose, “your name is going to be my name now, so I keep saying it over to myself—” “My darling ONE TO FORESEE FOR ONE!” (1 2 4 C 4 1)

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249

The Last Poet and the Robots (1934) Abraham Merritt (1884-1943)

Abraham Merritt wrote for the pulps and never in his lifetime achieved critical success. Yet he had a devoted following in the science fiction ghetto who admired the clarity of his style and his power to evoke moods. In the following story, Merritt recog¬ nizes the conflict between science and art that we have seen in writing since Hawthorne. Narodny not only reconciles these forces but transcends as well the divisions of sexuality and na¬ tionalism. Were pulp fiction, or science fiction in general for that matter, as simple as Merritt’s contemporary critics claimed, the story would not have ended, as it does, with a residual question concerning the value of humanity as a whole.

Narodny, the Russian, sat in his laboratory. Narodny’s lab¬ oratory was a full mile under earth. It was one of a hundred caverns, some small and some vast, cut out of the living rock. It was a realm of which he was sole ruler. In certain caverns garlands of small suns shone; and in others little moons waxed and waned over earth; and there was a cavern in which reigned perpetual dawn, dewy, over lily beds and violets and roses; and another in which crimson sunsets baptized in the blood of slain day dimmed and died and were born again behind the sparkling curtains of the aurora. And there was one cavern ten miles from side to side in which grew flowering trees and trees which bore Reprinted by permission of Brandt & Brandt Literary Agents, Inc., Copyright 1934 by Abraham Merritt, copyright

sion.”

Donovan glowered and put the remnants of his sandwich aside. “If it’s on any of that screwy—” The other motioned impatiently for silence, “Go ahead, Cutie. We’re listening.” “I have spent these last two days in concentrated introspec¬ tion,” said Cutie, “and the results have been most interesting. I began at the one sure assumption I felt permitted to make. I, myself, exist, because I think—” Powell groaned, “Oh, Jupiter, a robot Descartes!” “Who’s

Descartes?”

demanded

Donovan.

“Listen,

do

we

have to sit here and listen to this metal maniac—” “Keep quiet, Mike!” Cutie

continued

imperturbably,

“And

the

question

that

immediately arose was: Just what is the cause of my exist¬ ence?” Powell’s jaw set lumpily. “You’re being foolish. I told you already that we made you.” “And if you don’t believe us,” added Donovan, “we’ll gladly take you apart!” The robot spread his strong hands in a deprecatory gesture, “I accept nothing on authority. A hypothesis must be backed by reason, or else it is worthless—and it goes against all the dictates of logic to suppose that you made me.” Powell

dropped a restraining arm upon

Donovan’s sud¬

denly bunched fist. “Just why do you say that?” Cutie laughed.

It was a

very inhuman

laugh—the

most

machinelike utterance he had yet given vent to. It was sharp and explosive, as regular as a metronome and as uninflected.

324

THE GOLDEN YEARS

“Look at you,” he said finally. “I say this in no spirit of contempt, but look at you! The material you are made of is soft and flabby, lacking endurance and strength, depending for energy upon the inefficient oxidation of organic material—like that.” He pointed a disapproving finger at what remained of Donovan’s sandwich. “Periodically you pass into a coma and the least variation in temperature, air pressure, humidity, or radiation intensity impairs your efficiency. You are makeshift. “I, on the other hand, am a finished product. I absorb elec¬ trical energy directly and utilize it with an almost one hundred percent efficiency. I am composed of strong metal, am continu¬ ously conscious, and can stand extremes of environment easily. These are facts which, with the self-evident proposition that no being can create another being superior to itself, smashes your silly hypothesis to nothing.” Donovan’s muttered curses rose into intelligibility as he sprang to his feet, rusty eyebrows drawn low. “All right, you son of a hunk of iron ore, if we didn’t make you, who did?” Cutie nodded gravely. “Very good, Donovan. That was in¬ deed the next question. Evidently my creator must be more powerful than myself and so there was only one possibility.” The Earthmen looked blank and Cutie continued, “What is the center of activities here in the station? What do we all serve? What absorbs all our attention?” He waited expectantly. Donovan turned a startled look upon his companion, “I’ll bet this tin-plated screwball is talking about the Energy Con¬ verter itself.” “Is that right, Cutie?” grinned Powell. “I am talking about the Master,” came the cold, sharp answer. It was the signal for a roar of laughter from Donovan, and Powell himself dissolved into a half-suppressed giggle. Cutie had risen to his feet and his gleaming eyes passed from one Earthman to the other. “It is so just the same and I don’t wonder that you refuse to believe. You two are not long to stay here, I’m sure. Powell himself said that at first only men served the Master; that there followed robots for the routine work; and, finally, myself for the executive labor. The facts are

Asimov / Reason

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no doubt true, but the explanation entirely illogical. Do you want the truth behind it all?” ‘‘Go ahead, Cutie. You’re amusing.” ‘‘The Master created humans first as the lowest type, most easily formed. Gradually, he replaced them by robots, the next higher step, and finally he created me, to take the place of the last humans. From now on, I serve the Master.” ‘‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Powell sharply. ‘‘You’ll follow our orders and keep quiet, until we’re satisfied that you can run the Converter. Get that! The Converter— not the Mas¬ ter. If you don’t satisfy us, you will be dismantled. And now—if you don’t mind—you can leave. And take this data with you and file it properly.” Cutie accepted the graphs handed him and left without another word. Donovan leaned back heavily in his chair and shoved thick fingers through his hair. “There’s going to be trouble with that robot. He’s pure nuts!” The drowsy hum of the Converter is louder in the control room and mixed with it is the chuckle of the Geiger Counters and the erratic buzzing of half a dozen little signal lights. Donovan withdrew his eye from the telescope and flashed the Luxites on. “The beam from Station #4 caught Mars on schedule. We can break ours now.” Powell nodded abstractedly. “Cutie’s down in the engine room. I’ll flash the signal and he can take care of it. Look, Mike, what do you think of these figures?” The other cocked an eye at them and whistled. “Boy, that’s what I call gamma-ray intensity. Old Sol is feeling his oats, all right.” “Yeah,” was the sour response, “and we’re in a bad position for an electron storm, too. Our Earth beam is right in the probable path.” He shoved his chair away from the table pet¬ tishly. “Nuts! If it would only hold off till relief got here, but that’s ten days off. Say, Mike, go on down and keep an eye on Cutie, will you?” “O.K. Throw me some of those almonds.” He snatched at the bag thrown him and headed for the elevator.

326

THE GOLDEN YEARS

It slid smoothly downward, and opened onto a narrow catwalk in the huge engine room. Donovan leaned over the railing and looked down. The huge generators were in motion and from the L-tubes came the low-pitched whir that pervaded the entire station. He could make out Cutie’s large, gleaming figure at the Martian L-tube watching closely as the team of robots worked in close-knit unison. And then Donovan stiffened. The robots, dwarfed by the mighty L-tube, lined up before it, heads bowed at a stiff angle, while Cutie walked up and down the line slowly. Fifteen sec¬ onds passed, and then, with a clank heard above the clamorous purring all about, they fell to their knees. Donovan squawked and raced down the narrow staircase. He came charging down upon them, complexion matching his hair and clenched fists beating the air furiously. “What the devil is this, you brainless lumps? Come on! Get busy with that L-tube! If you don’t have it apart, cleaned, and together again before the day is out, I’ll coagulate your brains with alternating current.” Not a robot moved! Even Cutie at the far end—the only one on his feet—re¬ mained silent, eyes fixed upon the gloomy recesses of the vast machine before him. Donovan shoved hard against the nearest robot. “Stand up!” he roared. Slowly, the robot obeyed. His photoelectric eyes focused re¬ proachfully upon the Earthman. “There is no Master but the Master,” he said, “and QT-1 is his prophet.” “Huh?” Donovan became aware of twenty pairs of mechani¬ cal eyes fixed upon him and twenty stiff-timbred voices declaim¬ ing solemnly: “There is no Master but the Master and QT-1 is his prophet!” “I’m afraid,” put in Cutie himself at this point, “that my friends obey a higher one than you, now.” “The hell they do! You get out of here. I’ll settle with you later and with these animated gadgets right now.”

Asimov/ Reason

327

Cutie shook his heavy head slowly. “I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. These are robots—and that means they are reason¬ ing beings. They recognize the Master, now that I have preached Truth to them. All the robots do. They call me the prophet.” His head drooped. "I am unworthy—but perhaps—” Donovan located his breath and put it to use. “Is that so? Now,, isn’t that nice? Now, isn’t that just fine? Just let me tell you something, my brass baboon. There isn’t any Master and there isn’t any prophet and there isn’t any question as to who’s giving the orders. Understand?” His voice shot to a roar. “Now, get out!” y “I obey only the Master.” “Damn the Master!” Donovan spat at the L-tube. “That for the Master! Do as I say!” Cutie said nothing, nor did any other robot, but Donovan became aware of a sudden heightening of tension. The cold, staring eyes deepened their crimson, and Cutie seemed stiffer than ever. “Sacrilege,” he whispered—voice metallic with emotion. Donovan felt the first sudden touch of fear as Cutie ap¬ proached. A robot could not feel anger—but Cutie’s eyes were unreadable. “I am sorry, Donovan,” said the robot, “but you can no longer stay here after this. Henceforth Powell and you are barred from the control room and the engine room.” His hand gestured quietly and in a moment two robots had pinned Donovan’s arms to his sides. Donovan had time for one startled gasp as he felt himself lifted from the floor and carried up the stairs at a pace rather better than a canter. Gregory Powell raced up and down the officer’s room, fist tightly balled. He cast a look of furious frustration at the closed door and scowled bitterly at Donovan. “Why the devil did you have to spit at the L-tube?” Mike Donovan, sunk deep in his chair, slammed at its arms savagely. “What did you expect me to do with that electrified scarecrow? I’m not going to knuckle under to any do-jigger I put together myself.”

328

THE GOLDEN YEARS

“No,” came back sourly, “but here you are in the officer’s room with two robots standing guard at the door. That’s not knuckling under, is it?” Donovan snarled. “Wait till we get back to Base. Someone’s going to pay for this. Those robots must obey us. It’s the Second Law.” “What’s the use of saying that? They aren’t obeying us. And there’s probably some reason for it that we’ll figure out too late. By the way, do you know what’s going to happen to us w'hen we get back to Base?” He stopped before Donovan’s chair and stared savagely at him. “What?” "Oh, nothing! Just back to Mercury Mines for twenty years. Or maybe Ceres Penitentiary.” “What are you talking about?” “The electron storm that’s coming up. Do you know it’s heading straight dead center across the Earth beam? I had just figured that out when that robot dragged me out of my chair.” Donovan was suddenly pale. "Sizzling Saturn.” “And do you know what’s going to happen to the beam— because the storm will be a lulu. It’s going to jump like a flea with the itch. With only Cutie at the controls, it’s going to go out of focus and if it does, Heaven help Earth—and us!” Donovan was wrenching at the door wildly, when Powell was only half through. The door opened, and the Earthman shot through to come up hard against an immovable steel arm. The robot stared abstractedly at the panting, struggling Earthman. “The Prophet orders you to remain. Please do!” His arm shoved, Donovan reeled backward, and as he did so, Cutie turned the corner at the far end of the corridor. He motioned the guardian robots away, entered the officer’s room and closed the door gently. Donovan whirled on Cutie in breathless indignation. “This has gone far enough. You’re going to pay for this farce.” “Please, don’t be annoyed,” replied the robot mildly. “It was bound to come eventually, anyway. You see, you two have lost your function.” “I beg your pardon,” Powell drew himself up stiffly. “Just what do you mean, we’ve lost our function?”

Asimov/ Reason

329

“Until I was created,” answered Cutie, "you tended the Master. That privilege is mine now and your only reason for existence has vanished. Isn’t that obvious?” “Not quite,” replied Powell bitterly, “but what do you expect us to do now?” Cutie did not answer immediately. He remained silent, as if in -thought, and then one arm shot out and draped itself about Powell’s shoulder. The other grasped Donovan’s wrist and drew him closer. “I like you two. You’re inferior creatures, with poor reason¬ ing faculties, but I really feel a sort of affection for you. You have served the Master well, and he will reward you for that. Now that your service is over, you will probably not exist much longer, but as long as you do, you shall be provided food, cloth¬ ing and shelter, so long as you stay out of the control room and the engine room.” “He’s pensioning us off, Greg!” yelled Donovan. “Do some¬ thing about it. It’s humiliating!” “Look here, Cutie, we can’t stand for this. We’re the bosses. This station is only a creation of human beings like me—human beings that live on Earth and other planets. This is only an energy relay. You’re only— Aw, nuts!”

Cutie shook his head gravely. “This amounts to an obsession. Why should you insist so on an absolutely false view of life? Ad¬ mitted that non-robots lack the reasoning faculty, there is still the problem of—” His voice died into reflective silence, and Donovan said with whispered intensity, “If you only had a flesh-and-blood face, I would break it in.” Powell’s fingers were in his mustache and his eyes were slitted. “Listen, Cutie, if there is no such thing as Earth, how do you account for what you see through a telescope?” “Pardon me!” The Earthman smiled. “I’ve got you, eh? You’ve made quite a few telescopic observations since being put together, Cutie. Have you noticed that several of those specks of light outside become disks when so viewed?”

330

THE GOLDEN YEARS

“Oh, that! Why certainly. It is simple magnification—for the purpose of more exact aiming of the beam.” “Why aren’t the stars equally magnified then?” “You mean the other dots. Well, no beams go to them so no magnification is necessary. Really, Powell, even you ought to be able to figure these things out.” Powell stared bleakly upward. "But you see more stars through a telescope. Where do they come from? Jumping Jupiter, where do they come from?” Cutie was annoyed. “Listen, Powell, do you think I’m going to waste my time trying to pin physical interpretations upon every optical illusion of our instruments? Since when is the evidence of our senses any match for the clear light of rigid reason?” “Look,” clamored Donovan, suddenly, writhing out from under Cutie’s friendly, but metal-heavy arm, “let’s get to the nub of the thing. Why the beams at all? We’re giving you a good, logical explanation. Can you do better?” “The beams,” was the stiff reply, “are put out by the Master for his own purposes. There are some things”—he raised his eyes devoutly upward—“that are not to be probed into by us. In this matter, I seek only to serve and not to question.” Powell sat down slowly and buried his face in shaking hands. "Get out of here, Cutie. Get out and let me think.” "I’ll send you food,” said Cutie agreeably. A groan was the only answer and the robot left. “Greg,” was Donovan’s huskily whispered observation, “this calls for strategy. We’ve got to get him when he isn’t expecting it and short-circuit him. Concentrated nitric acid in his joints—” “Don’t be a dope, Mike. Do you suppose he’s going to let us get near him with acid in our hands? We’ve got to talk to him, I tell you. We’ve got to argue him into letting us back into the control room inside of forty-eight hours or our goose is broiled to a crisp.” He rocked back and forth in an agony of impotence. “Who the heck wants to argue with a robot? It’s . . . it’s—” “Mortifying,” finished Donovan. “Worse!” "Say!” Donovan laughed suddenly. “Why argue? Let’s show

Asimov/ Reason

331

himl Let’s build us another robot right before his eyes. He’ll have to eat his words then.” A slowly widening smile appeared on Powell’s face. Donovan continued, “And think of that screwball’s face when he sees us do it!” Robots are, of course, manufactured on Earth, but their ship¬ ment through space is much simpler if it can be done in parts to be put together at their place of use. It also, incidentally, eliminates the possibility of robots, in complete adjustment, wandering off while still on Earth and thus bringing U. S. Robots face to face with the strict laws against robots on Earth. Still, it placed upon men such as Powell and Donovan the necessity of synthesis of complete robots,—a grievous and com¬ plicated task. Powell and Donovan were never so aware of that fact as upon that particular day when, in the assembly room, they undertook to create a robot under the watchful eyes of QT-1, Prophet of the Master. The robot in question, a simple MC model, lay upon the table, almost complete. Three hours’ work left only the head undone, and Powell paused to swab his forehead and glanced uncertainly at Cutie. The glance was not a reassuring one. For three hours, Cutie had sat, speechless and motionless, and his face, inexpressive at all times, was now absolutely unreadable. Powell groaned. "Let’s get the brain in now, Mike!” Donovan uncapped the tightly sealed container and from the oil bath within he withdrew a second cube. Opening this in turn, he removed a globe from its sponge-rubber casing. He handled it gingerly, for it was the most complicated mechanism ever created by man. Inside the thin platinum-plated “skin” of the globe was a positronic brain, in whose delicately unstable structure were enforced calculated neuronic paths, which imbued each robot with what amounted to a pre-natal education. It fitted snugly into the cavity in the skull of the robot on the table. Blue metal closed over it and was welded tightly by the tiny atomic flare. Photoelectric eyes were attached carefully.

332

THE GOLDEN YEARS

screwed tightly into place and covered by thin, transparent sheets of steel-hard plastic. The robot awaited only the vitalizing flash of high-voltage electricity, and Powell paused with his hand on the switch. "Now watch this, Cutie. Watch this carefully.” The switch rammed home and there was a crackling hum. The two Earthmen bent anxiously over their creation. There was vague motion only at the outset—a twitching of the joints. The head lifted, elbows propped it up, and the MC model swung clumsily off the table. Its footing was unsteady and twice abortive grating sounds were all it could do in the direction of speech. Finally, its voice, uncertain and hesitant, took form. “I would like to start work. Where must I go?” Donovan sprang to the door. "Down these stairs,” he said. “You will be told what to do.” The MC model was gone and the two Earthmen were alone with the still unmoving Cutie. “Well,” said Powell, grinning, “now do you believe that we made you?” Cutie’s answer was curt and final. “No!” he said. Powell’s grin froze and then relaxed slowly. Donovan’s mouth dropped open and remained so. “You see,” continued Cutie, easily, “you have merely put together parts already made. You did remarkably well—instinct, I suppose—but you didn’t really create the robot. The parts were created by the Master.” “Listen,” gasped Donovan hoarsely, “those parts were manu¬ factured back on Earth and sent here.” “Well, well,” replied Cutie soothingly, “we won’t argue.” “No, I mean it.” The Earthman sprang forward and grasped the robot’s metal arm. “If you were to read the books in the library, they could explain it so that there could be no possible doubt.” “The books? I’ve read them—all of them! They’re most in¬ genious.” Powell broke in suddenly. “If you’ve read them, what else is there to say? You can’t dispute their evidence. You just can’t!” There was pity in Cutie’s voice. “Please, Powell, I certainly

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333

don’t consider them a valid source of information. They, too, were created by the Master—and were meant for you, not for me. “How do you make that out?” demanded Powell. “Because I, a reasoning being, am capable of deducing Truth from a priori Causes. You, being intelligent, but unrea¬ soning, need an explanation of existence supplied to you, and this the Master did. That he supplied you with these laughable ideas of far-off worlds and people is, no doubt, for the best. Your minds are probably too coarsely grained for absolute Truth. However, since it is the Master's will that you believe your books, I won’t argue with you any more.” As he left, he turned, and said in a kindly tone, “But don’t feel badly. In the Master’s scheme of things there is room for all. You poor humans have your place and though it is humble, you will be rewarded if you fill it well.” He departed with a beatific air suiting the Prophet of the Master and the two humans avoided each other’s eyes. Finally Powell spoke with an effort. “Let’s go to bed, Mike. I give up.” Donovan said in a hushed voice, “Say, Greg, you don’t sup¬ pose he’s right about all this, do you? He sounds so confident that I-” Powell whirled on him. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll find out whether Earth exists when relief gets here next week and we have to go back to face the music.” “Then, for the love of Jupiter, we’ve got to do something.” Donovan was half in tears. "He doesn’t believe us, or the books, or his eyes.” “No,” said Powell bitterly, “he’s a reasoning robot—damn it. He believes only reason, and there’s one trouble with that—” His voice trailed away. “What’s that?” prompted Donovan. “You can prove anything you want by coldly logical rea¬ son—if you pick the proper postulates. We have ours and Cutie has his.” “Then let’s get at those postulates in a hurry. The storm’s due tomorrow.” Powell sighed wearily. “That’s where everything falls down.

THE GOLDEN YEARS

334

Postulates are based on assumption and adhered to by faith. Nothing in the Universe can shake them. I’m going to bed. ‘‘Oh, hell! I can’t sleep!” “Neither can I! But I might as well try—as a matter of principle.”

Twelve hours later, sleep was still just that—a matter of princi¬ ple, unattainable in practice. The storm had arrived ahead of schedule, and Donovan’s florid face drained of blood as he pointed a shaking finger. Powell, stubble-jawed and dry-lipped, stared out the port and pulled desperately at his mustache. Under other circumstances, it might have been a beautiful sight. The stream of high-speed electrons impinging upon the energy beam fluoresced into ultra-spicules of intense light. The beam stretched out into shrinking nothingness, a-glitter with dancing, shining motes. The shaft of energy was steady, but the two Earthmen knew the value of naked-eyed appearances. Deviations in arc of a hundredth of a milli second—invisible to the eye—were enough to send the beam wildly out of focus—enough to blast hundreds of square miles of Earth into incandescent ruin. And a robot, unconcerned with beam, focus, or Earth, or anything but his Master was at the controls. Hours passed. The Earthmen watched in hypnotized silence. And then the darting dotlets of light dimmed and went out. The storm had ended. Powell’s voice was flat. “It’s over!” Donovan had fallen into a troubled slumber and Powell’s weary eyes rested upon him enviously. The signal-flash glared over and over again, but the Earthman paid no attention. It all was unimportant! All! Perhaps Cutie was right—and he was only an inferior being with a made-to-order memory and a life that had outlived its purpose. He wished he were! Cutie was standing before him. “You didn’t answer the flash, so I walked in.” His voice was low. “You don’t look at all well, and I’m afraid your term of existence is drawing to an

Asimov/ Reason

335

end. Still, would you like to see some of the readings recorded today?” Dimly, Powell was aware that the robot was making a friendly gesture, perhaps to quiet some lingering remorse in forcibly replacing the humans at the controls of the station. He accepted the sheets held out to him and gazed at them unseeingly. Cutie seemed pleased. “Of course, it is a great privilege to serve the Master. You mustn’t feel too badly about my having replaced you.” Powell grunted and shifted from one sheet to the other mechanically until his blurred sight focused upon a thin red line that wobbled its way across the ruled paper. He stared—and stared again. He gripped it hard in both fists and rose to his feet, still staring. The other sheets dropped to the floor, unheeded. “Mike, Mike!” He was shaking the other madly. “He held it steady!” Donovan came to life. “What? Wh-where—” And he, too, gazed with bulging eyes upon the record before him. Cutie broke in. “What is wrong?” “You kept it in focus," stuttered Powell. “Did you know that?” “Focus? What’s that?” “You kept the beam directed sharply at the receiving sta¬ tion—to within a ten-thousandth of a milli second of arc.” “What receiving station?” “On Earth. The receiving station on Earth,” babbled Powell. "You kept it in focus.” Cutie turned on his heel in annoyance. “It is impossible to perform any act of kindness toward you two. Always the same phantasm! I merely kept all dials at equilibrium in accordance with the will of the Master.” Gathering the scattered papers together, he withdrew stiffly, and Donovan said, as he left, “Well, I’ll be damned.” He turned to Powell. “What are we going to do now?” Powell felt tired, but uplifted. “Nothing. He’s just shown he can run the station perfectly. I’ve never seen an electron storm handled so well.”

336

THE GOLDEN YEARS “But nothing’s solved. You heard what he said of the Master.

We can’t—” “Look, Mike, he follows the instructions of the Master by means of dials, instruments, and graphs. That’s all we ever followed. As a matter of fact, it accounts for his refusal to obey us. Obedience is the Second Law. No harm to humans is the first. How can he keep humans from harm, whether he knows it or not? Why, by keeping the energy beam stable. He knows he can keep it more stable than we can, since he insists he’s the superior being, so he must keep us out of the control room. It’s inevitable if you consider the Laws of Robotics.” “Sure, but that’s not the point. We can’t let him continue this nitwit stuff about the Master.” “Why not?” “Because whoever heard of such a damned thing? How are we going to trust him with the station, if he doesn’t believe in Earth?” “Can he handle the station?” “Yes, but-” “Then what’s the difference what he believesl” Powell spread his arms outward with a vague smile upon his face and tumbled backward onto the bed. He was asleep. Powell was speaking while struggling into his lightweight space jacket. "It would be a simple job,” he said. “You can bring in new QT models one by one, equip them with an automatic shut-off switch to act within the week, so as to allow them enough time to learn the . . . uh . . . cult of the Master from the Prophet himself; then switch them to another station and revitalize them. We could have two QTs per—” Donovan unclasped his glassite visor and scowled. “Shut up, and let’s get out of here. Relief is waiting and I won’t feel right until I actually see Earth and feel the ground under my feet— just to make sure it’s really there.” The door opened as he spoke and Donovan, with a smothered curse, clicked the visor to, and turned a sulky back upon Cutie.

Asimov/ Reason

337

The robot approached softly and there was sorrow in his voice. “You are going?” Powell nodded curtly. “There will be others in our place.” Cutie sighed, with the sound of wind humming through closely spaced wires. “Your term of service is over and the time of dissolution has come. I expected it, but— Well, the Master’s will be done!” His tone of resignation stung Powell. “Save the sympathy, Cutie. We’re heading for Earth, not dissolution.” “It is best that you think so,” Cutie sighed again. “I see the wisdom of the illusion now. I would not attempt to shake your faith, even if I could.” He departed—the picture of commisera¬ tion. Powell snarled and motioned to Donovan. Sealed suitcases in hand, they headed for the air lock. The relief ship was on the outer landing and Franz Muller, his relief man, greated them with stiff courtesy. Donovan made scant acknowledgement and passed into the pilot room to take over the controls from Sam Evans. Powell lingered. “How’s Earth?” It was a conventional enough question and Muller gave the conventional answer, “Still spinning.” Powell said, “Good.” Muller looked at him, “The boys back at the U. S. Robots have dreamed up a new one, by the way. A multiple robot.” “A what.” “What I said. There’s a big contract for it. It must be just the thing for asteroid mining. You have a master robot with six sub-robots under it. —Like your fingers.” “Has it been field-tested?” asked Powell anxiously. Muller smiled, “Waiting for you, I hear.” Powell’s fist balled, “Damn it, we need a vacation.” “Oh, you’ll get it. Two weeks, I think.” He was donning the heavy space gloves in preparation for his term of duty here, and his thick eyebrows drew close to¬ gether. “How is this new robot getting along? It better be good, or I’ll be damned if I let it touch the controls.” Powell paused before answering. His eyes swept the proud

338

THE GOLDEN YEARS

Prussian before him from the close-cropped hair on the sternly stubborn head, to the feet standing stiffly at attention—and there was a sudden glow of pure gladness surging through him. “The robot is pretty good,” he said slowly. "I don’t think you’ll have to bother much with the controls.” He grinned—and went into the ship. Muller would be here for several weeks—

Desertion (1944) Clifford D. Simak (b. 1904)

Clifford Simak’s "Desertionlike Asimov’s "Reason,” became part of a composite novel. City, which won the International Fantasy Award in 1953, deals in one section or another with races of humans, Martians, mutants, robots, intelligent dogs, and clearly fascist ants. Just as Asimov’s story written before America’s entrance into the war had our technology save us willy-nilly, so Simak’s story written in the midst of the war offers an undeserved chance at desertion from the press of human reality. In the sense that happiness comes simply be¬ cause the world dispenses it, science fictions like Simak’s reveal their roots in fairy tales. The faithful dog Towser, like a familiar character from some pastoral fable, is both better than his master and willingly his servant. During the golden years those who wrote science fiction in praise of science tried to sug¬ gest that science too had that marvelous relation to humanity.

Four men, two by two, had gone into the howling maelstrom that was Jupiter and had not returned. They had walked into Copyright 1944 by Street and Smith Publications Inc. Copyright renewed 1972 by Clifford D. Simak.

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339

the keening gale—or rather, they had loped, bellies low against the ground, wet sides gleaming in the rain. For they did not go in the shape of men. Now the fifth man stood before the desk of Kent Fowler, head of Dome No. 3, Jovian Survey Commission. Under Fowler’s desk, old Towser scratched a flea, then set¬ tled down to sleep again. Harold Allen, Fowler saw with a sudden pang, was young— too young. He had the easy confidence of youth, the face of one who never had known fear. And that was strange. For men in the domes of Jupiter did know fear—fear and humility. It was hard for Man to reconcile his puny self with the mighty forces of the monstrous planet. “You understand,” said Fowler, "that you need not do this. You understand that you need not go.” It was formula, of course. The other four had been told the same thing, but they had gone. This fifth one, Fowler knew, would go as well. But suddenly he felt a dull hope stir within him that Allen wouldn't go. “When do I start?” asked Allen. There had been a time when Fowler might have taken quiet pride in that answer, but not now. He frowned briefly. “Within the hour,” he said. Allen stood waiting, quietly. “Four other men have gone out and have not returned,” said Fowler. “You know that, of course. We want you to return. We don’t want you going off on any heroic rescue expedition. The main thing, the only thing, is that you come back, that you prove man can live in a Jovian form. Go to the first survey stake, no farther, then come back. Don’t take any chances. Don’t investigate anything. Just come back.” Allen nodded. “I understand all that.” “Miss Stanley will operate the converter,” Fowler went on. "You need have no fear on that particular score. The other men were converted without mishap. They left the converter in apparently perfect condition. You will be in thoroughly competent hands. Miss Stanley is the best qualified conversion operator in the Solar System. She has had experience on most of the other planets. That is why she’s here.”

THE GOLDEN YEARS

340 Allen grinned at the woman and

Fowler saw something

flicker across Miss Stanley’s face-something that might have been pity, or rage—or just plain fear. But it was gone again and she was smiling back at the youth who stood before the desk. Smiling in that prim, school-teacherish way she had of smiling, almost as if she hated herself for doing it. “I shall be looking forward,” said Allen, “to my conversion.” And the way he said it, he made it all a joke, a vast, ironic joke. But it was no joke. It was serious business, deadly serious. Upon these

tests,

Fowler knew, depended the fate of men on Jupiter. If the tests succeeded, the resources of the giant planet would be thrown open. Man would take over Jupiter as he already had taken over the other smaller planets. And if they failed— If they failed, Man would continue to be chained and ham¬ pered by the terrific pressure, the greater force of gravity, the weird chemistry of the planet. He would continue to be shut within the domes, unable to set actual foot upon the planet, unable to see it with direct, unaided vision, forced to rely upon the awkward tractors and the televisor, forced to work with clumsy tools and mechanisms or through the medium of robots that themselves were clumsy. For Man, unprotected and in his natural form, would be blotted out by Jupiter’s terrific pressure of fifteen thousand pounds per square inch, pressure that made terrestrial sea bot¬ toms seem a vacuum by comparison. Even the strongest metal Earthmen could devise couldn’t exist under pressure such as that, under the pressure and the alkaline rains that forever swept the planet. It grew brittle and flaky, crumbling like clay, or it ran away in little streams and puddles of ammonia salts. Only by stepping up the toughness and strength of that metal, by increasing its electronic tension, could it be made to withstand the weight of thousands of miles of swirling, choking gases that made up the atmosphere. And even when that was done, everything had to be coated with tough quartz to keep away the rain—the liquid ammonia that fell as bitter rain.

Simak/ Desertion

341

Fowler sat listening to the engines in the sub-floor of the dome—engines that ran on endlessly, the dome never quiet of them. They had to run and keep on running, for if they stopped, the power flowing into the metal walls of the dome would stop, the electronic tension would ease up and that would be the end of everything. Towser roused himself under Fowler’s desk and scratched another flea, his leg thumping hard against the floor. “Is there anything else?” asked Allen. Fowler shook his head. “Perhaps there’s something you want to do,” he said. “Perhaps you—” He had meant to say write a letter and he was glad he caught himself quick enough so he didn’t say it. Allen looked at his watch. “I’ll be there on time,” he said. He swung around and headed for the door. Fowler knew Miss Stanley was watching him and he didn’t want to turn and meet her eyes. He fumbled with a sheaf of papers on the desk before him. "How long are you going to keep this up?” asked Miss Stan¬ ley and she bit off each word with a vicious snap. He swung around in his chair and faced her then. Her lips were drawn into a straight, thin line, her hair seemed skinned back from her forehead tighter than ever, giving her face that queer, almost startling death-mask quality. He tried to make his voice cool and level. “As long as there’s any need of it,” he said. “As long as there’s any hope.” “You’re going to keep on sentencing them to death,” she said. "You’re going to keep marching them out face to face with Jupiter. You’re going to sit in here safe and comfortable and send them out to die.” “There is no room for sentimentality. Miss Stanley,” Fowler said, trying to keep the note of anger from his voice. “You know as well as I do why we’re doing this. You realize that Man in his own form simply cannot cope with Jupiter. The only answer is to turn men into the sort of things that can cope with it. We’ve done it on the other planets. “If a few men die, but we finally succeed, the price is small.

342

THE GOLDEN YEARS

Through the ages men have thrown away their lives on foolish things, for foolish reasons. Why should we hesitate, then, at a little death in a thing as great as this?" Miss Stanley sat stiff and straight, hands folded in her lap, the lights shining on her graying hair and Fowler, watching her, tried to imagine what she might feel, what she might be think¬ ing. He wasn’t exactly afraid of her, but he didn’t feel quite comfortable when she was around. These sharp blue eyes saw too much, her hands looked far too competent. She should be some¬ body’s Aunt sitting in a rocking chair with her knitting needles. But she wasn’t. She was the top-notch conversion unit operator in the Solar System and she didn’t like the way he was doing things. “There is something wrong, Mr. Fowler,” she declared. “Precisely,” agreed Fowler. "That’s why I’m sending young Allen out alone. He may find out what it is.” “And if he doesn’t?” “I’ll send someone else.” She rose slowly from her chair, started toward the door, then stopped before his desk. “Some day,” she said, “you will be a great man. You never let a chance go by. This is your chance. You knew it was when this dome was picked for the tests. If you put it through, you’ll go up a notch or two. No matter how many men may die, you’ll go up a notch or two.” "Miss Stanley,” he said and his voice was curt, “young Allen is going out soon. Please be sure that your machine—” "My machine,” she told him, icily, “is not to blame. It op¬ erates along the co-ordinates the biologists set up.” He sat hunched at his desk, listening to her footsteps go down the corridor. What she said was true, of course. The biologists had set up the co-ordinates. But the biologists could be wrong. Just a hair¬ breadth of difference, one iota of digression and the converter would be sending out something that wasn’t the thing they meant to send. A mutant that might crack up, go haywire, come unstuck under some condition or stress of circumstance wholly unsuspected. For Man didn’t know much about what was going on out-

Simak/ Desertion

343

side. Only what his instruments told him was going on. And the samplings of those happenings furnished by those instru¬ ments and mechanisms had been no more than samplings, for Jupiter was unbelievably large and the domes were very few. Even the work of the biologists in getting the data on the Lopers, apparently the highest form of Jovian life, had involved more than three years of intensive study and after that two years of checking to make sure. Work that could have been done on Earth in a week or two. But work that, in this case, couldn’t be done on Earth at all, for one couldn’t take a Jovian life form to Earth. The pressure here on Jupiter couldn’t be duplicated out¬ side of Jupiter and at Earth pressure and temperature the Lopers would simply have disappeared in a puff of gas. Yet it was work that had to be done if Man ever hoped to go about Jupiter in the life form of the Lopers. For before the con¬ verter could change a man to another life form, every detailed physical characteristic of that life form must be known—surely and positively, with no chance of mistake. Allen did not come back. The tractors, combing the nearby terrain, found no trace of him, unless the skulking thing reported by one of the drivers had been the missing Earthman in Loper form. The biologists sneered their most accomplished academic sneers when Fowler suggested the co-ordinates might be wrong. Carefully they pointed out, the co-ordinates worked. When a man was put into the converter and the switch was thrown, the man became a Loper. He left the machine and moved away, out of sight, into the soupy atmosphere. Some quirk, Fowler had suggested; some tiny deviation from the thing a Loper should be, some minor defect. If there were, the biologists said, it would take years to find it. And Fowler knew that they were right. So there were five men now instead of four and Harold Allen had walked out into Jupiter for nothing at all. It was as if he’d never gone so far as knowledge was concerned. Fowler reached across his desk and picked up the personnel file, a thin sheaf of paper neatly clipped together. It was a thing he dreaded but a thing he had to do. Somehow the reason for

344

THE GOLDEN YEARS

these strange disappearances must be found. And there was no other way than to send out more men. He sat for a moment listening to the howling of the wind above the dome, the everlasting thundering gale that swept across the planet in boiling, twisting wrath. Was there some threat out there, he asked himself? Some danger they did not know about? Something that lay in wait and gobbled up the Lopers, making no distinction between Lopers that were bona fide and Lopers that were men? To the gobblers, of course, it would make no difference. Or had there been a basic fault in selecting the Lopers as the type of life best fitted for existence on the surface of the planet? The evident intelligence of the Lopers, he knew, had been one factor in that determination. For if the thing Man be¬ came did not have capacity for intelligence, Man could not for long retain his own intelligence in such a guise. Had the biologists let that one factor weigh too heavily, us¬ ing it to offset some other factor that might be unsatisfactory, even disastrous? It didn’t seem likely. Stiffnecked as they might be, the biologists knew their business. Or was the whole thing impossible, doomed from the very start? Conversion to other life forms had worked on other planets, but that did not necessarily mean it would work on Jupiter. Perhaps Man’s intelligence could not function correctly through the sensory apparatus provided Jovian life. Perhaps the Lopers were so alien there was no common ground for human knowledge and the Jovian conception of existence to meet and work together. Or the fault might lie with Man, be inherent with the race. Some mental aberration which, coupled with what they found outside, wouldn’t let them come back. Although it might not be an aberration, not in the human sense. Perhaps just one ordinary human mental trait, accepted as commonplace on Earth, would be so violently at odds with Jovian existence that it would blast human sanity. Claws rattled and clicked down the corridor. Listening to them, Fowler smiled wanly. It was Towser coming back from the kitchen, where he had gone to see his friend, the cook.

Simak/ Desertion

345

Towser came into the room, carrying a bone. He wagged his tail at Fowler and flopped down beside the desk, bone between his paws. For a long moment his rheumy old eyes regarded his master and Fowler reached down a hand to ruffle a ragged ear. “You still like me, Towser?” Fowler asked and Towser thumped his tail. “You’re the only one,” said Fowler. He straightened and swung back to the desk. His hand reached out and picked up the file. Bennett? Bennett had a girl waiting for him back on Earth. Andrews? Andrews was planning on going back to Mars Tech just as soon as he earned enough to see him through a year. Olson? Olson was nearing pension age. All the time telling the boys how he was going to settle down and grow roses. Carefully, Fowler laid the file back on the desk. Sentencing men to death. Miss Stanley had said that, her pale lips scarcely moving in her parchment face. Marching men out to die while he, Fowler, sat here safe and comfortable. They were saying it all through the dome, no doubt, espe¬ cially since Allen had failed to return. They wouldn’t say it to his face, of course. Even the man or men he called before this desk and told they were the next to go, wouldn’t say it to him. But he would see it in their eyes. He picked up the file again. Bennett, Andrews, Olson. There were others, but there was no use in going on. Kent Fowler knew that he couldn’t do it, couldn’t face them, couldn’t send more men out to die. He leaned forward and flipped up the toggle on the inter¬ communicator. “Yes, Mr. Fowler.” “Miss Stanley, please.” He waited for Miss Stanley, listening to Towser chewing half-heartedly on the bone. Towser’s teeth were getting bad. “Miss Stanley,” said Miss Stanley’s voice. “Just wanted to tell you, Miss Stanley, to get ready for two more.” "Aren’t you afraid,” asked Miss Stanley, “that you’ll run out

346

THE GOLDEN YEARS

of them? Sending out one at a time, they’d last longer, give you twice the satisfaction.” “One of them,” said Fowler, “will be a dog.” “A dog!” “Yes, Towser.” He heard the quick, cold rage that iced her voice. "Your own dog! He’s been with you all these years—” “That’s the point,” said Fowler. “Towser would be unhappy if I left him behind.” It was not the Jupiter he had known through the televisor. He had expected it to be different but not like this. He had ex¬ pected a hell of ammonia rain and stinking fumes and the deafening, thundering tumult of the storm. He had expected swirling clouds and fog and the snarling flicker of monstrous thunderbolts. He had not expected the lashing downpour would be re¬ duced to drifting purple mist that moved like fleeing shadows over a red and purple sward. He had not even guessed the snak¬ ing bolts of lightning would be flares of pure ecstasy across a painted sky. Waiting for Towser, Fowler flexed the muscles of his body, amazed at the smooth, sleek strength he found. Not a bad body, he decided, and grimaced at remembering how he had pitied the Lopers when he glimpsed them through the television screen. For it had been hard to imagine a living organism based upon ammonia and hydrogen rather than upon water and oxy¬ gen, hard to believe that such a form of life could know the same quick thrill of life that humankind could know. Hard to conceive of life out in the soupy maelstrom that was Jupiter, not knowing, of course, that through Jovian eyes it was no soupy maelstrom at all. The wind brushed against him with what seemed gentle fingers and he remembered with a start that by Earth standards the wind was a roaring gale, a two-hundred-mile an hour howler laden with deadly gases. Pleasant scents seeped into his body. And yet scarcely scents, for it was not the sense of smell as he remembered it. It was as if his whole being was soaking up the sensation of lavender—

Simak/ Desertion

347

and yet not lavender. It was something, he knew, for which he had no word, undoubtedly the first of many enigmas in terminology. For the words he knew, the thought symbols that served him as an Earthman would not serve him as a Jovian. The lock in the side of the dome opened and Towser came tumbling out—at least he thought it must be Towser. He started to call to the dog, his mind shaping the words he meant to say. But he couldn’t say them. There was no way to say them. He had nothing to say them with. For a moment his mind swirled in muddy terror, a blind fear that eddied in little puffs of panic through his brain. How did Jovians talk? How— Suddenly he was aware of Towser, intensely aware of the bumbling, eager friendliness of the shaggy animal that had fol¬ lowed him from Earth to many planets. As if the thing that was Towser had reached out and for a moment sat within his brain. And out of the bubbling welcome that he sensed, came words. “Hiya, pal.” Not words really, better than words. Thought symbols in his brain, communicated thought symbols that had shades of meaning words could never have. ‘‘Hiya, Towser,” he said. “I feel good,” said Towser. ‘‘Like I was a pup. Lately I’ve been feeling pretty punk. Legs stiffening up on me and teeth wearing down to almost nothing. Hard to mumble a bone with teeth like that. Besides, the fleas give me hell. Used to be I never paid much attention to them. A couple of fleas more or less never meant much in my early days.” “But . . . but—” Fowler’s thoughts tumbled awkwardly. “You’re talking to me!” “Sure thing,” said Towser. “I always talked to you, but you couldn’t hear me. I tried to say things to you, but I couldn’t make the grade.” “I understood you sometimes,” Fowler said. “Not very well,” said Towser. “You knew when I wanted food and when I wanted a drink and when I wanted out, but that’s about all you ever managed.” “I’m sorry,” Fowler said.

THE GOLDEN YEARS

348

“Forget it,” Towser told him. "I’ll race you to the cliff.” For the first time, Fowler saw the cliff, apparently many miles away, but with a strange crystalline beauty that sparkled in the shadow of the many-colored clouds. Fowler hesitated. “It’s a long way—” “Ah, come on,” said Towser and even as he said it he started for the cliff. Fowler followed, testing his legs, testing the strength in that new body of his, a bit doubtful at first, amazed a moment later, then running with a sheer joyousness that was one with the red and purple sward, with the drifting smoke of the rain across the land. As he ran the consciousness of music came to him, a music that beat into his body, that surged throughout his being, that lifted him on wings of silver speed. Music like bells might make from some steeple on a sunny, springtime hill. As the cliff drew nearer the music deepened and filled the universe with a spray of magic sound. And he knew the music came from the tumbling waterfall that feathered down the face of the shining cliff. Only, he knew, it was no waterfall, but an ammonia-fall and the cliff was white because it was oxygen, solidified. He skidded to a stop beside Towser where the waterfall broke into a glittering rainbow of many hundred colors. Lit¬ erally many hundred, for here, he saw, was no shading of one primary to another as human beings saw, but a clearcut selec¬ tivity that broke the prism down to its last ultimate classifi¬ cation. “The music,” said Towser. "Yes, what about it?” “The music,” said Towser, “is vibrations. Vibrations of water falling.” “But Towser, you don’t know about vibrations.” “Yes, I do,” contended Towser. “It just popped into my head.” Fowler gulped mentally. “Just popped!” And suddenly, within his own head, he held a formula—the

Simak/ Desertion

349

formula for a process that would make metal to withstand the pressure of Jupiter. He stared, astounded, at the waterfall and swiftly his mind took the many colors and placed them in their exact sequence in the spectrum. Just like that. Just out of blue sky. Out of nothing, for he knew nothing either of metals or of colors. “Towser,” he cried. "Towser, something’s happening to us!” "Yeah, I know,” said Towser. “It’s our brains,” said Fowler. “We’re using them, all of them, down to the last hidden corner. Using them to figure out things we should have known all the tithe. Maybe the brains of Earth things naturally are slow and foggy. Maybe we are the morons of the universe. Maybe we are fixed so we have to do things the hard way.” And, in the new sharp clarity of thought that seemed to grip him, he knew that it would not only be the matter of colors in a waterfall or metals that would resist the pressure of Jupiter. He sensed other things, things not quite clear. A vague whisper¬ ing that hinted of greater things, of mysteries beyond the pale of human thought, beyond even the pale of human imagination. Mysteries, fact, logic built on reasoning. Things that any brain should know if it used all its reasoning power. "We’re still mostly Earth,” he said. "We’re just beginning to learn a few of the things we are to know—a few of the things that were kept from us as human beings, perhaps because we were human beings. Because our human bodies were poor bodies. Poorly equipped for thinking, poorly equipped in cer¬ tain senses that one has to have to know. Perhaps even lacking in certain senses that are necessary to true knowledge.” He stared back at the dome, a tiny black thing dwarfed by the distance. Back there were men who couldn’t see the beauty that was Jupiter. Men who thought that swirling clouds and lashing rain obscured the planet’s face. Unseeing human eyes. Poor eyes. Eyes that could not see the beauty in the clouds, that could not see through the storm. Bodies that could not feel the thrill of tril¬ ling music stemming from the rush of broken water. Men who walked alone, in terrible loneliness, talking with

350

THE GOLDEN YEARS

their tongue like Boy Scouts wigwagging out their messages, un¬ able to reach out and touch one another’s mind as he could reach out and touch Towser’s mind. Shut off forever from that personal, intimate contact with other living things. He, Fowler, had expected terror inspired by alien things out here on the surface, had expected to cower before the threat of unknown things, had steeled himself against disgust of a situa¬ tion that was not of Earth. But instead he had found something greater than Man had ever known. A swifter, surer body. A sense of exhilaration, a deeper sense of life. A sharper mind. A world of beauty that even the dreamers of the Earth had not yet imagined. “Let’s get going,” Towser urged. “Where do you want to go?” “Anywhere,” said Towser. “Just start going and see where we end up. I have a feeling . . . well, a feeling—” “Yes, I know,” said Fowler. For he had the feeling, too. The feeling of high destiny. A certain sense of greatness. A knowledge that somewhere off be¬ yond the horizons lay adventure and things greater than ad¬ venture. Those other five had felt it, too. Had felt the urge to go and see, the compelling sense that here lay a life of fullness and of knowledge. That, he knew, was why they had not returned. “I won’t go back,” said Towser. “We can’t let them down,” said Fowler. Fowler took a step or two, back toward the dome, then stopped. Back to the dome. Back to that aching, poison-laden body he had left. It hadn’t seemed aching before, but now he knew it was. Back to the fuzzy brain. Back to muddled thinking. Back to the flapping mouths that formed signals others understood. Back to eyes that now would be worse than no sight at all. Back to squalor, back to crawling, back to ignorance. “Perhaps some day,” he said, muttering to himself. “We got a lot to do and a lot to see,” said Towser. “We got a lot to learn. We’ll find things—”

Bradbury /The City

351

Yes, they could find things. Civilizations, perhaps. Civiliza¬ tions that would make the civilization of Man seem puny by comparison. Beauty and, more important, an understanding of that beauty. And a comradeship no one had ever known before— that no man, no dog had ever known before. And life. The quickness of life after what seemed a drugged existence. “I can’t go back,” said Towser. “Nor I,” said Fowler. “They would turn me back into a dog,” said Towser. “And me,” said Fowler, “back into a man.”

The City (7950)

Ray Bradbury (b. 1920) Ray Bradbury has often written for the fans who feared science, but he wrote with a lyric beauty that made his voice heard out¬ side of the science fiction ghetto. Those fans who supported science often said that Bradbury was not a science fiction writer at all, pointing to his tales with ghost story lineages and his personal oddities—like never learning to drive and never flying in an airplane. But Bradbury wrote about human science in the critical spirit science fiction had often maintained, and his lush language brought to the field a wider readership. His writing recalled the romance and Gothicism of nineteenth-century sci¬ ence fiction. In a sense, when the ultimate re-absorption of sci¬ ence fiction into fiction in general finally occurs, it will have been foreshadowed by stories like “The City."

352

THE GOLDEN YEARS

The city waited twenty thousand years. The planet moved through space and the flowers of the fields grew up and fell away, and still the city waited; and the rivers of the planet rose and waned and turned to dust. Still the city waited. The winds that had been young and wild grew old and serene, and the clouds of the sky that had been ripped and torn were left alone to drift in idle whitenesses. Still the city waited. The city waited with its windows and its black obsidian walls and its sky towers and its unpennanted turrets, with its untrod streets and its untouched doorknobs, with not a scrap of paper or a fingerprint upon it. The city waited while the planet arced in space, following its orbit about a blue-white sun, and the sea¬ sons passed from ice to fire and back to ice and then to green fields and yellow summer meadows. It was on a summer afternoon in the middle of the twenty thousandth year that the city ceased waiting. In the sky a rocket appeared. The rocket soared over, turned, came back, and landed in the shale meadow fifty yards from the obsidian wall. There were booted footsteps in the thin grass and calling voices from men within the rocket to men without. “Ready?” “All right, men. Careful! Into the city. Jensen, you and Hutchinson patrol ahead. Keep a sharp eye.” The city opened secret nostrils in its black walls and a steady suction vent deep in the body of the city drew storms of air back through channels, through thistle filters and dust collectors, to a fine and tremblingly delicate series of coils and webs which glowed with silver light. Again and again the immense suctions occurred; again and again the odors from the meadow were borne upon warm winds into the city. “Fire odor, the scent of a fallen meteor, hot metal. A ship has come from another world. The brass smell, the dusty fire smell of burned powder, sulphur, and rocket brimstone.” This information, stamped on tapes which sprocketed into slots, slid down through yellow cogs into further machines. Reprinted by permission of the Harold Matson Company, Inc. Copyright © 1950, 1951 by Ray Bradbury, © renewed 1979 by Ray Bradbury.

-v Bradbury /The City

353

Click-chakk-chakk-chakk. A calculator made the sound of a metronome. Five, six, seven, eight, nine. Nine men! An instantaneous typewriter inked this message on tape which slithered and vanished. Clickety-click-chakk-chakk. The city awaited the soft tread of their rubberoid boots. The great city nostrils dilated again. The smell of butter. In the city air, from the stalking men, faintly, the aura which wafted to the great Nose broke down into memories of milk, cheese, ice cream, butter, the effluvium of a dairy economy. / Click-click. “Careful, men!” “Jones, get your gun out. Don’t be a fool!” "The city’s dead; why worry?” “You can’t tell.” Now, at the barking talk, the Ears awoke. After centuries of listening to winds that blew small and faint, of hearing leaves strip from trees and grass grow softly in the time of melting snows, now the Ears oiled themselves in a self-lubrication, drew taut, great drums upon which the heartbeat of the invaders might pummel and thud delicately as the tremor of a gnat’s wing. The Ears listened and the Nose siphoned up great chambers of odor. The perspiration of frightened men arose. There were is¬ lands of sweat under their arms, and sweat in their hands as they held their guns. The Nose sifted and worried this air, like a connoisseur busy with an ancient vintage. Chikk-chikk-chakk-click. Information rotated down on parallel check tapes. Perspira¬ tion; chlorides such and such per cent; sulphates so-and-so; urea nitrogen, ammonia nitrogen, thus: creatinine, sugar, lactic acid, there! Bells rang. Small totals jumped up. The Nose whispered, expelling the tested air. The great Ears listened: “I think we should go back to the rocket, Captain.” “I give the orders, Mr. Smith!”

354

THE GOLDEN YEARS

"Yes, sir.” “You, up there! Patrol! See anything?” “Nothing, sir. Looks like it’s been dead a long time!” “You see, Smith? Nothing to fear.” “I don’t like it. I don’t know why. You ever feel you’ve seen a place before? Well, this city’s too familiar.” “Nonsense. This planetary system’s billions of miles from Earth; we couldn’t possibly’ve been here ever before. Ours is the only light-year rocket in existence.” “That’s how I feel, anyway, sir. I think we should get out.” The footsteps faltered. There was only the sound of the in¬ truder’s breath on the still air. The Ear heard and quickened. Rotors glided, liquids glit¬ tered in small creeks through valves and blowers. A formula and a concoction—one followed another. Moments later, responding to the summons of the Ear and Nose, through giant holes in the city walls a fresh vapor blew out over the invaders. "Smell that, Smith? Ahh. Green grass. Ever smell anything better? By God, I just like to stand here and smell it.” Invisible chlorophyll blew among the standing men. “Ahh!” The footsteps continued. “Nothing wrong with that, eh, Smith? Come on!” The Ear and Nose relaxed a billionth of a fraction. The countermove had succeeded. The pawns were proceeding for¬ ward. Now the cloudy Eyes of the city moved out of fog and mist. “Captain, the windows!” “What?” “Those house windows, there! I saw them move!” “I didn’t see it.” “They shifted. They changed color. From dark to light.” “Look like ordinary square windows to me.” Blurred objects focused. In the mechanical ravines of the city oiled shafts plunged, balance wheels dipped over into green oil pools. The window frames flexed. The windows gleamed. Below, in the street, walked two men, a patrol, followed, at a safe interval, by seven more. Their uniforms were white, their

Bradbury /The City

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faces as pink as if they had been slapped; their eyes were blue. They walked upright, upon hind legs, carrying metal weapons. Their feet were booted. They were males, with eyes, ears, mouths, noses. The windows trembled. The windows thinned. They dilated imperceptibly, like the irises of numberless eyes. “I tell you. Captain, it’s the windowsl” “Get along.” “I’m going back, sir.” “What?” "I’m going back to the rocket.” j “Mr. Smith!” “I’m not falling into any trap!” “Afraid of an empty city?” The others laughed, uneasily. “Go on, laugh!” The street was stone-cobbled, each stone three inches wide, six inches long. With a move unrecognizable as such, the street settled. It weighed the invaders. In a machine cellar a red wand touched a numeral: 178 pounds . . . 210, 154, 201, 198—each man weighed, registered and the record spooled down into a correlative darkness. Now the city was fully awake! Now the vents sucked and blew air, the tobacco odor from the invaders’ mouths, the green soap scent from their hands. Even their eyeballs had a delicate odor. The city detected it, and this information formed totals which scurried down to total other totals. The crystal windows glittered, the Ear tautened and skinned the drum of its hearing tight, tighter—all of the senses of the city swarming like a fall of unseen snow, counting the respiration and the dim hidden heartbeats of the men, lis¬ tening, watching, tasting. For the streets were like tongues, and where the men passed, the taste of their heels ebbed down through stone pores to be calculated on litmus. This chemical totality, so subtly collected, was appended to the now increasing sums waiting the final cal¬ culation among the whirling wheels and whispering spokes. Footsteps. Running. “Come back! Smith!”

356

THE GOLDEN YEARS

“No, blast you!” “Get him, men!” Footsteps rushing. A final test. The city, having listened, watched, tasted, felt, weighed, and balanced, must perform a final task. A trap flung wide in the street. The captain, unseen to the others, running, vanished. Hung by his feet, a razor drawn across his throat, another down his chest, his carcass instantly emptied of its entrails, ex¬ posed upon a table under the street, in a hidden cell, the cap¬ tain died. Great crystal microscopes stared at the red twines of muscle; bodiless fingers probed the still pulsing heart. The flaps of his sliced skin were pinned to the table while hands shifted parts of his body like a quick and curious player of chess, using the red pawns and the red pieces. Above on the street the men ran. Smith ran, men shouted. Smith shouted, and below in this curious room blood flowed into capsules, was shaken, spun, shoved on smear slides under further microscopes, counts made, temperatures taken, heart cut in seventeen sections, liver and kidneys, expertly halved. Brain was drilled and scooped from bone socket, nerves pulled forth like the dead wires of a switchboard, muscles plucked for elas¬ ticity, while in the electric subterrene of the city the Mind at last totaled out its grandest total and all of the machinery ground to a monstrous and momentary halt. The total. These are men. These are men from a far world, a certain planet, and they have certain eyes, certain ears, and they walk upon legs in a specified way and carry weapons and think and fight, and they have particular hearts and all such organs as are recorded from long ago. Above, men ran down the street toward the rocket. Smith ran. The total. These are our enemies. These are the ones we have waited for twenty thousand years to see again. These are the men upon whom we waited to visit revenge. Everything totals. These are the men of a planet called Earth, who declared war upon Taollan twenty thousand years ago, who kept us in slavery and

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ruined us and destroyed us with a great disease. Then they went off to live in another galaxy to escape that disease which they visited upon us after ransacking our world. They have forgotten that war and that time, and they have forgotten us. But we have not forgotten them. These are our enemies. This is certain. Our waiting is done. “Smith, come back!” Quickly. Upon the red table, with the spread-eagled cap¬ tain’s body empty, new hands began a fight of motion. Into the wet interior were placed organs of copper, brass, silver, alumi¬ num, rubber and silk; spiders spun gold web which was stung into the skin; a heart was attached, and into the skull case was fitted a platinum brain which hummed and fluttered small sparkles of blue fire, and the wires led down through the body to the arms and legs. In a moment the body was sewn tight, the incisions waxed, healed at neck and throat and about the skullperfect, fresh, new. The captain sat up and flexed his arms. “Stop!” On the street the captain reappeared, raised his gun and fired. Smith fell, a bullet in his heart. The other men turned. The captain ran to them. "That fool! Afraid of a city!” They looked at the body of Smith at their feet. They looked at their captain, and their eyes widened and narrowed. "Listen to me,” said the captain. “I have something impor¬ tant to tell you.” Now the city, which had weighed and tasted and smelled them, which had used all its powers save one, prepared to use its final ability, the power of speech. It did not speak with the rage and hostility of its massed walls or towers, nor with the bulk of its cobbled avenues and fortresses of machinery. It spoke with the quiet voice of one man. “I am no longer your captain,” he said. “Nor am I a man.’ The men moved back. “I am the city,” he said, and smiled.

358

THE GOLDEN YEARS

“I’ve waited two hundred centuries,’’ he said. “I’ve waited for the sons of the sons of the sons to return.” “Captain, sir!” “Let me continue. Who built me? The city. The men who died built me. The old race who once lived here. The people whom the Earthmen left to die of a terrible disease, a form of leprosy with no cure. And the men of that old race, dreaming of the day when Earthmen might return, built this city, and the name of this city was and is Revenge, upon the planet of Dark¬ ness, near the shore of the Sea of Centuries, by the Mountains of the Dead; all very poetic. This city was to be a balancing machine, a litmus, an antenna to test all future space travelers. In twenty thousand years only two other rockets landed here. One from a distant galaxy called Ennt, and the inhabitants of that craft were tested, weighed, found wanting, and let free, unscathed, from the city. As were the visitors in the second ship. But today! At long last, you’ve come! The revenge will be car¬ ried out to the last detail. Those men have been dead two hun¬ dred centuries, but they left a city here to welcome you.” “Captain, sir, you’re not feeling well. Perhaps you’d better come back to the ship, sir.” The city trembled. The pavements opened and the men fell, screaming. Falling, they saw bright razors flash to meet them! Time passed. Soon came the call: “Smith?” “Here!” “Jensen?” “Here!” “Jones, Hutchinson, Springer?” “Here, here, here!” They stood by the door of the rocket. “We return to Earth immediately.” “Yes, sir!” The incisions on their necks were invisible, as were their hid¬ den brass hearts and silver organs and the fine golden wire of their nerves. There was a faint electric hum from their heads. “On the double!”

-v Finney/The Third Level

359

Nine men hurried the golden bombs of disease culture into the rocket. “These are to be dropped on Earth.” “Right, sir!” The rocket valve slammed. The rocket jumped into the sky. As the thunder faded, the city lay upon the summer meadow. Its glass eyes were dulled over. The Ear relaxed, the great nostril vents stopped, the streets no longer weighed, or balanced, and the hidden machinery paused in its bath of oil. In the sky the rocket dwindled. Slowly, pleasurably, the city enjoyed the luxury of dying.

The Third Level (1952)

Jack Finney (b. 1911) Since time before time, happiness has often seemed to people to lie in the time before time: a return to Eden, a sojourn in Camelot, a visit to grandpa’s home town. Science rushes us into the future, yet the tools of science that have finally become part of our world are tame and represent access to a simpler past. “If God had wanted us to fly, he wouldn’t have given us the rail¬ road.” In this typical science fiction elegy from the days of Korea and urban sprawl. Jack Finney shows us why nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

The presidents of the New York Central and the New York, New Haven and Hartford railroads will swear on a stack of timetables Reprinted by permission of the Harold Matson Company, Inc. Copyright 1950 by Jack Finney,